untitled

I won’t say I understand you,
but I’ll try

I won’t say I need you,
but I should

somehow I’ll find you,
with anyone who’ll follow

like you, I’ve wasted time
& I’ll contemplate some more

but it's never quite right,
we don't finish anything
as much as the times we begin

you’re as hard as the wind
& I’m soft like a blanket

we’ve got lots to talk about
& there’s nowhere
in the world to hide.

untitled

a Texas cowboy, a vinyl ghost
rides the melody
finger picks my heart

I follow him down
so I can turn around

sunlight through the olive tree
patterns on the grass

no way out
for now.

invitation

the destruction of everything
intrudes
into my cocoon
days

drinking my coffee,
typing my words,
mowing the lawns,
loving you

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—still dreaming
of things
for myself, my children
that are

as unreal, I know
as the wildest images
of Dali, Ernst
& Miro.

& it's a struggle
to be awake,
to make my dreams
into something
else

& to invite you
along—

how about it?

none of that

I try to stuff it down
this poetry

aaaaaaaaa—the light of a
child,
a rainbow stretched
to black

because it wants everything
if it could,
if it might be good,
aaaaaaaaaaaawhich is
always in doubt

like leaving home,
leaving to follow
the stars across the Pacific

always in doubt.

it’s been said before,
maybe once more:
it’s not the time for poetry
(when has
there been a time?)

we need something braver
& harder
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa—poetry
can be a wayward
& glorious coward

& you can take
one too many steps
over the body in the street,

the street where there are no
camellias planted,

none of that.

everyday (after Heather Hunt)

I like cups, picking them up & taking
them somewhere. I’m scared of knives.

I like white lilies in a glass vase with
the sun behind them.

I like the grey-topped Formica table
with its red rim.

I like the noise the dishwasher makes
when I open it – doodle doodle loo.

I like condensation on louver windows
that are tinted aqua blue.

I like the rimu cabinet with its latches
that slide like bolts.

I like record covers leaning against the
wall.

I like the vertical bars on the steel gate
at the end of the path.

I like the soccer ball on the green grass.

I like the way washing stacked high
in a basket could be a Christmas tree
(something you showed me).

& I like the way a whole chicken
turned upside down with its bum in the air
looks like a frog,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaabecause some things
are not just what they are
but something else all together

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalike knives.


Written for the opening of Heather Hunt's painting exhibition 'Everyday'
at Reyburn House, Whangarei, 5 September.

over the fence

the bush,
it wasn’t filled with dragons,
knights, princesses
or giants

matter-of-factly empty
& nothing else.

a creek
with big dark eels
but no taniwha I remember
(or ones I could write about
now).

just gorse
moving up the hill,
puriri trees, rotting leaves,
a graveyard, at least
far enough away

so that to get there
was an adventure.

Hikurangi

this hill,
all it’s about
is lifting it
to a higher level.

rattled

wide yawns of tiredness
blow across the Hikurangi swamp,
flattening us down.

we take to our bed,
but you follow, climbing
in between us
rattling your cage of fun
that you bring everywhere
because
you can fit inside,

until it perks us half past six.

for Julian

we have no choice
but to name the stars
they're our favourite things.

outside

outside is Whangarei, Berlin, London & New York
outside is the cold
outside are stars in the night
outside is music
outside is pain
outside are people on their way
outside is your future lover
outside is The Warehouse
outside is China
outside are presidents, prime ministers & mayors
outside is a shallow harbour
outside is stupidity
outside is greed
outside is hunger
outside we fuck each other over & over
outside is sacrifice
outside is struggle
outside is home
outside are lonely places
outside is everyone, the ones we love & the ones we hate
outside are people working for nothing
outside are lawyers
outside are corporate bankers
outside fires burn
outside is the breeze
outside are daffodils, magnolia starting to bloom
outside are generals
outside are the guns
outside are a million corpses wrapped in plastic
outside are people who tell lies
outside there’s fear
outside is the Star Spangled Banner
outside is the past
outside is the future
outside there are answers
outside you have to know where to look
outside is too big
outside is all we have
outside is someone who says “stop”
outside are children running down aisles
outside are the swings
outside is the air we breath
outside hearts beat to the racing of being alive with no finishing line
outside is dust
outside trombones blow
outside the silence of our locked-up dreams bangs between our ears

inside is whatever you bring from outside
in with you

inside is the poetry.


Read at the Take Flight poetry evening at the Butter Factory Bar, Whangarei, 25 July 2009.
Also read by Sam Hunt on KiwiFM, Outside is Fog, 7 August 2009.

the answer to first questions

for Lennox

the first one born
& you start thinking

more than before
about death at some

hour. you push on
& the second is born

—the combined
philosophical weight

of first questions
more than doubles:

the first 4.41kg,
the second 4.65kg.

one philosopher
thought it was better

to exist, than not to.
so children should

thank their parents.
another wasn’t so sure.

tonight, after your bath
I watched you playing

with your animals;
that clean bright smell

& just the thought
of your smooth skin.

you started a game
where you knocked

each animal over,
pronounced them dead.

the cow, dead.
the sheep, dead.

the horse, dead.
the pig, dead.

the rooster, dead.
the dog, dead.

2 ½ years old, you
couldn’t understand.

but me knowing
that one day you will

& feeling like
I was responsible

which I am.


Read by Sam Hunt on KiwiFM, New Voice, 31 July 2009.

cowpat

it’s mid-afternoon
& my kids buzz
like flies
around a cowpat,

where the cowpat
is my brain,
which is as best
as I can describe
it,
the way they can distract
you
from everything
else.

a friend, now gone
once told me
that having kids
was 80% hard work
& 20% pure
joy.

