tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2983341701775786382024-03-14T14:51:20.227+13:00Tuesday PoemA fresh poem every tuesday and that's just the startUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger280125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-91368887664943180362015-12-15T00:01:00.001+13:002015-12-15T09:48:50.359+13:00And I know now what I didn't know then by the Tuesday PoetsSo
now you are privy to
a thousand thousand things. Jennifer Compton
The geology of the region, the path rain takes under
the earth, the black areas of nitrate. Sarah Jane Barnett
There are places yet to find
where the teeth of ancestors
still speak to us from the forest floor – Kathleen Jones
pleaseClaire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-30513048723615392702015-12-08T00:01:00.000+13:002015-12-15T00:10:39.385+13:00Morte D’Arthur (Partial) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a Helen Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00509185824465377150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-78998162980585234252015-12-01T00:01:00.000+13:002015-12-15T00:10:08.901+13:00Ring of Fire by Mary Eliza Crane
At the wane of a long season
of heat filled yellow sky,
fire consumes mountain forests
infested, decimated by bark beetles
feasting in their own changing world.
I swim deliciously in a warmer river
without current, cringing at banks
so barren I could walk across.
The water is too hot for salmon
to return upstream and spawn.
Earth degrades to dirt, crumbles in my hand.
Early spring bloomed in aT. http://www.blogger.com/profile/16509409207991963533noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-75258964984010315562015-11-24T00:00:00.000+13:002015-11-24T10:26:45.598+13:00Ngawhatu by Maggie Rainey-Smith
On
the Richmond bus to Nelson passing Polstead Road
you
only had to say it, and everyone knew, unspoken
we
almost dared not look, it stirred such potent thoughts
caused
laughter, mocking, and a deeply seated superstition
innuendo
out the window, the road that leads to there
To
where? You ask? But
we all knew, we knew for sure
that’s
where the loonies go and you’ll go there for Jennifer Comptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13254781317505540179noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-54922419539372695682015-11-17T00:01:00.000+13:002015-11-17T00:01:00.156+13:00Abdullah, The Servant of God – by Wade Bishop<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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<![endif]-->He was not a handsome man
not even in possession of a face that was easy to look into
it was journey twisted and wrinkled like a baby at birth
........Helen Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00509185824465377150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-64127649817969886612015-11-10T00:01:00.000+13:002015-11-10T07:17:55.034+13:00That girl, by Heidi North-BaileyShe rides side-saddle
into her own cliché
her heart is pumping smoke
boots heavy with things unsaid
sunset flecked with mud
she’s breathing fire
flames curl from her lips
slow-dancing lovers
with cigarette smiles
slink and hips
turn on the clock
and still
after all this time
after so many battered
leather jackets
crumpled sleeps
on strangers’ couches
cups of tea
from chipped mugsKeith Westwaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03833695634102433794noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-86517761536245980862015-11-03T00:01:00.000+13:002015-11-03T07:52:17.537+13:00Like a Reed Boat by William S. Rea
Like a reed boat
that slipped its mooring
Set drifting on
the current
Or the heaping up
of ripened grain
In the time of
harvest
He was farewelled
Gone, in the
fullness of his time
But that final
slipping away
Still came like
something unexpected
Like an empty
pier or a barren field
Which once
brimmed with purpose
Bustled with life
and vigour
Now there was
silence
ExceptBen Hurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08367615722744097913noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-2396172426142371412015-10-27T10:54:00.000+13:002015-10-27T10:54:11.361+13:00Excerpt from 'Glaciers' by Sarah Jane Barnett
She notes down the time, opens the aquifer sample
taken from a farm west of Hastings, a saturated and fertile zone
of nested multilevel wells. She pours
it into the debubbler. The team used a direct push
drill, the cleanest way to sample intensive farming regions.
The water shines as it shunts through the tubes.
