The AucklandPoetry Chamber

the south American Way

2009-07-10T02:12:00.001-07:00

Vacation Time

In a field alone a carob tree has grown wide and tall
it preens a bit, but I sense its loneliness. In the next
field trees jostle for space, roots entwined happy
poverty? Yet In the noon heat it’s under the big tree
sheep come to seek shade, I joined them sat on
a stone smoked a cigarette, a ewe sneezed pointed
to a sign on the tree: “No smoking, bad for the wool.”
I spat on my cigarette, can’t risk a bushfire, opened
my lunch box, gave an apple to the ewe, and since
my coffee was black I milked it. I told my flock that
the sheep in Honduras, which give the whitest wool,
has taken the best grazing land, and no one seems to
care. They chewed and chewed, some even burped,
but no one made a comment.

the omen

2009-07-08T07:15:00.000-07:00

The Omen

I heard the sound of a plane looked up
a big carrier going north, it was white
and had an orange tail.

In one of its portholes my brother sat
looking out he had a serious face and
I think he was day-dreaming.

I waved he took his glasses off polished,
put them back on and politely waved
too, but I don’t think he saw me clearly.

The plane vanished into a cloud of fine
woven air, I listened to its silence till a
crowing crow in a tree broke the hush.

Paraphrase

2009-07-07T04:42:00.001-07:00

Paraphrase

Translation, easy I thought and set about
putting my English poems into Nordic suits.
Pale verses I got like watery coffee and
stale croissant, till I change the setting to
the street I grew up in where our parents
worked in fish factories, smoking herrings
or putting sardines into little tins.

Laud and healthily vulgar, my verses were
reborn, red cheeked and strong; no one
speaks like that anymore in a world where
everyone has gone middleclass, yes, even
the bloke who sleeps in a cardboard box in
the doorway of the town’s toyshop, mind
his language when told to move on.

Jyly rhapsody

2009-07-07T04:41:00.000-07:00

July Thoughts

The summer morning’s breeze is cooling and the sun
warms my face later in the day it will be the enemy
and fiercely burn to the landscape wilts and gasps.
The air is clear I can see forever or to where the last
mountain is fuzzy blue and the abstract world begins,
a place I can construct from my own thoughts

A friend sent me an email from Bombay where the city
waits for the monsoon, it is late this year, he says but
walks around with a big black umbrella just in case.
I stood on the fuzzy mountain will I see another fuzzy
one and another till I come back to the beginning which
is not where I was born, but long before.

Not even in the momentary glare of joined up humanity
in the heat of a night hotter than Bombay before rain,
and mournful and gloomy as October rain.
A startled rabbits jumps, flees along a field, escape is
its only defence; the origin of the species, what do I know,
so I let my own speculation escape.

How naive I’m the rabbit didn’t flee because of me, I look
up and see a beautiful eagle soar among silk thin clouds
that looks like shrouds for the rich and trendy to die in.
And by the sunny wall old women dressed in black sit and
knit they come alive and thrive when someone dies, when
the devil walk past them he carefully hides his limp.

And so do I, tuck my cane under my arm, like a parade
officer, jolly wish them a good morning and lift my feet
well above ground; wingless carrions, be gone.

city Jungle

2009-07-07T04:40:00.000-07:00

City Jungle

Barcelona has been invaded by wild boars,
(I do not mean footballs fans, but the real
thing) the woods are too hazardous for them,
full of men with guns. If you feed them well
they will grunt for you and let you stroke
their coarse neck hair and you will feel as one
with nature, till they crap on your doorstep.

Wild animals are now moving into towns for
safety and for food, the sparrow hawk knows
that the park’s trees are full of pray and on top
of skyscrapers the eagle nests and catch doves
and spy on the fox that hunts rabbits. Rats, cats
and dog have long known the safest place to
be is in the midst of humanity.

the last journey

2009-07-07T04:39:00.000-07:00

The last Journey

Summer day, Fred at the old folks home, made
a couple of sandwiches put them in a plastic
bag and sat out on his lives journey on an electric
wheel chair. On the hard shoulder rolled didn’t
care where as long as it was out of town and far
away from the home. He travelled till the battery
fell flat, just before a steep downhill. Fred ate his
sandwiches and drank booze from a flask he had
hidden from the nurses, released the brakes and
the journey began. Faster and faster cars swerved
drivers cursed and Fred sang a bawdy song; eighty
he must have done, as old as himself, a bump in
the road, above traffic, into the hills, into the sky
and into a haze of disbelieve old Fred flew.