I’m a cowpat
sitting in the grass
with the sun on me

flies buzzing
all around.

at work

it’s just turned 12.01pm
& I’m thinking
that if I’m going to be
a writer
I should use every opportunity.
‘cause I don’t live on a family estate near Boston
or get regular payments from a trust,
& I’m not looking to make it
in the captain’s tower.
besides, I like
the factory poets
the boiler makers
the post office workers breaking their backs
in an iron chair
sorting mail every day for 10 years.
but they too knew
that writing is a horse you must
stay on.
you got to follow it
until it comes in.
so
even if this is not
a winning poem
it might be
that the one I write tomorrow
is, which is something you learn
eventually,
that work is an art:
the musician must play
the orator must speak
the teacher must teach
the leader of people must lead.
what I’m saying
is that
I’m going to write
again
tomorrow at 12.01pm
on the notepads they give us at work
with the pens they give us
to write.


Published in Side Stream 20, July 2009.

accent on the blues

it’s the accent
on the blues
that’s got me
jumping,
aaaaawiggling
aaaaaaaa& grooving
in the sky

the leaves
of the autumn tree
are red red red

& it’s a rare thing
but as far as I can see
it’s true what’s said.

first time in Dunedin

sitting outside a café
on the corner of Albany
& Hyde Streets
in the warm April sun
wearing only a black T-shirt.
the university is over the road.
I look at the students
& imagine
the absence of things to come:
a juvenile again, starting anew
& believing it’s possible
to get it all
completely
right.

some slim space of myth

in Dunedin, with a day
on my own to go
somewhere
& that poetic veil
aaaaaaaaaaaaadescending
I catch a bus out to Port Chalmers
because it might hold
some slim space
of myth.

I get off the bus
& walk up Observation Hill
where, at the top
there’s a sculpture by Ralph Hotere
made from the burnt hull
of a wooden boat.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabelow
immense cranes
lift steel containers
onto a ship.

back down the hill
I go over to the Chicks Hotel, built in 1886.
it’s mid-morning, so it's closed
aaaaaaaaaa& dark.
I touch the stone walls,
perhaps to feel the faint throb
of all those bands, the sailors
& the poets,
aaaaaaatogether
in some slim space
of myth.

around the corner
I pay $3.50 for a coffee (have difficulty
finding the toilet),
about to leave, I notice
your big sheets of poetry
in capital type.

it was good to read your poems.
I appreciate them more now,
both of us
talking through the veil,
trying to stand
aaaaaaaaaaaaafor a moment
in some slim space
of myth.

the explorers

we’ve discovered new places, you & I.
you, brave, with your love of adventure

& me, with a sometimes rational head
grasping the promise of your discoveries.

the south-west corner our latest, hidden
behind the pohutakawa tree. you wished

to pour water from your pink teapot
onto the post at the corner boundary.

I thought your blue pool would fit well
here—& I could move my chair, with

my book & pen. the familiar totara seen
from a different side; the view back

to the house half-blocked by wisteria
grown ragged. pohutakawa leaves dance

their shadows on the bottom of the pool.
their moving in the wind delights you

—it’s 2.30 in the afternoon, this place
would not have been found without you.


First published in Blackmail Press 24, Secrets.

after reading Sam Hunt’s poem ‘Better than this?’ (or why poetry is worthwhile)

lying on the couch
again, which isn’t comfortable
even with pillows. I get stuck here
sometimes, watching children’s television,
supervising the building
aaaaaaof Lego towers,
snatching moments of poetry, flashes
of life worthwhile
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa—like a train
going past the back fence
only 10 or so metres from the couch,
carrying logs from up North.
the train weighs through the room
aaaaaalike a deep conscience, unavoidable.

I remember the movie 1900
with DeNiro & Gérard Depardieu.
as a kid, the Depardieu character
lies down length-wise on the track
& a train goes over the top of him.
the other boy (who would grow up
to be played by DeNiro)
watches, afraid.
at the end of the movie, however
it’s the DeNiro character, now an old man
who lies across the track,
his neck & legs on the rails
as a train approaches.

I’m lying on a couch, 10 or so metres
from where trains go past,
yet each time it’s thrilling,
a worthwhile moment
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa—as it could be
for anyone in Kamo, Maungaturoto,
Wellsford or Helensville
who’s lying on a couch,
hanging out the washing,
yelling at the kids, or eating
a meat pie in the car
as a train passes.

& really, there’s no need
to lie on the track
unless you’re Depardieu
or DeNiro
& it’s the movies.


Published in The Lumiere Reader, 25 May 2009.

a right lineage

it’s a noble age
not Shakespeare’s
or Sophocle’s

but we’re weighted
with opportunity
for heroism, bravado
& modesty

putting my children to bed
does not command
the language of ideals
of conflict
&
resolution

the lines aren’t tragic
or epic
& don’t go very far

they start where they are
& go no further
than the love that’s there

the hard work of the day
is a contentment
softens anxiety
which is something

& it can be said
in a kind way.

sunshine

& so the sun
beats the dullard

shambles
the door-stopped bricks

pushes down
on the collared neck

severs
in its intense weight

releasing the body soul
from mannered fashions

of constraint.


Published in Side Stream 18, February 2009.

somewhere else

reading Bukowski puts me in a mood,
one of those sons of bitches.
listening to Isaac Hayes’ first album,
the soul soaked
aaaaaaaaain Bourbon
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagrooves,
takes me
somewhere
else

which means nothing to you, I know.
you’ve been out the front of the house
attaching purple streamers
aaaaaaaaato the fence, because
it’s your mother’s
birthday.
I’ve been lying on the couch
thinking I could be
somewhere
else

the streamers wouldn’t go where you wanted.
“the wind,” you said,
aaaaa“kept blowing them off”.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—shit like this,
the incongruence of reality
& what we’ve hoped for,
it hits you hard.
you cry everything,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayour face
turns to plasticine.

