tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50056452303601694282024-03-13T03:54:31.478-07:00Falling Away From BluePoetry : Aotearoa New Zealand : Vaughan GunsonUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger49125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-52151979535238796452015-01-20T19:11:00.002-08:002015-01-20T19:12:24.674-08:00Israeli sniper
Israeli sniper!
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.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-66652020549136443032014-12-07T17:19:00.001-08:002014-12-07T17:21:30.950-08:00After 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 and the grey asphalt:
noticed by two passing strangers,
both simultaneously said, ‘how’s it man.’
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-16525856273132926992014-10-02T14:08:00.001-07:002014-11-05T14:56:24.367-08:00Michelangelo’s poems
What I find serious
is losing ground: it’s the plaintive voice
of the singer on my old stereo;
the book of Michelangelo’s poems
bought at a garage sale for a dollar
which still has its dust jacket
and a name in linked writing
over the frontispiece.
It’s easy enough to find these things
if you enter into the search, not like Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-63895662279488546152014-09-20T20:17:00.001-07:002014-09-20T20:18:29.378-07:00symphony
I
the clear morning hangs
over you like infinity:
the taste of coffee
heavy in your mouth
II
autumn sun guards
your idleness: awed
by the blue ceiling-sky
III
these mornings are for replacing
rotten fence boards
—if you’re slow enough
it can take until lunchtime
taking care even
to hammer out the nails
putting them in your pocket
because the world is Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-15093685382006905192014-05-08T16:02:00.003-07:002014-05-08T16:04:09.717-07:00there's a few I've lost
there’s a few I’ve lost, fallen off in the dark
behind a chest of drawers, under the bed,
gone to the place where socks go
I’ve lost some between meetings
& footpath conversations
some I’ve lost between the ears,
others between the sheets
(though I’m not so worried about those)
some I’ve lost through inattention,
quite a few from laziness
some I’ve sent off to other people,
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-46440572244361576482014-05-08T15:49:00.001-07:002014-05-22T17:07:18.535-07:00all our directions home
the taonga are placed on the sand.
taiaha stand quivering in the wind
speaking to the rōpū of sand-diggers,
fire-lighters, early morning risers.
the people of this place mix easily
with us manuhiri, come to watch.
the greenstone mere smashes
the seashell in half: a clean break
between where we’ve come from
& where we are now, understood.
we talk on the wind—impatience,
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-56929320767072717072014-02-17T02:10:00.001-08:002014-03-10T12:48:56.668-07:00lunchtime thoughts of a gallery attendant at the end of the world
1.
I’d like to go out for lunch in Manhattan
and get a liver sausage sandwich.
2.
The roof of the gallery rattles when extreme wind blows.
3.
I’m avoiding today the demand to do things quickly,
to get to the end.
4.
To live inside your mind you must be tough,
like Kerouac.
5.
The chocolate liquorice log didn’t help; will have to follow it
with a deep Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-47415785690658293532014-01-14T11:32:00.000-08:002014-11-21T18:34:42.826-08:00the poetry workshop for Paula Green
I was late, didn’t bring a pad of paper or a pen
to a workshop — hadn’t registered that
I might have to work. My subconscious though
at work, perhaps I didn’t want to be there.
Not when I sat down anyway, at the front,
where the only empty chair was, within reach
of the teacher, a problem child, who with a sigh
had to be given a pen and paper to work on.
‘What matters toUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-68871212545378757192014-01-13T13:53:00.002-08:002014-01-23T18:13:31.410-08:00I get paid well for this job
I get paid well for this job
of looking after art objects
that don’t breathe, don’t complain,
don’t have wet eyes, or the fear of eternity
that don’t need to be consoled,
and don’t need to be told an answer
as to why no one has visited them today.
The paintings don’t want to run away.
The sculptures don’t need to be washed
every other day.
You don’t have to assure the Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-91699186163991689882013-09-10T19:54:00.004-07:002014-01-23T18:13:06.524-08:00egg tempera
(i)
Albert Durer
painted himself
as the big egg
in the year 1500
and it was
miraculous
nobody
who lived before him
or after him
has ever been
a bigger egg.
(ii)
after Ernst Kirchner
had finished adding
a very successful pink rectangle
to the top right hand corner
of the painting
he was working on that morning
he felt
like the pale yellow
of scrambled eggs.
(iii)
a thin art Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-29070001985024399482013-09-08T00:21:00.003-07:002013-09-08T00:23:44.990-07:00profile pic
can’t see it, if it’s meant to be
me that’s there, what you see:
brown eyes, lines sprinkling
from each, is done, not none
one of billions, here now,
sunk into nothing, to come:
black eyebrows, arched or frowned
notes on a page, undone.