She builds a model on her computer, maps
the geology of the Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-47404185143926902592015-10-20T00:30:00.000+13:002015-10-20T00:30:01.393+13:00Wild Daisies by Bub Bridger
If you love me
Bring me flowers
Wild daisies
Clutched in your fist
Like a torch
No orchids or roses
Or carnations
No florist's bow
Just daisies
Steal them
Risk your life for them
Up the sharp hills
In the teeth of the wind
If you love me
Bring me daisies
That I will cram
In a bright vase
And marvel at
by Bub Bridger (Ngati Kahungunu), "Up Here on the Hill", Mallinson Rendel, Wellington, 1989
Kathleen Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07645566938871914385noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-88064022436448083922015-10-13T05:48:00.000+13:002015-10-14T16:42:50.804+13:00Yawn by Sarah Rice
Funny how a yawn travels through a room
a pied piper gathering all the rats
In that instant we all draw from the
same source
a great swallowed gasp shoved into our lungs
like socks stuffed in a bag
and the
long outward sigh
That we try to hide it up our
sleeves
makes us culprits in common
like playing truant
with a friend
It’s mostly like this
our bodies
that bind us together
Jennifer Comptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13254781317505540179noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-92019374759179626232015-10-06T00:01:00.000+13:002015-10-06T00:01:00.295+13:00Before by Janette Pieloor
.......................© J Pieloor
.......................Published by Walleah Press
.......................Reproduced
on The Tuesday Poem with permission
.......................Editor: P. S. Cottier
.
Janette Pieloor had her first collection, Ripples Under the Skin, published earlier this year by Walleah Press, who are producing attractive and compelling books. The cover, PSCottierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15090061154453187758noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-2683109486133928582015-09-29T00:01:00.000+13:002015-09-29T00:01:00.438+13:00The Great Dying by Kathleen Jones<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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Helen McKinlayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18429062682694815734noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-44539455492051188742015-09-22T00:07:00.002+12:002015-09-22T08:47:08.141+12:00A letter to Jim Harrison by Lindsay Pope.
It may be of no surprise to you that the day
your book arrived the waxeyes at my feeder
were noisier, more nervous and more abundant
than usual. On the global face, I live on the
lower cheek of the world where the tears fall
and turn to ice. So you might not know these
little birds. They may have hitched a ride on
some seafaring boat and decided to stay. Or
perhaps they caught the tail of some Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-61167495777702885442015-09-15T00:01:00.000+12:002015-09-15T00:01:00.282+12:00History: the Horse, by C. K. Stead
Recall those wartime
draught horses pulling
carts around our suburb -
milk, bread, firewood – like
the record of something
irretrievably
lost, the way for example the
beast would stand, one
rear leg resting
poised on a hoof-point
like a ballerina -
or, square-foot, head-down,
nose in a chaff-bag,
or in the roadside trough
blowing through nostrils
before drinking, asJennifer Comptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13254781317505540179noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-73125565223204454142015-09-08T00:01:00.000+12:002015-09-08T00:01:00.050+12:00The Fox by Bernadette HallThe fox is a single red stroke that cuts across
the clearing. The colour seems to hang like smoke,
you can almost see where she has come from.
Her musk (though you can smell nothing)
is specific like a thumbprint on the air.
It isn’t raining but there’s a kind of wet
on your face, a stickiness of insect juices dropped.
The fox is rusty-dull, discreet, not radiant or hot
or pulsing. Not agitated. Helen Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00509185824465377150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-49679800808961498882015-09-01T00:01:00.000+12:002015-09-01T00:01:00.123+12:00The Topography Of Wellington, by Jennifer Compton<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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Helen Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00509185824465377150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-75568962301114078342015-08-25T00:01:00.000+12:002015-08-25T00:01:00.186+12:00What Heartbreak Felt Like, by Annabel Hawkins
A full stop. In the middle of a sentence.
Not enough water in the jug for a cup of tea, and
all the milk's run out for good. Fumbling for your
keys in your bag at night. No-one remembered to
switch the light on before they went out.