I hold you. I don’t say anything.
but I understand
how much it matters.
together
we spin a tight cacoon

& wait to see
what happens.

portrait of the artist as a parent of young children

I’m off
down the alleyway
between the fortress
& the museum

the kids
asleep in the car
windows open a crack
—it’s alright
I’ve left them the keys

I’ve got things to do:

1. visit an angry poet
aawho sells vitamins

2. see a psychiatrist who can teach me
aarhyme & meter

3. sit in a café
aa& wait for her

4. catch a train to an outer suburb
aain revolt

5. walk the streets with a harmonica
aain my pocket

no time—stuff the rest
of my lines in my mouth
run back to the kids

an ice-block for each of them
a loaf of bread, milk
& a cheap bottle
of merlot.


Published in Singray 1, Summer 2008.
Northland Arts paper produced by the Arts Promotion Trust

visiting Auckland

the city beckons, lays itself prone
across two harbours, a volcanic fuse.

all is apparent that will happen here,
history divined on the bus-stop timetable
on every main street.

they will come down arterial roads
to build it, to destroy it,
who will conquer it & love it.

blocked toilets & drains―
the overflowing we’ll celebrate!

& clean the stink from the billboards;
pasting our own proclaiming:
“this is for you, this is for me”

until we believe it.

―the thought steps down
& matures slowly

as I watch the beautiful Indian child
at the wheel of the blue boat
in Te Atatu Park,
in one hand an ice cream.


Published in Side Stream 15, August 2008.

magic fairy

lounge-stifled day
amongst honest debris
& puzzle
my 5-year old tells me
that when she finds
her magic wand:

“I’ll turn you into a butterfly
so you can fly away.”

it was—wasn’t it?—
a beautiful thing to say
to someone, to give them
their butterfly freedom.

she never found
her magic wand.

vamp

I’ve been reading
a biography
of Keats

a sensuous body
of treats.

hydro-fascism

screaming dry
from subterranean depths;
glaciers retreating.

they know where it’s at:
X marks the spot
if they get there first.

backyard distillation kits
the final solution.

there’s water everywhere:
“we’ll sell it to you,
aaaaaaaawe don’t care!”

“one step, two step,
splash the face,
aaaaaaaawin the race.”

the Parisian backstreets are not here

the Parisian backstreets are not here,
not behind the service station orange lights
or down the street which ends
with the blue cashflow machine.

young people are drinking,
laughing at nothing, simply being.
Jean-Paul Sartre & Simone de Beauvoir
in the corner holding hands.

Sidney Bechet rests his clarinet
on the bar, watching the big screen.
Langston Hughes in the kitchen
doing dishes, sipping champagne.

I walk three times past the hotdog stand
looking for Parisian backstreets,
for glamorous dancers & artist’s wives,
for Edith Piaf.

the Parisian backstreets are not here
& it’s not enough to answer the question
from the man in the jacket
who looks like Camus.

Brecht & Dylan fighting in their room

Dylan has Brecht in a strangle hold,
Brecht’s got Dylan in a headlock.

Dylan in a polka dot shirt,
Brecht, a workmen’s jacket.

while they’re not eye-to-eye
they know quite well
what the other one sees.

untitled

I wish
I was
in Greenwich Village, reading
Macbeth
legs crossed
a glass of wine
at my ear
& each tomorrow
absolved,
happy
as a poor player.

untitled

dogs bark
time swallows

(or this is what I hear)

so if after all
it’s just you & me

then tireless night
is what we’ll do

& we’ll hope
the day dawns
twice,

that the moon
shines.

a hand

the song flows down hill
mournfully,
impossible to dam.

the warm, so warm hand
holds all of me,
just four fingers & a thumb.

the gumdigger

early morning at my desk,
out the window I see a gumdigger
in the backyard, digging up the kikuya grass,
prizing out large rocks.

he’s come over from the swamp
with his gum-spear, spade, & flax kete.
the wrinkles on his shirt dirt-hardened
like the lines on his face.

I invite him in for an expresso.
he wipes his hands on his trousers,
but says he must keep working,
“the dealer’s up from Auckland tomorrow”.

I hear him working through the day
as I write, struggling with it,
getting up again & again to see how he’s going.

a pile of kauri gum grows on the deck
beside the yukka in the blue ceramic pot.

he says gumdigging can be a tough,
“you have to be self-sufficient”.
you can dig all day & find only small nuggets,
& they’ll be deep down.

then you’ll strike a big one,
really shallow, easily dug free.
he scrapes it immediately
so he can see it gleam gold in the sun.

murderers are coming

murderers are coming
there’s been an announcement
can it be true?
when are they due?

murderers are coming
should we drop everything?
stand back in awe?
wipe the floor?

murderers are coming
has there been an error?
should we tidy up?
ask for a donation in a cup?

murderers are coming
is there anything to eat?
should we offer them a drink?
what do you think?

murderers are coming
should we clean the streets?
they’re here to protect
who’s going to object?

murderers are coming
should we put on a show?
the kids are in bed
the carpet is red.

murderers are coming
should we change the sheets?
make it nice?
put the champagne on ice?

murderers are coming
is it time to speak?
should we make a toast?
enlist the Holy Ghost?

murderers are coming
how long have we got?
should we sign a deal?
ask them how it feels?

murderers are coming
what shall we call them?
our very good friends?
is this how it ends?