Published in Takahe 79, Winter 2013.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-49756739030003080992013-05-03T17:50:00.001-07:002014-03-10T12:47:59.091-07:00wedding song
Silk-woman dancing, pebble soft.
the scene plays narrative-correct;
watchers wait for final endings, wonder
how they can describe the seagull’s flight.
The writer always fails — the judgement
of those who weren’t there
when the strawberry fell into the cream
and wisdom came with the waves.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-89636051700581174242013-03-31T22:28:00.000-07:002014-04-04T22:31:24.176-07:00Odysseus at home
Opened the door at midnight, it was summer.
Walked out naked onto the deck,
the wood beneath my feet almost soft.
Stood in the orange-glow of the street light,
silent houses across the road facing,
the blue-black sky curtaining down
behind their peaked roofs.
Cars and trucks on State Highway One:
a constant echoing roar, interrupted
by the bark of a Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-64559857537695386392012-10-08T19:58:00.001-07:002012-10-08T20:03:08.765-07:00red balloon
it was a red balloon
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaI tapped it
with my
fingertips
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaso light
it took nothing
aaaaaaaaaaaaato keep it
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaain the air
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa&
I was amazed
I could
aaaaif my touch was right
push it
aaaaaall the way
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaato the roof
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawhich
it would hitaaa softly
aaaaaaaaaabefore descending
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-10327470419398715542012-10-08T02:21:00.000-07:002014-01-14T11:34:18.977-08:00is there an explanation?
I wrote this before, too rigid
the repetition thumped with certainty
like a metronomeaaaaas if the heart was
just physiology —
I asked for an explanation, but how
could anyone explainaaawhy
it happened
aaaaaaaaaaaaexactly
the man, for instance, I saw today
standing in front of his house
in shorts & slippers, who
looked at me
like blank death
— what explanation?
or why do I retain the imageUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-16312593497997076062012-03-04T20:08:00.004-08:002013-07-08T21:03:18.413-07:00Big Love Songs
I
at the top of the hill
the burnt hull of a boat
lifted here for us to see
what might be preserved
below, they load containers
onto working ships.
I sit to read your poems
in large Georgia type
of your desire to stand
in a slim space of myth.
I appreciate them more
above the harbour world
like you, friend, content
to talk through the veil.
II
a fine roughness, the coverUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-33475599534918439412012-02-26T19:50:00.002-08:002012-02-26T19:52:33.088-08:00waiting
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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-13373139278305127112012-02-26T15:49:00.000-08:002012-08-22T23:51:33.891-07:00our dog is like Frank O'Hara
our dog is like Frank O’Hara
aaaalover of gregarious freedom!
we don’t want to train him — he’s untrainable
half wild, like a Coltrane solo
he takes free rein, takes it where it will go
he barks at everyone he sees aaa with no malice
he just wants to say hello
& tell everyone aaa he loves them
he can jump up in the air in crazy yelping pirouettes
he’s a bit of a show-off
he’s too Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-72360436504795893892011-03-26T20:51:00.000-07:002012-08-22T23:53:52.907-07:00the 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-77149830775891737162011-03-26T20:39:00.000-07:002012-10-08T02:29:49.928-07:00over the fence
the bush
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.
Published in Takahe 73, Winter 2011.
Read Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-34906733209318676622011-03-18T16:47:00.002-07:002012-02-26T15:13:26.765-08:00Saturday morning, 19 March 2011
100, 1000, 10000, more
lives
obliterated
the zucchini plant
grows
lizard like
wind blows
the soft murmur
of
death
late summer
strawberries,
small
&
deformed
still
taste good
100000, 1000000, 10000000, more
lives
in shadow
ripe brown figs
high
up
have
been pecked out
by birds
bits of flesh
& torn skin
rim
an open wound
it aches.
Published in Blackmail Press 30, BipolarisationUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-35907129156588343352011-03-17T02:31:00.001-07:002012-02-26T15:16:17.184-08:00reason 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 aUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-24807361154106340922011-02-08T01:57:00.004-08:002014-03-14T23:11:58.648-07:00no contest
We eye each other on the beach:
a stand-off at fifty paces (or
some twenty years): Perk n’ Proud
aaaaaaaversus Slightly Saggy.
I fall back, your round.
We catch each other’s eye again
as I stagger bent and small,
carrying four towels, three surfboards,
aaaaaaatwo buckets, and one ball.
Your legs stand further apart
like a tripod, surveying the crowd.
We dare to eye each other’s girl.
OneUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-40702859567265956052011-02-01T01:41:00.000-08:002012-02-26T14:45:20.655-08:00portrait 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-35829336901390771142011-01-29T02:03:00.001-08:002012-02-26T14:56:56.257-08:00Parisian backstreets are not here
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 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, watches the big screen.
Langston Hughes in the kitchen
doing dishes, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com