on a day like this

2009-07-02T03:05:00.002-07:00

On A day Like This

The track I followed this morning in a landscape that
once was Eden but, since the gardeners were fired
had gone to seed, was dry and exuded unrelieved ire.
Leaves on bushes were rusty shaving blades, tried to
cut me up and drink my blood; neglected olive trees
tried to trip me up with sudden exposed roots wanting
to absorb my body so they, full of revulsion, could live
for hundred more years. Dead rabbits in the glade they
had been stabbed by blades of grass sharp as a mafia
assassin’s stiletto; furred creatures shivered in their
burrows. Bloodied I made it to the main road where
a red-cross lady waited, plaster, and a soft bosom that
had the aroma of motherhood, she was my friend and
lover, but, alas, as virtual as my friends in the facebook.

the brook of reflection

2009-07-02T03:05:00.001-07:00

The Brook Of Reflection

A thought, striking as a rare butterfly, sat on a twig
tried to catch it but in my hand it turned into fluff,
and I can no longer remember which colour it had.

The thought was a river I cupped my hands tried to
catch some wisdom, stem its flow and turn it into
a poem that flies like a butterfly

The rich are seen as successful and say banal things,
newspapers print their moth eaten views, we read
and thoughtlessly nod; so find me a new river then.

I wait for another thought, one that floats, like leaf of
fall in a brook, and tells of eternal truths that are as
beautiful as rare butterflies

strand of time

2009-07-02T03:04:00.000-07:00

Strand of Time

Went to the beach sat in the sun, cooling sea breeze;
but it got too hot I tried to get up could not and sank
deep into the sand; up to the neck and left to die as
mad eyed seagulls circled near.

Three bikini clad girls helped me up, brushed sand off
my back and found my cane. They didn’t giggle before
I had left, tinkling silver bells. When they are old they
will remember me.

execution

2009-07-02T03:03:00.000-07:00

Execution

Ann had killed two men, for that she was fated to
die, there had been many appeals, they were in
vain; the governor too, not a man of much emotion,
had turned his manicured thumbs down.

Ann had been in our prison, five years now and had
become a friend and it was us, her keepers, whose
task it was to end her life, this woman who felt safe
in our jail, but she had brutally killed two men.

She asked us to be in the death room with her and
we spoke to her as she was injected with lethal drugs
and slipped away. A murderess that had killed her
father and brother, but refused to tell anyone why.

I was alone in the office when the phone rang,
the governor himself on the line, it was his birthday
and if it wasn’t too late her life could be spared.
“Too late? Ok! A killer, guess she deserved to die.”

ententainers

2009-07-02T03:02:00.002-07:00

Entertainment

Where I grew up the landscape was flat, the sky wide
and Christianity, demanding. The nearest village didn’t
have a cinema but sometimes a travelling preacher
came along and the meeting hall was full.

They were good the old preachers, spoke about sin,
forgiveness and the saving of the soul. Many cried
came up to the podium spoke of their many sins and
was forgiven, many came it was a good meeting.

Our neighbour was there being saved, the farmer
told me that he was always saved but it didn’t last
long, he tended to look embarrassed for a few days,
then he was back being his old sinful self.

The farmer’s wife, Alice, stirred restless in her seat,
her eyes shone she wanted to get up there and
confess her sins; I still wonder what sins that might
have been? But the farmer, Torvald, held her back.

Back at the farm Torvald had a dram his wife sat near
him, and at milking time next morning she was half
an hour late, said she hadn’t heard the alarm clock;
the farmer didn’t get up before breakfast at eight

Yes, they had warm, caressing voices the preachers
of old, and sometimes they thundered about sin till
we deliciously shivered, and when the collection box
went around we kindly gave more than old buttons.

the death of peter pan

2009-07-02T03:02:00.001-07:00

The Death of Peter Pan

Peter Pan used to be black, he could sing and dance
and make jazz hands. He was so good that it made
sense to make him white, the world embraced him.
Everyone had a stake in him as he was transformed
into a pale ghost with a plastic nose, no one laughed
too much money at stake. Peter Pan liked children
too much for normal society to tolerate, but money
smoothed the way, but do not do it again.