Published in UNITY Journal, October 2007.

chocolate tears

a little boy cries
chocolate tears, bitter
with frustration

the drink in front of him
is not warm enough,
is too cold

the cup is not full enough,
is near to overflowing

a mist forms
on cold windows

outside hills of manuka & pine
blurred over

by a little boy’s tears.

growing recognition

searching old book spines
for titles & authors
that are familiar—
a sneeze from another aisle
& I know it’s you.

untitled

end of the day, I see
a sparrow
jhjhjjhjhjhjhbalanced

on the thinnest branch
of the olive tree

—striking sun, coming in low
setting the tree on fire

the sparrow with it

on which I throw
the dull knowledge of a day

moved through.

gutter neighbours

fuckin’ mynahs! they drive away
the smaller birds, unassuming
sparrows, who die under trees

mostly—except those who
crash into windows, & have
to be thrown over the fence

for William Carlos Williams.
the mynah birds, a major bother!
they make nests in the gutters.

I hate balancing on the ladder,
pulling out rotting leaves, sticks
& shredded pieces of paper.

they watch from the fence,
shitting all over it. they squawk
& make noises while we’re eating.

I tried to get rid of them once:
caught them in a bird-trap,
a simple lasso. I stuffed them

in a box, drove to Spirits Bay
& pitched them into the sea.
it wasn’t enough to make them

go away. we feed them toast
everyday. we’re all fucked up,
but we need each other

so they say.

untitled

can hear, see it
looking into my cup

all there is
hands in pockets
circling sands

directions to go
decisions to know
what to show?

as much as love
& a little more
making it through
to the door.

in memorial

the weeding is done,
the flowers planted.

everyone’s off to town,
kisses & hugs.

the house is a mess
—cup of tea
& check my emails:

Pinochet is dead!
—ha, long last!

& a song by Victor Jara,
who I didn’t know.

reason enough

it’s easier
to romance a sun-filled day
than to tread through the thick mud
that hinders
aaaaaaaaaanalysis,
correct & true
for the
moment.

yes, it’s easier to do,
meandering
some words
together
into
short lines.

but
the capture
is fleeting,
a repositioned reason
will struggle again
—& must reclaim
in order
to make sense
& persuade.

aaaaaaaaaaaa—still,
I do this now:

thinking of a lazy day
that produced these
brief lazy lines
is reason enough.

friday night

nothing to say
friends fray

an old jersey
thrown away

hit videos
from 1994 play

the party next door
moves outside,
into the way.

this light
is the only one left
to turn off,

the shadows
it throws are soft

they will
be cut-off.

hello

the morning
has a chill about it,
but pleasant enough.
you can wake now,
move your arms,
get to know your legs
& the three of us
who love you.

the olive tree

the olive tree given to us after the war
never looked like the tree of Greek verse
which English poets went looking for.

what sorrows? & how could a tree be
deathless? useful I understand,
to make oil for food, warmth & light.

not until I pruned the lower branches,
the gnarled trunk of the maturing tree
revealed—giving it that classic look;

& room enough to sit in the afternoon
beneath its lacework of silver green,
tasting ten thousand years of memory.

waiting in traffic 10 minutes from home

the falling sun
lights on the house façade
never noticed before,

startling.

where the bombs are aimed the silence is claimed

voices lie, eyes hide
what they’ve seen

death like a grey suit walks
feeling cool

*

sleep isn’t distinguished from awake
dreams plough down
into nightmares

homes gutted open
spilling onto the street

*

each bomb blazes
our imaginations all

turning our minds
to not turn away from yours.


Published in Workers Charter, 2006.

prison

for Ahmed Zoui

out here is not so cold
that you’d notice.
yet the chill can blow through
at night
or
during the day
when the draught
finds its way past those around you
who you’ve placed
in your defence.

not like the cold of
a prison cell,
with the stone & cement
rubbed smooth by warm bodies
—but there are walls
& guards
here too,
which we trust to avoid.

freedom’s possible,
because
I’ve seen it
in the eyes of some
& in the eyes of many
for a flickering
instant.

war memorial

the World War One memorial stood
for a few years after 1922
on the bridge across the stream
between the post office & the hotel.
three metres high & made of Oamaru stone.

what happened to it?
did it fall into the stream?
after the Dairy Company dam
burst in 1935? or was it a prank
that’s been forgotten?

names of men who went to war,
& the ones that died,
were engraved for an eternity.
did someone who returned
not want to remember?

they’ll dredge for the memorial;
& maybe it will be found
beneath the water weeds.
I’ll be having a laugh with the bastard
who knocked it over.


Published in Workers Charter, 2006.

fastfood workers

they burst from the paper bag
running like salt from a shaker
scattering flecks of taste

they gush like soft-drink
push the button & they gurgle & froth
with youthful bubbles over the rim

they burn & sear like burger patties
on the grill, hot anger spits
from their mouths as they yell

they ooze like ice-cream
filling every corner, every gap
compact with cold determination

they have sizzled in the fat
crisp as you like, now they’re
blocking arteries in the street.

apologies

I apologise for your tumble down the stairs;
at least your landing was soft, & with style.

I apologise for not fixing your stroller;
but it won’t be long before you’ve outgrown it
aaaaaaa& it’s good enough to go.

I apologise for ignoring your cries;
I was watching the news, there was something
aaaaaaaI had to know.

I apologise for not reading you a story;
it was only once—I was too tired to begin.

I apologise for not laughing
when you danced to Donna Summer;
aaaaaaait was the mood I was in.

& I’ll even apologise for reading poetry
instead of the baby books piled
aaaaaaabeside our bed,

but I won’t apologise for you being here—
as they say, “bringing a child into this world”—
because, my dear, you remind me of
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawhat needs to be done.

a man in his seventies who makes picnic tables at home

‘these tables are better than anything you’d get in the big stores.’
aaaaaaaahe thinks they’re pieces of crap.

‘I’m not telling a lie, but every time someone drops in to look at my tables
before going to the shops in town, they always come back.’
aaaaaaaahe likes the company.

