tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50056452303601694282012-02-11T23:42:38.434-08:00Poetry : Aotearoa New Zealand : Vaughan GunsonVaughannoreply@blogger.comBlogger701100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-10842012335017373222012-02-11T12:42:00.000-08:002012-02-11T23:42:38.457-08:00

after Petrarch A day on my own to go, aaThe poetic veil descending: At the top of the hill aaThe burnt hull of a boat Lifted here, for us to see aaWhat can be preserved. Below, they load containers aaOnto working ships. I sit & read your poems, aaIn large Georgia type Of your desire, to stand aaIn a slim space of myth. I appreciate them more, aaAbove the harbour world. Like you,

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-20019099672583840892012-01-24T10:34:00.000-08:002012-02-03T11:30:23.256-08:00

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. but I prefer these pigeons, friends of mine, shuffling about, perched on the apex of a corrugated iron roof because who wants, really to be set permanently against blue skies?

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-46659769526022929282012-01-19T12:42:00.000-08:002012-01-19T12:42:28.382-08:00

My love, like the 4,000 aaWho bravely did not die When the Paris Commune aaWas destroyed, all lost But lived in chains aaOn a despicable ship, Meant to transport hope aaWhere it couldn’t return To an island covered aaDensely in slender pines: Dispossessed making way aaFor the dispossessed Where love grew gardens, aaBuilt houses & a town, Learnt to fish in waters aaSurrounded by sharks

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-79775575995737126322012-01-18T20:04:00.000-08:002012-02-11T19:06:12.894-08:00

In catacombs beneath Paris, from layering aaOf femur & skull, something that moves, still. Those who work among the dead, don't forget aaThe streets above: remain alive, want to explain In precise & adequate words. Mostly fail aaShut in silence, they commune in friendship With forgotten songs, during the shades of day aaSaving their shining presence for the night.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-34906733209318676622011-03-18T16:47:00.000-07:002011-03-20T20:51:58.464-07:00

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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-24807361154106340922011-02-08T01:57:00.001-08:002011-04-18T01:20:09.604-07:00

we eye each other up 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 & small carrying four towels, three surfboards, aaaaaaatwo buckets, & one ball. your legs stand further apart like a tripod, surveying the crowd. we dare to eye each other’s girl. one

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-86716262399447446582011-01-23T02:47:00.000-08:002011-01-25T00:20:22.872-08:00

for every noteworthy, full blown person, whose name bangs into us from history there are 29 people burnt at the stake in New York in 1741 blamed for setting fires as part of a “negro plot”. Published in Side Stream #27, December 2010.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-76972344102725338422010-11-15T02:38:00.000-08:002011-01-25T00:19:21.061-08:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-56508824891721700052010-05-01T02:09:00.000-07:002011-01-25T01:05:49.441-08:00

nocturnal notes on the night-shift, change over at 11.30 reading Baxter — the anger of a sympathetic heart pimped dry. but anger alone 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. Published in Side Stream #24, May 2010.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-80915902306454723792010-04-30T19:34:00.000-07:002011-01-25T01:06:28.590-08:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-41034117305903275332010-04-29T05:59:00.000-07:002011-01-25T01:05:02.660-08:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-75029126600068418212010-04-15T19:33:00.000-07:002010-05-30T19:30:54.637-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-85641054794309534302010-04-03T15:21:00.000-07:002011-02-01T04:01:10.737-08:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-34497598499452094612010-01-20T03:56:00.000-08:002011-01-25T01:07:47.531-08:00

“you still living in Hikurangi?” I tell ‘em, “yeah.” “lovin’ the Liquid Ambar next door, the red leaves that fall down on us. the railway track over the fence aaaaaaaaawhich you can look down both ways to a vanishing point. the 4 damn churches. the toi toi in bloom, with the morning sun shining through like a halo, blessing us all. aaaaaaaaaaaaaathe view of town when you come over the top

