Auckland Poetry.com

The Occupiers

They came, the huddled masses, victims
of a war and pogrom far from our shores;
we gave them room at the inn, and on
our common land they could graze sheep.

They have now taken over the inn, stolen
our common land, bulldozed our villages
and uprooted olive trees to build roads we
cannot use, erected walls to keep us out.

They want us to leave to roam the world
as they did; we will not, we shall stay here
near our ancestors and the land and wait,
yes, wait till they uproot again and leave.

when Us troops invaded iraq Harold pinter wrote a rather
angry and bad poem about it, well here is an equally bad poem

Here we go again

One of the world biggest army has attacked Gaza, the world
biggest prison, how many killed? Who cares? I’m fed up of
this war now, we have been ringing around trying to book
a table at restaurant, everything is full in the neighbourhood.
The Gaza people have brought this on themselves, agreed
to a democratic election and elected Hamas, Israel wasn’t
standing for that having leaders who think Israel is a crown
of thorns carried by every Arab in the region; and as we know
by now (we have been told it often enough) that plucky little
Israel has the right to defend herself no matter what, they
have had their holocaust someone else can carry the can this
time. And then there is bloody Iraq, luckily not on the front
news anymore, but bombs are going off all the time killing
scores of people, at Christmas I ask you, as we sit down to eat
we get blood and mangled bodies in dusty streets, with our
turkey and two veg. why can’t Sunnis and Shiites live in peace
like us. Then there is Afghanistan those crazy Taliban and opium
smugglers like murdering people, so what we are doing there
beats me dropping bombs on wrong targets killing children and
guests at a wedding, it is their own fault, this habit of shooting
bullets up in the air confusing helicopter pilots. So who care?
It is Christmas give us a break and, anyway, without us, those
people would be riding around in donkeys. Wife rang she has
been to book a restaurant table, it is a long drive by taxi, but
what’s the heck it’s only New Year once a year…get it?

Harold Pinter RIP.

Harold Pinter is dead, we had one
thing in common; he protested
against NATO’s bombing of Belgrade,
I did too. He disputed the invasion
of Iraq, so did I.

He called Bush and Blair war criminals
so did I. His voice was heard far an wide
mine was not, but in the end we were
both ignored, and that’s what we had
in common.

Yet, Harold Pinter could not find time
to sharply criticise Israel’s brutal
dealing with Palestinians, his voice
fell curiously silent; on that point
we had nothing in common.

Harold Pinter RIP.

Harold Pinter is dead, we had one
thing in common; he protested
against NATO’s bombing of Belgrade,
I did too. He disputed the invasion
of Iraq, so did I.

He called Bush and Blair criminals,
so did I. His voice was heard, no one
heard mine, but in the end we’re
both ignored; and that’s what we
have in common.

goodbye
goodbye smells musty, like old clothes
untouched in the back of the wardrobe;

dusty, like words on a scrap of newspaper
that flutter from an opened book.

goodbye smells like an old man who smokes
and ate garlic last night, and the night before;

warm, like tarmac in the middle of town
in summer, after a shower has passed.

goodbye smells like coffee newly brewing
somewhere nearby, for someone else;

like the kerosene taste in my throat
in the airport departure lounge.

it smells like your sweater, grabbed in error;
instantly you are around me. my eyes break.

- Just Mercedes

The Clairvoyant

Over a cold Nordic coast a seagull flies and sees
the bay between the island and the coastal town.
40 minutes each way by ferry. It’s an old gull and
has a blind eye and one leg; yes, you are right,
a real pirate I used to know years ago, it knew me
too when I was a cook on that a ferry boat, sat on
the mast and waited for me to throw scraps of
food into the sea shrieking harshly, it is the gulls
way of wishing me well.

This year has no ice in the bay, there was a time
when the ferry was icebound island’s folk had to
walk on ice across to get to the shops, they still
do there is a bridge now, ferry been sold and
is plying its trade on the delta of Bangladesh.

The day is clear I’m a seagull and can see the past
lucid as the day it is lucky that I can’t see the future,
but there is a name that warms my heart: Falluja.
The down trodden, the raped, took up arms and
fought the mightiest army the world has seen and
won a moral victory that one day will bring peace,
to Iraq. I’m not a seer, but the old pirate is, flies
beside me now and harshly shrieks, it is the way we
seagulls greet each other.

Bleak Coast

On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?

A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slaps the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.

A frozen point in infinity
The lifeless flower’s vanity
And the ever-smiling faces’
Arrested moments fading.

Left behind to stand, constant
Many left the scene, hesitant
Pointless images, Irrelevant
Showcase of absurd life, transient
Strange faces near stained vases
Stagnant shadows and rigid gazes
The eyes forever waiting
Wistfully anticipating
Black distorting the white
Like the night the day
The child’s innocence, sweet
Like an eternal pretense’s sheet.

Shashi Dhar

A Night to Remember.

It is cold here in this room that has wall paper
With faded roses on, which absorb the light.
From a 40 watt bulb stuck naked and hanging
On a thin rubber encased electric wire.
Too dark to read too early for a bed that doesn’t
Look inviting, I wonder who many losers
Have been trying to find sleep looking up to
Silence and asking the same question: “how
Could it come to this?” I sit on a chair and look
Out of the window, dark shadows move some
With haste in the hope of getting away from,
Here, but they have yet to formulate, to where?
On a ship of dreams I sail, at dawn ice crystals
Glitters on the window pane and tell of hope.

…when sleep takes over too quickly
and then departs too early
when you eat
but there is no hunger
free to satisfy
when you look at the vast
gymnasium of holiday shoppers
lugging weighted apologies embarrassing
trinkets neatly hidden in gold wraps
so it all seems familiar and safe
but under there is a soap on a rope
or a penis shaped candle
and what percentage of Aunties will be subjected
to it at office parties across this city and many others
this ritual of adding to the pile of junk things you do not want
to mimic how they set fire to that great wall
how the man threw more paper at it
“its liquid ain’t it?” he cried
and the stock brokers were terribly serious
for the photographers
after having laid to waste the plans of twenty somethings
never fear, to the rescue come granny
she learns ebay to pay the mortgage,
and measures up the grandchildren
before the price drops too far

(inspired by “bang bang”)

Last night you tried to pot the moon
But hit the sky instead.
A bird fell stuttering, spluttering, down,
And smacked the daisies, dead.

Mow over it, mow over it,
Don’t wait for it to move;
Here is a target you can get,
A hit that you can prove!

I will not draw on distant moons
Nor sight upon the sun,
But wield unstayed the swift red blade
Until the lawn is done.

- new westie

Meat is Meat (a christmas tale)

Santa came running up the road his coat was open
exposing a hairy belly, arms full of parcels, asked
me if I was a vet, because Rudolf had broken its leg.
Told him I was a destroyer of Christmas, took delight
telling children that Santa was their own uncle Ted)
every child got an uncle Ted) but was willing this once
to help him out. I called a Lapland friend, who has
a herd of reindeer lives in a tent and is dressed for
year long winters, he gave us a reindeer for free as
he too was a sentimental fool and had eight children.
Problem solved, but what about Rudolf? We sent him
to an abattoir where he was humanly slaughtered,
(humanly, means he was shot in the temple when eating carrots) as a reindeer is too cute to eat its flesh
was sold as veal, which is meat of doe eyed calves.