‘I don’t need to advertise, just word of mouth.’
aaaaaaaahe’s a great example.

‘I’m having a knee reconstruction next week, my wrist’s buggered
& the doc’s just told me I’ve got shingles.’
aaaaaaaahe may be dead soon.

‘I used to make four a day, but I’m down to twenty a month.’
aaaaaaaahe’s got no regrets.

‘I sell them for not much more than cost. It’s a hobby really.’
aaaaaaaahe’s doing something with his life.

the painter

the painter’s commitment
is total, without fear
of consequences,
of loneliness,
of judgement

only the fear of failure
drives the painter
to paint
what should be said,
to paint
what should be heard,
to paint
what is gone,
to paint
what is to come

over & over

just for one day.

from the other lane

it’s happened
again
at the passing lane,
dreaming
of piano concertos
I’m going to write,
not ready
to drop it a gear
& make my
move.

those behind me,
they floor it
just at the right time
& speed past
with all their
distain.

I get stuck
behind
a dirty truck.

—it’s true,
we've never really been interested
in getting
ahead.

time gone

cigarettes gather
in ash trays
in hotel rooms
with a lamp,
a couch
& a window,
where poets,
painters,
philosopher junkies
with wrinkled collar shirts
sit
in cane chairs
drinking morning coffee
& evening wine
stroking their notebooks,
watching
the dust & dirt
pushed
into corners—
as shadows deepen
& time rushes
stalls awake.

delicate against the wind

the untethered wind picks up
& dives
the flecks of light,
as we see them
against the night sky,
under the veranda roof
& onto our open faces:
a soft mist kiss
that touches
& quickly fades.

we sit
parallel to each other.
you, with your book of short stories,
determined
to read every one,
stubbornly giving each author their due.
while I’ve three on the go, books
I’ve started, then distracted
put aside,
after scribbling a mental note
as to the whereabouts of the author
in the grand scheme of things.

for now, both of us, heads up
are watching
the flecks of light

delicate against the wind.

untitled

planting the single sunflower
in the pot with the peppermint
& parsley,
you remarked
as you watched us:

“won’t you need a stake?”

“no, it’ll stand up
until it falls down.”

both sides of the road

new neighbours have
cut out the magnolia
& built a fence; they’ve
replaced the letter box,
it’s navy blue with
gold lettering. there’s
been hammering at
night. everyone’s saying
how good it is to see
them “doing the place
up”. today they cut the
big oak down. it’d been
raining for days, the
contractors came early.
we could see the tree
from our bedroom
window: sunlight came
stuttering through the
branches in the evening.
& next to the hill it
reminded me of a photo
in my grandparent’s
spare room. there’s more
space now for the sun,
which no longer glances
off branch ends in winter
(or leaves in spring).

the island

for the workers at the LVL Plant at Marsden Point, Whangarei

the island
was a place to quickly pause,
if trodden on at all.

on the island
(that’s what they call it)
they get together:
a refuge, an ostracism, a defence,
an attack.

three caravans circled into place,
with a view of the gate.
cups, newspapers & chairs
scattered…

the island’s history is made.
over there the laughter, the complaints,
the arguments & the silences.

over there the broken ribs.

over there the footprints of police marching.

over there the sign that says
‘If the boss gets up your nose—picket.’
(they’re proud of that one)

over there the voices of a few.

over there the voices of many.

they say they went out as workmates
& go back as whanau

from the island.


Published in Workers Charter, 2005.

Alberkerki

Neil Young
wrote the song
Alberkerki
for his great
drunken
Tonight's the Night
album.

the TV ad
for Antiques Roadshow
in Alberkerki
has ruined it
for me.

4.15pm at the Hikurangi Hotel

pour me
another absinthe
& I’ll imagine
a Parisian café
at night,
because it’s warm
& the light is good.
Hemmingway’s here,
so is Picasso,
who isn’t painting
landscapes,
but something
quite modern.

untitled

the white doves
now perch on our roof, & not
the house across the road.

which is good for showing,
but I miss being able
to watch them
from where I normally sit.

watching

he strolls
over,
blue greased
overalls,
a smile.

you stand
polite,
shoulders
hunched slight,
returns
his smile
with a tilted
head.

he leads forward
& you step
to the side
& turn
towards the car
parked.
he hands
you
the keys
—questions asked,
explanations
given
with bright
gestures.

you laugh
animate
a story,
lips contort
to different
voices.
you shift
your weight
to one leg
& bare
the sole
of
your shoe,
balanced
on
the
point.

your movements
focus
the evening
light
—does anyone
notice?

only me,
watching
to be sure
everything’s
OK.

which it is.

the chase

running with legs
shorter than mine

you chase me round
the biggest tree
four times,

before deciding
it’s my turn to chase
& you run fast
towards the swings.

I follow behind,
watching you run
across the green grass
in sunlight

like a giant
running over hills.

untitled

only two hours
from New York
if I was Jackson Pollock
living on Long Island.

home alone

crumbs of chips
that you tipped & ground
into the carpet; words
& picture books
from here to the bathroom
where you’ve disappeared
to get the toothpaste
to suck.

a glass of red wine
mixed with orange juice,
a touch of brandy:
make do
with what you’ve got sangria
on a cold Friday
inside.

it’s 4.55pm.

sitting here
leaning into the wall
you can see through the front window
to the south-side of the hill
sloping
from the bottom left corner
of the window frame
to the almost top right.

the angle has got to be
exactly 45 degrees.

a football game late in the season

tonight I’ve space clear,
front & behind.

roll away blue

sifting through words
dropped
from bookcases;
piles of half-read passages.

loses control in the tackle

but nothing inspires
to imagine something—
a few pencilled notes
to rub away.