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-6662622071567887972010-01-15T18:59:00.000-08:002011-11-06T13:14:36.491-08:00

the future sits on a fence in Arizona amongst the tumbleweed of the desert a silent type, who doesn’t give directions which is the way you like it. you’ve read the TV guide, so you know what’s on tonight a couple of movies you could watch. but even though it’s raining & the wind is thumping on the windows you’d rather drive to the video shop, so that on the way you can be excited

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-28466720755395524792009-08-27T06:26:00.000-07:002011-10-22T18:46:09.052-07:00

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, leaving the greyish bush swaying gently to rest. there are pools of red under the pohutukawa, eerie shadows of lost flowers. sand, salt-water & wind have formed a dusty ring around ankles. the tips of the cabbage tree leaves

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-76292175550745528472009-08-04T14:49:00.000-07:002009-08-04T14:51:00.764-07:00

we have no choicebut to name the starsthey're our favourite things.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-716488409085768102009-07-25T18:49:00.000-07:002010-05-30T19:39:45.963-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-51316828925846959492009-07-10T18:24:00.000-07:002011-02-09T01:39:36.732-08:00

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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-74009564397737666182009-06-16T01:59:00.000-07:002010-01-23T23:19:34.792-08:00

sitting outside a café on the corner of Albany & Hyde Streets in the warm April sun wearing a black T-shirt. the university across 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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-74804563084027782022009-06-12T21:46:00.000-07:002011-10-20T11:41:50.104-07:00

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 pohutukawa 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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-22826450542100112032009-06-12T21:23:00.000-07:002010-05-30T20:32:22.506-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-80637238757213866982009-02-28T19:38:00.000-08:002010-05-30T20:33:11.272-07:00

& 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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-66548198634000581872009-01-03T18:17:00.000-08:002010-05-30T21:00:06.260-07:00

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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-40702859567265956052008-11-01T01:41:00.000-07:002010-05-30T20:44:02.446-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-70975902826353161392008-10-01T02:53:00.000-07:002010-05-30T20:46:10.711-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-77626433738153708362008-09-01T19:54:00.000-07:002011-10-11T17:12:24.306-07:00

lounge-stifled day amongst honest debris & puzzle my 5-year old daughter 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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-10311918855184929562008-08-24T20:23:00.000-07:002010-06-10T14:22:13.625-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-43686250371977551902008-07-23T15:31:00.000-07:002011-01-03T23:56:14.727-08:00

it’s mid-afternoon & the 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 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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-35829336901390771142008-05-19T02:03:00.000-07:002011-03-02T22:40:29.970-08:00

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, sipping

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-3407335155335895162007-10-01T20:22:00.000-07:002010-05-31T03:24:02.384-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-84472716011787738762007-07-25T00:05:00.000-07:002011-10-11T17:17:52.125-07:00

sitting at the table thinking about something you busy getting something done when I caught your eye & felt guilty for something, though I couldn’t say what I said too quickly, without context: “I’m lazy.” to which you responded, quickly also: “no, more like easily distracted.” which had me thinking as I got up & walked away that yes, that’s right, “I’m not lazy, I’m easily

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-65891463646174207952007-02-01T02:45:00.000-08:002010-02-17T14:25:21.976-08:00

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,

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-35907129156588343352006-08-21T02:31:00.000-07:002011-04-17T22:24:41.363-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-20671069436538910702006-08-12T02:42:00.000-07:002009-08-23T14:30:43.111-07:00

nothing to say friends frayan old jersey thrown awayhit videos from 1994 playthe party next door moves outside, into the way.this light is the only one leftto turn off, the shadowsit throws are softthey will be cut-off.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-78061950208414509612006-06-07T02:12:00.000-07:002009-04-02T02:30:15.059-07:00

voices lie, eyes hidewhat they’ve seendeath like a grey suit walksfeeling cool*sleep isn’t distinguished from awakedreams plough downinto nightmareshomes gutted openspilling onto the street*each bomb blazesour imaginations allturning our mindsto not turn away from yours.Published in Workers Charter, 2006.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-73580725721999287912006-06-06T18:12:00.000-07:002010-05-31T03:02:28.008-07:00

