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byWednesday, September 12, 2012‘Tis true, the skull is held aloft each night -nostalgia bleeds down the inside wristlike molten wing-glue,yet the metaphors won’t mix in this emulsion:there is no sun here; there is no chance of flight,the hawk and the handsaw are known apart.A straitjacket is typed and named a poem,grief kerned tightly, a weave to filter the passage of madness,and, as though pinned beneathed the vocabulary of forms,Ophelia gags in the stitching.This poem blisters into a catacomb. A mummy’s curse.Every other poem is a virgin’s unravelled womb.A patriarchal tomb. A view with a room.Perhaps a pride of feminists will deconstructthis poem to reveal its penis, obscured by the symbols –it is only the wittiest lioness among them who will yellthat she scraped the interior of each wordand the shavings didn’t hold a trace.Truth is, it was the virgin who was crucified, with child.The son, indivisible from the vanishing mother.The death of the light of the world.Tonight I’ll brave the crumbling parapet,anxious for an audience with the ghosts of my fathers,and hum a hymn for your every barren dream of Elsinore.
Barren Dream Of Elsinore
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byFriday, December 31, 2010The hands of all gods are wringing:they have been emptied of love.Misunderstood, it has been laid down.We must gather it to ourselves.We must turn to others and surrenderall love we guarded from the world.The great worship is each for the other;the great praise is one circleof given,and received. -
byFriday, December 24, 2010I want to give a warm season’s greetings to all who read this blog, and to all who may find themselves on this page accidently. I wish for you the best that the season has to give in terms of laughter and communion with your loved ones, and that your time together may be warm and enriched with mutual care and respect. If there isn’t much to give in terms of material possessions, remember that blessings are not those things that sustain us in a transient manner, and that possessions and belongings will perish or erode in some way – loving experience is the one gift that people will always relish opening, and lasts as long as living memory allows.
Say hi to your loved ones for me, and from me or on behalf of poetry itself, read them a poem that you love, write one of your own to give them as a special gift, or download one of the poems from this site and pass it on (the pdf download link is beneath every poem on this site). Poetry is a wonderful gift, and you will not only be giving to a loved one, but you will also be giving back to poetry. Poetry could always do with that little bit extra in terms of circulation.
Thank you for reading through 2010, and I hope to see you throughout the holiday season and into the new year, to share more of this wonderful journey called life with you. Many blessings!
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byFriday, December 10, 2010This is an abecedarian verse, written for this site’s poetry and literature glossary. The overarching premise of this type of poem is that (beginning with “A”) each new word in the poem starts with a successive letter in the alphabet. (A, B, C, D, E, etc.)
As Becky cried, darkness eventually fell,granting her invisibility.Joy keeps losing momentum:negative, obscenely probing questions;repeatedly stating that understandingvanity was xenophobia,yielded zero. -
byFriday, December 10, 2010The chimps ate the garden!They ate the flowers up.Lily and buttercup.Oh, yes they did.The chimps stole the music.They danced into the night.The neighbours are uptight.Oh, yes they are.The chimps all have sore guts.They drank the apple punch.They drank it all at lunch.That’ll teach ‘em. -
byTuesday, December 7, 2010This is a new zoneto float in:unheard –with that voice;with those things to say.What of the zeitgeist;the contract;the franchise;the promisedland?.. -
bySunday, October 17, 2010Before we marry you should knowthere is a torrent of my freak digital penisthat is being shared on the interwebs. From peer to peerthis radical sex craze is going viral -it is giving new meaning to hard drive;it is being retweeted like a leaked document;the sum of all experience is a status update… -
bySaturday, October 16, 2010And in the practice of lovewe find that we are walking on tightropes;and in the practice of lovewe are trying to upset the balance of the other.How much better it isto dance together in the open field;how much better it isto laugh together beneath the sun. -
byThursday, October 14, 2010This night haired girl from the north islandhas thighs as warm as her people’s history.To join with her in a song of bodiesis to enter, with peace, the open sky.Her lips contain the love of the world:Mau tena kiwai o te kete, maku tenei.Each of us a handle of the basket.What we carry, we carry together. -
byWednesday, October 13, 2010Losing faith in who I am,I wear myself as a black armband,as a bad trinket:I silence myself as an unspeakable history -I’ve slain all the mirrors.I will let it all dribble through me: the tapirs; the grapes; the shampoo bottles– it is all the same.Things bleed; lose edge; (cry amongst themselves) speak in gibberish.The manholes, the fruit bowls, the hydrants,the bearded men, the sprinkle of dust that coats