scrum to go down

time to save the day.
an angled run,
creating uncertainty
in the opposition
in the 78th minute.

nailed it!

new morning

yesterday, a drizzly grey
with grimaced faces
(even yours
appeared that way).

today, the sky
is that brilliant blue
 aaaaaaaa—yes, I know
I always say the same thing
on mornings like this—
but swing your head around, pirouette
with your arms stretched out,
look at the hills on the horizon,
look how they’ve taken deep breath,
stretching upwards,
billowing out the land.

waiting

she waits at the corner,
the house behind her
where the poplar trees
have been cut,
a row of stumps
like small volcanic cones.
she stands still,
feels the anger
lashed inside her.

she looks back
to the flag, draped large
on the wooden fence.
black & red,
with the white koru
meeting together
between
the darkness
&
the desire.

she remembers
the pushing, the sharp yells,
the clatter of battered skin & muscle;
& the panic
pressed
in the eyes
of the pakeha suit—
dirt of generations thrown.

a muffled grunt
exits her lips.

in the distance she sees the van.
lights on full, because
of the heavy fog that sits
over Hikurangi.
she sighs
bends to pick up
the worn straps of her bag
which she holds straight
over one shoulder

& she waits.


Published in RED & GREEN 4, 2004

with the last rub

nocturnal notes
on the night-shift,
change over
at 11.30pm
reading Baxter—
the anger of
a sympathetic heart
pimped dry.

anger won’t
bleach walls,
won’t shift
skum, grease
& shit.

hardwork
& time
might see the wall
fresh, or see it
crumble
with the last rub.

I think he knew
that.

between the ridge & the mound

here on the edge of where mist
sometimes gathers, hugging
close into the hollow
between the ridge & the mound
that sits
longingly
at the corner of the plain
looking across
to Hikurangi somewhere
out beyond the road
that cuts, slices straight
across the land
which floods often,
& where you might imagine
a lone figure walking
with a guitar
arranging lines
passed down by tradition
& pain.

untitled

we were isolated,
aaaaaor so we thought,
from the meaningful crowd

we drank to forget
& remembered
aaaaaaaaaaaaaalegends
of cobbled streets
& high ideals;

we breathed the moisture
of passing clouds.

from the poet's tower
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaawe stepped

aaaaaaaaaaaa& fell

from the peak of Hikurangi

aaaaadown

to the flat swamp
& political activity.

untitled

you know when you feel like you lack clarity,
when life’s happening
but isn’t examined
& if you bumped into Socrates
you’d want to punch his ugly face—
then it returns,
it’s dramatic,
maybe not Moses parting the sea,
& not something you’d make a film about,
but, like dialectics,
small things
can suddenly make a difference.
it could be when,
in the middle of winter,
the working week & the weather
deliver
a Saturday morning
that’s crisp sun on peaked roofs
walking to the shops for bread & paper.
or
when a book of socialist poetry
arrives in the mail,
which you ordered months ago:
Auden, Blake, Lawrence,
MacNeice, Mitchell, Rosen,
Shelley, Zephaniah
& co.

a utilitarian labour

they’ve pens in banks,
black usually
attached to tables
by strings

of metallic balls
sliding over wood veneer
as I write, because

when I needed to
I realised I had no pen
of my own,
2 hours from home.

so share with others

making deposits—
of what value?
I don’t know.

though I appreciate
you showing me
how pens could fly,

this pen is sunken
& limited
to utilitarian tasks.

3rd September, 2004

I stopped for a duck & her ducklings
trying to cross State Highway One.

she was standing so straight & taut,
her head searching forward & behind

to the ducklings scattering to the grass
& back to three crumpled bundles

lying on the road—at that moment
her panic & purpose counterposed.

then, she stepped quickly to the grass,
where she stood, quite still, as I passed

slowly, thinking of my daughter who
loves ducks, loves to say their name.

& thinking of the children who died
in the Russian school, & the parents

who knew them; & thinking also
of leaders who'll speak grave eulogies

that will kill. I felt then that same
combination of panic & purpose.

thinking about what Les Murray said

I hope there are enough to see
who have the discipline to be free
because I know enough
to disagree
with those who say
it’s just a poem, & one
that can not hear other poems.

because a poem
which taps to the heartbeat
is not deaf, or mute
but hears & is impatient to speak.

Lake Waro

there’s a lake on the edge of
town, past the rubbish dump
where there are recycling bins
for three colours of glass.
today, it's 30 degrees plus.
the lake is full of people, kids
jumping off rocks, pontoons,
each other. narrowly missing
rocks, pontoons, each other.
I always wade in to one side,
pathetically dignified—& me
only 30 plus. the bottom
drops out suddenly; a few
strokes & it's deep, a few
more & the children are left
behind. there’s a line where
parents, nervous brothers &
sisters, yell out: “far enough!”
“come closer in!”—no one
yells for me. out here, in the
middle of the lake, my head
is suspended in the reflection
of the blue sky, dragon-flies
& swallows flying all around.

in my mind

your wonderful grin,
your pleading eyes;
the way you care
so much about epaulets.

your honesty, the way
your arms flay around
when you’re excited;
the lines on your face.

your enthusiasm, the way
you try so hard to say
the right things—never sure
of what you’ve found.

your willingness to stay
late into the night,
until everything is sorted
(or you finish your game).

your stern answers;
the way you always
let me stand there
until I say your name.

your hard-working determination,
your impatience;
the way your hair falls
forward & your eyes penetrate.

your properness, the way
you make silences uncomfortable;
your concealed sadness,
your certain love.

aaaaaaaaaaaaa—all of you,
you've been in my mind.

