don’t panic – this is the inner – posting – member site of aucklandpoetry.com – just thought the old seagulls were getting a bit stale – so in the words of Ezra Pound, Make it New – well almost – this is a shot of the Queen Street skyline without the Skytower. Do comment if you like it or not. The Editions will continue to have a unique header, but the inner site – we will try and settle on an image for consistency.
In the street energy is released
hanging in the air the fog moves so slow
It can take the air away
bearing the real names
the only one proven
by real science
only in the city
can they make such claims
the focus of your eye her
hair fake blond and solid
turning the corner
you can see she believes
in her movement and time
only in the city you find
pieces of glass so flat
and final
The Drum Beat of War.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
The Odium
Dead roses in a vase on my desk I moved
them away and remembered seeing my
brother, through a door ajar, getting up from
his chair, open the drawer where my pipe
collection was, and break them one by one.
A strange smile played upon his lips, and
I said nothing, didn’t know he hated me so.
He was the one with many friends, he was
the one who sat in the middle of the room
telling jokes at my expense while I sought
the corners. When he died, the chapel was
full of his friends the spoke so well of him,
but I sat there dry eyed all I could think of,
was my bloody meerschaum pipes
Camera Angle
We have
been
to Rome,
look here’s
a photo of
St. Petersburg’s
square.
Isn’t that’s
in Russia?
Is it?
Sorry,
we have
travelled
all over
Europe
been so
busy taking
pictures,
never had
time
to see
a thing.
The Chair Person.
The woman, who was chairing the meeting, wore a flowering
dress of an expensive material, she wore much gold and with
her tan she looked almost like a rich gipsy lady only less elegant.
It wasn’t that she was very fat but her lips where huge, too red
and octopus greedy and her fingers, when resting on the table
looked like guillotined, corpulent men, blood still dripping and
when lesser charges shared it looked as she mentally hurried
them on so she could speak.
There was something insincere about her, maybe she didn’t
have problem, but this was the only place people tolerated her.
Beautiful summer evening windows open, I heard bird song,
sun was setting into an azure sea. at home I had a cold bottle
of white wine waiting. Must have dreamt there was a grave
silence in the room, I looked up the woman was glaring at me
waiting for me to share something, I looked up to the roof and
counted the beams and thus the meeting ended
The Ancient Profession
Now that prostitution in Norway, has been outlawed
those who turn tricks have to work harder than before,
some of them dress grandmotherly, wait at a crossing
for a man to help them over, and the where and when
are agreed upon. Authentically older women too have
been agreeably surprised never thought they were
going to be touched by a man, and they are not going to
tell. Alas all good things must come to an end, the law
is recruiting pensioned policewomen who do not fear
to go all the way to catch their man.
A Painter and the Pandemic
An old lady in our village died last night… flu,
but since it was not the swine variety no one took
notice, the world press will not come here, we’ll
not see our houses on the TV. There are many
disappointments, Amazon floods, many dead, alas,
not from The Flu, survivors can sit on mud banks
without face masks, and wait for all we care.
Gauguin cut Van Gogh’s ear off, at a whore house,
then he went off to Hawaii painted native girls with
big bosoms and flowers behind well formed ears.
Now we know why. A pity none of the women who
worked there, didn’t write down their memoirs, so
a relative could proudly announce that my great, great,
great grandmother knew them both.
The Suitor
Uphill I walked it was still dark, had to be at
the farm a five, milking time. Hard westerly
wind makes the climb tough soon the cattle will
be mooing in their pens, the boss grumpy, I’m
hungry and no time to eat; milking eight cows
by hand is no joke. End of the last hill I see
the farm, there is light in the kitchen,
Emma, my dog, barks, stops when she hears my
steps, ten to five, morning light I stop and catch
my breath, they are not going to think that I was
hasting for them I’ll have a quick mug of coffee
a slice of ham, just like any other day, they will
wonder and the maids whisper, but not ask where
and with whom, I spent the night.
Senryu
As the night thickens
And darkness tranquilises life
Dawn is welcomed.
Senryu
Banality of greed
To shop for the sake of buying
Not for what you need
Senryu
Fear not the dead
They are only a copy
Of your future self
Senryu
Those who work long hours
Feel holly and virtuous
But get arthritis
Senryu
Give me a free beer
You fiddler of drink optics
Petty is your greed
The Scream.
The new and young couple next door, for whom
all car adverts are made, came home late last night,
high voiced and full of spirit. Later on I heard her
cry out loud and thought: “wine, a man who slaps
his wife around when drunk.”
Next day I saw her in their cute little garden, she
wore the right outfit to prune roses, laughed
called her hubby darling and I remembered that
the voices of love and pain sound alarmingly
the same.
Mandrake.
If you have what you need, food to eat and roof
over your head, the rest is frills and rude greed.
So now we hate bankers they offered us a dream,
endless credit never ending prosperity; they had
dream also to be the sages of their time, silk suited
men who had an answer to everything, of course,
they also wanted to be a little richer than you.
No one expect wisdom and cryptic words about
the economy, falling from bankers pale lips, but
wait, they have not gone away, easy credit will be
back and we can buy that ten bedroom room villa
we don’t need. Once again we’ll listen to bankers,
yes, you and I; just like them we have big dreams
and will go on believing in fairytales.