That time you forgot your coat in a southerly,
called home and no-one was there. Just the hollow
sound of you waiting on the other end. But I've got
news, you Janishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14811852829029437786noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-73714812093960673822015-08-18T00:00:00.000+12:002015-08-18T00:00:02.165+12:00Speaking of the Balloonist by Janis Freegard<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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Helen McKinlayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18429062682694815734noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-76015700122012673432015-08-11T00:00:00.000+12:002015-08-12T07:13:10.713+12:00Two short poems by Vincent O'Sullivan
Skol
A man I talked with in a bar in Berlin
once read poetry, he said, with passion, served
with distinction in an army he loathed. Beyond
which he said little. He drank Schnapps. He advised,
as we parted, to avoid epiphanies as I would gunfire.
His phrase for ordering a Schnapps was 'to dim the
lights'.
The
sentiment of goodly things
The birds are back at the feeder
now the Jennifer Comptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13254781317505540179noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-76595650988194955942015-08-04T00:00:00.000+12:002015-08-04T00:00:01.170+12:00"Tourist—Limerick" by Libby Hart .
The
cry of a gull from God-knows-where
And
the church bells
And
the cars forever passing
And
the girl screaming at the stopped car
And
the horns tooting
And
the girl saying: That’s crap, that is
And
the little man in the passenger seat laughing his head off
And
the lights of Paddy Power, all bright and shiny
And
the smell of coal-smoke
And
the cheap hotel room
where
1,000 other Jennifer Comptonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13254781317505540179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-27167034229612641372015-07-28T00:00:00.000+12:002015-07-28T21:02:46.335+12:00"Anna God Remembers" by Eileen Moeller.
Anna God Remembers
the time she followed in
her father’s footsteps,
tiptoeing through the night
behind him as he left for the barn.
She was only two years old but she remembers
how the front door locked behind her
and he went off to do the milking,
not even seeing her standing there
in her little coat and rubber boots.
She remembers singing to herself
as she curled up on the front porch
to Helen Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00509185824465377150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-84757665717945347022015-07-21T00:00:00.000+12:002015-07-21T00:00:03.545+12:00"My Last Duchess" by Robert Browning, 1812 - 1889
My Last Duchess.
FERRARA
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will ‘t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they Helen Lowehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00509185824465377150noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-14594516122866930952015-07-14T00:01:00.000+12:002015-07-14T00:01:00.239+12:00At Koukourarata/Port Levy by John O'Connor
with Alistair Te Ariki Campbell, Helen Jacobs & Mark Pirie, June 3 2001
we parked the car by the memorial
to Taawao, the Ngapuhi missionary
which greets you as you arrive
on the final flat that horseshoes
round the bay to the wharf &
a collection of sheds & boatsheds --
it was full tide, a spring tide,
the water foreshortening the hills by
a myth or 2. we were too close
yet Ben Hurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08367615722744097913noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-26388503138014863482015-07-06T18:00:00.000+12:002015-07-06T18:00:01.874+12:00Sangan River Meditations: Spring, by Susan Musgrave
What I most want is to spring out of this personality,
then to sit apart from that leaping.
I've lived too long where I can be reached.
Rumi "Unseen Rain"
(i)
In another life, this place was my home.
I feel the rising of a forgotten knowledge
like a spring from hidden aquifers under the earth.
To glimpse your own nature is to come home
like the rainfall that turns to mist Kathleen Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07645566938871914385noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-5290473037506123182015-06-30T00:01:00.000+12:002015-06-30T00:01:00.375+12:00Papatoetoe Poems by Tony Beyer1 Early Days
the billy that rang empty
on its hook against the gate post
last thing at night
was full of the colour of starlight at dawn
2 Originals
them kumaras is really gallopin now
Mr Kilgour in braces and hobnail boots
he'd stamp and click on the path
like a horse modestly skittish in its stall
when he came over to use our phone
party line 796D
he shouted as if he believed
a hollow and Keith Westwaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03833695634102433794noreply@blogger.com2