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. but freedom’s possible, because I’ve

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-69077219354982734532006-04-25T12:28:00.000-07:002010-09-13T02:46:21.102-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-45412590437833445022006-02-15T02:03:00.000-08:002011-09-02T18:30:53.808-07:00

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 comes 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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-36179765320959686422006-02-15T01:54:00.000-08:002011-11-03T00:00:01.947-07:00

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. he wades in to one side, pathetically dignified— & he’s only 30 plus. the bottomdrops out suddenly, a fewstrokes & it’s

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-69537106154374826492005-09-28T18:53:00.000-07:002011-11-02T23:51:58.928-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-46172156277212470662005-09-28T12:06:00.000-07:002010-09-13T02:53:47.673-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-23648217477420943332005-07-03T19:11:00.000-07:002009-12-14T05:52:40.724-08:00

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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-16580937175961478352005-04-03T18:02:00.000-07:002009-04-03T18:03:46.336-07:00

the white dovesnow perch on our roof, & notthe house across the road.which is good for showing,but I miss being ableto watch themfrom where I normally sit.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-70688650796777126302004-12-11T19:43:00.000-08:002009-04-03T19:44:13.916-07:00

only two hoursfrom New Yorkif I was Jackson Pollockliving on Long Island.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-82395625651139539882004-10-13T19:52:00.000-07:002012-01-14T22:17:16.332-08:00

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!

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-33475599534918439412004-10-01T19:55:00.000-07:002010-07-28T02:49:05.994-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-50526642826164715632004-06-03T18:48:00.000-07:002009-04-08T18:48:01.892-07:00

you know when you feel like you lack clarity,when life’s happeningbut isn’t examined& if you bumped into Socratesyou’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 thingscan suddenly make a difference.it could be when,in the middle of winter,the working week & the weatherdelivera

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-70315027632034882102004-05-06T18:34:00.000-07:002009-04-03T18:43:03.647-07:00

they’ve pens in banks,black usuallyattached to tablesby stringsof metallic ballssliding over wood veneeras I write, becausewhen I needed toI realised I had no penof my own,2 hours from home.so share with othersmaking deposits—of what value?I don’t know.though I appreciateyou showing mehow pens could fly,this pen is sunken& limitedto utilitarian tasks.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-46436945320027480052004-03-09T18:28:00.000-08:002010-09-13T02:57:04.659-07:00

I stopped for a duck & her ducklings trying to cross State Highway One. she was standing 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 the panic & purpose counterposed. then, she stepped quickly to the grass, where she stood, quite still, as I passed slowly, thinking of my

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-89048543495759651672004-01-30T19:44:00.000-08:002010-09-13T02:59:46.156-07:00

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 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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-77995657360643143342003-10-20T08:08:00.000-07:002010-05-30T22:51:32.709-07:00

we quarrelled on the steps of our house, me overbearing, softly spoken & sure. I left thinking what for but couldn’t turn the car around once more. in town S was there early, I was surprised, tongue-tied & vague. we unloaded the signs: aaaaaaaSupport Sanford Workers, aaaaaaaSix Weeks—No Income, aaaaaaaFreedom to Strike. they were awkward, difficult to handle. I strained, cursed & wondered. ten

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-25600540256686582172003-09-01T20:45:00.000-07:002011-05-01T22:23:51.695-07:00

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, alcoholism & 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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-48559662519614786922003-09-01T19:58:00.000-07:002009-08-16T20:47:37.763-07:00

in Wellingtonhe was a baker's assistant,starting at 5 o'clock in the morning.he cycled down Mt Victoriato work: a bakkerijat the top end of Willis Street.his bossalways made him finish late.it was his faultfor not working faster.he wouldn't finish until 2 or 3,but he'd only get paidfor 8 hours work.he rode home through town& up the hillin chequered baker's pants.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-9224615565101941692003-08-30T21:03:00.000-07:002009-04-04T21:11:51.047-07:00

these old theatre seatsare rusty at the base,the blue vinylhas faded to grey,they're not wherethey used to be.looking overthese Northland hillsto a wet sunset,a sliverof clear orange skybeneath the heaviestof dark clouds,the sounds of childrentalking nonsenseon the stepsof the almost derelicthouse across the street,I realise there isnowhere else.these old theatre seatsare comfortable& a good