Peter Pan was fragile doctors were always at hand to
give him injections that lifted his spirit and made him
feel good, and he needed more of it now that he was
middle aged, yet trying to look fourteen. His handlers
thought there was more money to wring out of his
tortured body. One, two, three, Peter couldn’t breath
collapsed in heap, and that’s a pity now that USA has
a black president and he could be himself again.

the friendship

2009-06-26T02:44:00.001-07:00

The Friendship

Sven and I were best friends sailed on the same ship together.
he as a third officer and I as a cook. We were both interested
in reading, cinema and politics, and we liked go dancing when
our ship docked. One night in Kingston, Jamaica, we met two
girls at a beach cafe, I liked my girl there was an easy repartee
between us and we laughed a lot. Back onboard Sven said my
the girl was not suitable for me, I smiled, thought it a joke.
Next day was Sunday Sven went ashore after breakfast, going
to the beach, he said, I had to stay onboard and cook dinner.
He came back in the evening, when I was ready to go ashore
and meet my new girlfriend; Sven said he was very tired and
wanted to stay onboard for the night. When I met my girl at
the cafe, she appeared startled looked around and behind me
but said nothing; told she had been to the beach all day and
was quite exhausted, the easy talk between us was gone and
the silence was awkward, so I wordlessly just got up and left.
Back onboard, Sven sat in the mess-hall drinking coffee and
reading, he looked up said halloo but continued to read;
In my darkened room I looked out, full moon and the lights
of Jamaica looked alluring; I also saw Sven go ashore again and
it was well after midnight.

2009-06-25T09:01:00.000-07:00

Senryu

I sought liberty
The starkness of full freedom
And reaped loneliness

Senryu

Total victory
Leads to corruption
Of the soul

Tanka

Hear me Palestine
When a free state again
Love your neighbour
A unhappy, rancorous land
Needs human enlightenment

a seafarer's life

2009-06-25T08:59:00.000-07:00

A seafarer’s life

I didn’t want to work in a factory and get my hands dirty,
be locked inside grey walls six days a week, as everyone
else in my street was, so I got a job selling books from
house to house; only I was so terrible shy.

The first doorbell I rang was also my last, the woman who
opened the door was kind enough but she didn’t want to
buy anything, I nearly cried, and didn’t have the courage
to press my finger on another doorbell.

Selling pictures of farms, taken from a helicopter, was
my next job, out all day taking the bus to the countryside
only the day I got there it was raining I had no umbrella
and the first farm I came to was also my last.

I took a course training to be a waiter, in white jacket
and golden epaulet I looked handsome, so my sister said.
I did well at the course and got a job at a posh restaurant;
but my hands shook I dropped plates and was fired

Finally I got a job on a tank-ship, in her galley hidden from
view, washing pots and pan, and hid from the world for
thirty years. Now, I write poetry about a sea I hardly saw
stuck inside a ship’s quarter seven days a week.

shining light

2009-06-24T09:19:00.002-07:00

Shining Light

Sometimes light in Algarve is too sharp I can see
the lot at once, the future, past and the landscape.
All is white, have I been where I’m going, or I’m
coming back from where I have not been?

I sit in the shade under a carob tree and watch ants
going down a hole with bits of twigs preparing
for a nuclear holocaust, and the catastrophe that
befalls all groups of people sooner or later.

Light is no longer white but amber and a magazine
editor says I’m Danish, yet published my poem; it
doesn’t matter that I have lost my old identity, he
could have called me a Palestinian for all I care.

worker ants

2009-06-24T09:19:00.001-07:00

Worker Ants

Parallel along the path I followed an ant track.
I joined the ants, there were many all carrying
bits of straw so I picked up a piece of dry straw,
and man was it heavy. The other ants laughed
said will get the hang of it in time, soon you’ll
be able to carry two. Maybe four too, I rashly
said. No, that will break your back.

I kept falling behind as I timidly scanned the air
for predatory sparrows and wondered if rabbits
eat ants. Where their track ends by a hole, their
home, I threw my burden to the ground and
jumped back on to my own path. Hard work kills
the soul, and all you get at the end of it is cheap
pocket watch.

writing folks

2009-06-24T09:18:00.000-07:00

Writing folks

It took three hours to drive up to Lisbon to meet
a group of poets and writers, I had wanted to take
the train, but my wife wanted me to drive since my
car has got air condition. Splendid lunch and much
wine was drunk, eager talk, if a bit unsteady, about
world literature and so on. It also took three hours
to drive home, not that I’m complaining, it is nice to
meet people who write, but doing so sober is a bit
of a strain; I think I’ll take the train next time.

the scent of love

2009-06-22T10:52:00.002-07:00

The scent of Love.

The tank-ship’s deck was glistering red,
the sea was a translucent, marine blue
mirror which only function that day, was
to mirror the sky; existential love made
the ocean’s ozone, sweet to inhale.

The tankers empty tanks had not been
aired, a build up of gas that had nowhere
to go. Boom! The ship split open like a tin
of tuna, and the sea foamed as she sank
to where darkness is constant.