Lou says

Lou walks past the Four Square
on his way to the hotel
where he’ll play
avant-garde theatre
for the men who work
on farms, who stare
into rear-vision mirrors
of utes parked on King Street.

& the noise that he makes
will get them up
onto the red wool carpet—
too dark for today,
where the café set do not tread,
even to see Lou, who isn’t scared,
who does not flinch
at the fight
between two hired hands.

Lou says
he never plays covers,
only original songs
from the pallet factory
which used to be a dairy factory
& before that a coal mine.

free

for Sandra

the horizon dissolves
in the light,
a monochrome
with faint incisions
tracing the outline
of a far shore.

I lie here with you,
not paid for, not spent.

of pigeons & doves

pigeons sitting on a roof, they fidget,
shifting from leg to leg, shifty.
avian rats, say New Yorkers.
a bad rap, unfavoured
compared to their dove cousins.
sometimes it’s better to have
your feet touching the ground
(or the apex of corrugated iron roof)
than to be set permanently
against blue skies.
the pigeon is a materialist, practical,
next to the dove, the idealist,
& prone to too much reflection.

nothing St John's Wort could fix

why frequent these places?
looking for an entry into an outlaw's
bible of American poetry?

broken men, held together
by bonds of chauvinism,
ostracism, alocholism & hypnotism
filling in time before the next race.

& me, skiving off work,
relationships & responsibility
to soak the ambience
of a beer-stained & smelling carpet.

we watch the movies
& recognise it ― laugh
if set in some foreign place.

watching from my padded perch,
angry at a system
that spits people out (the incalculable waste!),
I can see the roots go deep:
nothing St John's Wort could fix.

working blues

in Wellington
he was a baker's assistant,
starting at 5 o'clock in the morning.

he cycled down Mt Victoria
to work: a bakkerij
at the top end of Willis Street.

his boss
always made him finish late.
it was his fault
for not working faster.

he wouldn't finish until 2 or 3,
but he'd only get paid
for 8 hours work.

he rode home through town
& up the hill
in chequered baker's pants.

these old theatre seats

these old theatre seats
are rusty at the base,
the blue vinyl
has faded to grey,
they're not where
they used to be.
looking over
these Northland hills
to a wet sunset,
a sliver
of clear orange sky
beneath the heaviest
of dark clouds,
the sounds of children
talking nonsense
on the steps
of the almost derelict
house across the street,
I realise there is
nowhere else.
these old theatre seats
are comfortable
& a good place
to look out.

what are we doing?

I'm carrying one end of a glass panel through the streets.
I don't know who's carrying the other end,
or where we are going,
or why it's precious.
we dodge the people moving round―
they wouldn't want to bump the glass
& we don't want them to.
at a certain angle (though it's cloudy)
the light catches the policeman's eye.
he's young, he wouldn't like the music I buy,
but he thinks he knows me.
well, this is a small town, he probably does.
where can I run?
will my friend run with me?

aye Tane!

Tane Mahuta,
you've been here 2000 years, tell me!

I'm driving a logo―'the smart move'―
you can tell me.

what's that?
a gust of wind
ruffling your lower branches.

no one noticed the 'More Teachers Now!'
badge pinned to my jacket.
after 2000 years do you lose sight of details
or do you notice them more?

I was drinking at the Hokianga Hotel,
dolphins took me out into the ocean
until I could see the tips of your highest branches.

no one noticed you growing Tane,
but here you are―& the teachers
are taking wildcat strikes.

I want to sleep in a purple room

I want to sit in a wooden chair
I want to drink Vodka & lemonade
I want to talk while making dinner
I want to sing Dylan doing dishes
I want to discuss peppers & artichokes
I want to teach composition & line
I want to read without notes
I want to speak plain
I want to be understood
I want not to think about it
I want it to be the same for you
I want time to slide
I want to run & play
I want to walk to work
I want to learn guitar
I want someone to fix computers
I want to stay up late
I want to sleep in a purple room

a headache

Frida Kahlo painted her mangled back.
on that crooked spine I picture my own neck
lopped to one side.
I consider this,
trying to see through my head
pounding like a Japanese cartoon.

for some fresh air
I walk to the back of town,
over a steel grate
covering a torrent of rain
pouring down the lower slopes of the hill
to the Mississippi beyond
(though that may have been wishful).
down this drain
the guy in the Opportunity Shop
slid, in his wetsuit,
on his belly, after a few beers.
the drain was built
after a mudslide killed a family
who lived in the shade of the hill.
I turn & walk back to the centre of town,
flip through a New Idea,
spend 3 dollars on scratch & wins,
winning 4 dollars then losing more.

tired

hunched
like Stravinsky
playing a silhouette;
left for dead,
he'll wake at the end
to say goodbye
with honest words
& go to sleep
absurd.

the coast

join-the-dot-buoys
trace the shoreline,
falling & rising
with the tide;
an easy gradient
of sand tones slide
from land to sea.

a kingfisher bursts
from the manuka,
leavind the greyish bush
swaying gently to rest.

there are pools of red
under the pohutakawa,
eerie shadows of lost flowers.

sand, salt-water & wind
have formed a dusty ring
around ankles.

the tips of the cabbage tree leaves
point the way,
blown by a sea breeze.

real love

I would like to say
I built a castle made of sand
& I laid each grain for you,
but who could live in it?

I would walk across hot coals for you,
but only if there were enough doctors & nurses.

I would like to say I think of you all the time,
but there are others who deserve some thought.

I would paint a picture,
but can a picture say I, or you?

is it what you wanted?
still, this is real love.

after a late night shifting road cones

underneath the muddied tarpaulin
a maudlin sonnet praising the sky
floated free from the gap between
the flapping yellow & the grey asphalt.

noticed by two passing strangers,
both simultaneously said, ‘how’s it man’.

how many have died?

how many have died
digging for pharaohs,
emperors & CEOs?

the sentence passed down
by independent international arbitrators
with floating bars, Marina Vista signs,
shoe shiners & personal trainers.

who are you?