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-6055149365950674962003-08-30T20:12:00.000-07:002009-04-04T21:19:58.916-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-74525276831880863872003-08-30T18:31:00.000-07:002010-01-27T00:53:22.270-08:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-12719098182077977362003-08-30T16:40:00.000-07:002009-04-08T01:21:21.516-07:00

I want to sit in a wooden chairI want to drink Vodka & lemonadeI want to talk while making dinnerI want to sing Dylan doing dishesI want to discuss peppers & artichokesI want to teach composition & lineI want to read without notesI want to speak plainI want to be understoodI want not to think about itI want it to be the same for youI want time to slideI want to run & playI want to walk to workI

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-27178547269437954992003-08-29T21:54:00.000-07:002010-05-05T22:45:48.623-07:00

Frida Kahlo painted her mangled back. on that crooked spine my own neck lopped to one side, 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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-30678267728905941292003-08-29T01:00:00.000-07:002009-04-05T01:25:56.865-07:00

hunchedlike Stravinskyplaying a silhouette;left for dead,he'll wake at the endto say goodbyewith honest words& go to sleepabsurd.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-3055530079752350082003-08-26T01:16:00.000-07:002009-04-08T01:17:20.244-07:00

how many have dieddigging for pharaohs,emperors & CEOs?the sentence passed downby independent international arbitratorswith floating bars, Marina Vista signs,shoe shiners & personal trainers.who are you?I don’t believe you!

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-79391496800481240932003-08-26T01:00:00.000-07:002009-05-20T03:39:57.097-07:00

eyes of circles, rimmedwith faint tears,as you told us of Bougainville& the struggle of your people.copper exposed to airby machinery not your own,tarnishing your land.but you (& we) are scrappingat the lies told,which was why we talked.noticing more about you,your face, it sheltered experienceI could only imagine,& beautiful for certain.I admit to dreaming of another life,your strength (I couldn

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-73974357299736588802003-08-25T09:39:00.000-07:002010-06-01T16:06:49.537-07:00

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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-74452535003148201412003-08-24T21:01:00.000-07:002009-04-08T21:02:31.308-07:00

there was no faceamongst the sanityof your appraisal.speaking directly to my cuffs,tugging at my pleats,with a nod to James Joyce& his look,I pleaded my case.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-3444842240868768882003-08-24T19:51:00.000-07:002009-04-09T20:07:07.664-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-88257190515180691142003-08-24T18:30:00.000-07:002009-04-09T19:33:16.071-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-50606540214208046152003-08-24T17:43:00.000-07:002010-05-26T01:26:18.768-07:00

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

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-55051562312498753662003-08-24T16:02:00.000-07:002010-06-15T15:01:15.547-07:00

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.

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-13202421965189339952003-08-24T14:30:00.000-07:002010-05-31T03:30:14.835-07:00

the pink protesters took a different path. a big fairy out in front waving a wand, as you would wave away flies or in this case the police, all in black, covering their eyes. oh the way they retreated from your onslaught! your singing & dancing! falling over themselves like in an old movie. it was the one who slipped in the mud who charged fastest when the counter-attack was called, despising

Vaughannoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5005645230360169428.post-59746958025870798852003-08-24T13:40:00.000-07:002010-09-13T03:08:11.037-07:00

strong on paper, cutting over & through you like a guillotine surfer. shining, smiling, shifting the logistics of crimes, clear like pantomime. putting steps forward from behind the wall, hands in shoes left at the door. weakness shows on the ramparts of hypothesis, unless strength is bound like tied sticks into a log.

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