Soon the sea settled, as champagne in
a glass not drunk, the sea mirrored
the sky again as witness by an albatross,
and the Pacific Ocean’s love for the sky
was as always so sweet to inhale.

uprising

2009-06-22T10:52:00.001-07:00

The Uprising

My shoes were made in China and therefore have no heels
and that is ok, when the Chinese take over the world I’ll
not be taller than anyone of them and be “inconspicuous,”
I misspelt that word seven times before I got it right.
the Iranian middle and upper class youths do not accept
the result of a recent election, mainly because their man
didn’t win, and since they are the sons and daughters of
the elite, they just might get their way...and yes, it doesn’t
make much different for the poor they are a minority in
a middle class world. Me, I find this happening a bit sinister,
planned, I would have said, now that the western world
should concentrate on giving statehood to the Palestinians.
It may be some time to wait before the Chinese Mao’s
children are here to save us from our sham democracy, and
that’s why I find it difficult to believe that the children of
the 1979 revolution want to sell their country for western dross.

old repentances

2009-06-22T10:51:00.000-07:00

Old Repentances

The track I follow, in the landscape of bushes with
leaves sharp as shaving blades, mainly because it’s
void of people and only used by sheep their guardian
and executioner didn’t give me peace today.

The lock, on the box where unwanted memories are
stored, sprung open and before I could stuff it all in
again and repair the lock they were all over my mind
producing thoughts and regrets that made me suffer.

I’m my worst critic, merciless, give no quarter, whip
myself till I admit I’m the scum of the earth. But with
the unwanted back in the box I giggled, I sometimes
sound like a pompous old head teacher.

paris poetry

2009-06-22T10:50:00.001-07:00

bonjour
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rubrique ESPACE POETIQUE OUVERT

YOUR POEM IS ON TE SITE
PLEASE LOOK AT : ESPACE POETIQUE OUVERT

once an ocean

2009-06-18T09:38:00.001-07:00

Once an Ocean

Ernest, the marine biologist, is walking with me
today my old friend died many ago, but he is in
my thoughts I listen as he tells how this place,
where we walk, used to be the floor of a sea.

Algarve blue sky, evergreen bushes and dry clay
soil and I try to think of myself as a lobster walking
in the seaweed, and the circling eagle a shark, but
a fleeing rabbit breaks the illusion.

So everything disappears, our passing lasts a cosmic
second, all that has been written will be forgotten
new religions will appear they will tell of love, yet
ban or kill those who disagree.

That knowledge is not an excuse to roll over and
do nothing, we have to do our best speak for those
can’t, defend those who have lost their homeland
and try free ourselves of bigotry.

Ernest has gone back to Saragossa to study drifting
seaweeds, and where old track ends my dog sits and
wait for me, she had no heaven to go to, so we both
drift along on my dreams.

end of the line

2009-06-18T09:37:00.000-07:00

End of the Line

Old man, yes, you who walk near the houses on the pavement
down the street using a cane is there something wrong with
your hips? Hey! Old man when you see a group of youngsters
standing by the corner you feel fear, and if they make fun of
the way you walk you pretend not to hear only try to walk faster.
It didn’t used to be like this you looked the world in the eye as
you broad shouldered swaggered down the street of life, no one
dared to challenge you then; you didn’t know it was going to end
like this. Hey! Old man your life is behind you and your future is
the grave, and your walk often takes you to the cemetery where
you often go and read the names of people you used to know.
You live in pain- tell me way- most of the time, watch irrelevant
news TV, while drinking a little whisky. Every Saturday you go
the café and drink beer with other old men, only there are so few
of them now. Hey! Old man with a foot in the grave, in your dream
you are still virile and when you wake up you feel young until you
see the cane or your face in the unforgiving mirror. Yet you go on
living your loveless life in the hope of seeing another spring and
see the blossoming of the almond tree.

summer precipitation

2009-06-15T09:32:00.000-07:00

Summer Precipitation

The cup of old sadness is full; there is little I want to
know, the banal pilfering of politicians stirs me not
into moral ire, they did what people try doing daily
if they can, small time thieving we understand and
therefore can be virtuous about it, while big banks
crimes are too complex and are quickly forgotten.
Summer rain the earth smells of freshly dug graves,
don’t pick the flowers in the glade though, they are
for June weddings and not to be wasted on old men’s
graves. Spill not, drink your hemlock; get up walk in
the rain listen how nature sings and greet s you, all
while you remember a June bride gone. The nymph
had blond hair and green eyes, red lips that tasted of
rose’s dew, till bad magic turned her into a housewife.