I don’t believe you!

nice meeting you

eyes of circles, rimmed
with faint tears,
as you told us of Bougainville
& the struggle of your people.
copper exposed to air
by machinery not your own,
tarnishing your land.
but you (& we) are scrapping
at the lies told,
which was why we talked.
noticing more about you,
your face, it sheltered experience
I could only imagine,
& beautiful for certain.
I admit to dreaming of another life,
your strength (I couldn’t help it)
pulsed through me too.

Israeli soldier!

Israeli soldier!
what goes through your mind?
a child, wide eyed with fear & anger,
crouched, running on the dusty streets,
past the ruined homes of friends,
bending to pick up a stone—
no, that one was too big,
another fits inside the palm.
you see this through your sights
& you aim for the head.

what else could I do?

there was no face
amongst the sanity
of your appraisal.

speaking directly to my cuffs,
tugging at my pleats,
with a nod to James Joyce
& his look,

I pleaded my case.

records for 50c (let’s got to Soulcity)

The Manhattens
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasequins & boots

aaaait feels so good to be loved so bad

Johnny Johnson & His Bandwagon
aaaaaaasoul survivoraaaa gasoline ally bred

aaJimmy McGiff
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaastep one
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasolid state
Nina Simone aaabacklash blues
aaaaaaabitter humour
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavenging angel
why? (the king of love is dead)

aaBilly Preston aaaaamauve suit
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaasteppin’ out
name in lights aaafill your head with sounds

do what you want aaaaAl Green
aaaaaaalivin’ for you

The Friends of Distinction

aaaaaaaaadrums, congas, flugelhorn,
aaaaaaaoboe & cello,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaclarinet & harp

Solomon Burke aaayeah… you’re the one!

I wish I knew (how it would feel to be free)

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalet’s go to Soulcity.

taking Burt Reynolds & Lonnie Anderson to the John Pilger exhibition at the Auckland Museum

how was the trip, Burt?
hi Lonnie.
nice day isn’t it?
you’ve sorted things out then.
must have been expensive, the divorce.
how much?
still, things are alright now aren’t they?
you were both misunderstood.
those Ken & Barbie jokes were cruel.
yeah, this way, follow me. I’ve been here before.
what do you think of the museum?
it’s a war memorial.
the columns out the front are the same as the Parthenon.
through here—watch your head on the waka…
Te Toki a Tapiri. magnificent isn’t it?
have you heard of John Pilger?
no? he’s a well know journalist…
you hate journalists? some of them can be…
you’d have to admit it looked suspect at the time, Burt.
yeah, I know you were innocent.
so what are you up to now Lonnie?
are they still showing repeats of the WKRP Cincinatti in the States?
here we are.
no you go ahead , I’ve seen it. I’ll meet you outside.

what did you think?
disturbing?
you didn’t know the US had been bombing Iraq for ten years?
I know the Vietnam War was a long time ago Lonnie, but it’s important
to remember these things.
did you go to Vietnam, Burt?
Gunsmoke was your big break then?
what? you’ve never got the recognition you deserved.
you shouldn’t get hung-up on awards, Burt.
what did you think of…
but he’s a different type of actor, you can’t compare.
oh, here’s your taxi.
no, I don’t want an autograph.
I just hope you got something from the exhibition.
it’s meant to be.
I thought it would help. you both looked really sad when I saw you
the other day. I know it can be a struggle to see things clearly…
you’re OK? OK then.
I’ll see you round. I probably won’t be heading your way again.
some things I want to do.
best of luck to you too.

a couplet (for the blues)

blues singers refused to be sold,
saying, ‘I may as well be bold’.

song for Hone Tuwhare etc

I missed writing for the new millennium
so for you, Hone Tuwhare, I thought I’d write now.
one of many who will dust fresh pages with words.
tonight, with compassion, humour & grace
you walked the stage of our polytech theatre
on your sentimental journey to the North.
they called you from Kaka Point, in the South
to the place of your birth:

aaaaaa‘Send back his stubby limbs!
aaaaaaSend back his bursting tinana fat with kutai,
aaaaaaKina, fish-heads, salt and words.
aaaaaaNgapuhi! Go and get our boy!’

while I share these Northland hills with you,
your presence alone was not enough to cloud this eyes.
what did, was seeing a man who lived life
full & vital, gentle & vulnerable,
who, at 79, read a poem for a socialist friend, a comrade.
the word, like many of the lines rolled
from your full crooked lips, was full of sincerity.
it still comes hard to me, as if others’ laughter
would burst unwanted from my mouth.
to see that fire burning, that home shared,
this is what I take from your journey north.
one day I hope to sing out ‘comrade’ to the tune
of a jazz standard (a favourite of yours)
& for people to hear it true & sing it back to me.


Thank you to Glen Colquhoun for the use of lines from his poem, 'An invitation for Hone Tuwhare to attend a poetry reading in Northland, or a Haka to Kaka Point', published in the New Zealand Listener, 2002.

a painting by Picasso (after the war)

two women running on a beach.
limbs floating amongst the clouds:
weighted skims off lightly dusted ground.

I didn’t know what to say
when you stood in front of me.
I was rehearsing a curtain,
projecting a voice across the room.

it wasn’t this way before,
when time was no constraint on friendship.

two women running on a beach.
I was reminded of a Mediterranean sun,
not the smoke of trenches.

behind the times

ramblin’ mystics
pilfering
tired dreams
dip lightly
in truth streams.

the lines I borrow
will stagnate
if the crowd
is stifled & still.