Tag: New Zealand

poetry

Found in Enn Zed

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Found in Enn Zed

other countries you don’t know where the hell you are
this country’s small enough you don’t get lost
even in Christchurch you can climb a hill
and see the sea and
(Allan nods)
know, oh, yeah, that’s where I am!

aren’t we all looking for a place we won’t get lost?
where Tāne Mahuta will watch over us?
where mana doesn’t equal money
and the power and design
of an unfurling fern frond
is revered by everyone?

actually, no,
I suppose most Americans
aren’t missing these things
which makes them all the more
bittersweet to find
at the antipode to my existence
where I’ll never be home

poetry

cash loan

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cash loan

a convoy of dollar signs
marches over the hill
and the first voice says
I need
and I need
to know what to say
and how
meanwhile the rain doesn’t let up
and the path isn’t clear

poetry

Weka with a Walking Stick

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Owen took this photo.

Weka with a Walking Stick

little tokoeka comes hobbling along the strand
planting his walking stick
in every likely bit of wrack
big clown feet marking up the beach
with dinosaur tread
tiny round bum barely balancing him out
and we’re all transfixed
our prayers answered
but this biggish bird just keeps going about
his jolly way
slowly becoming mammal
not realizing a whole people
have named themselves after him

poetry

SPF infinity

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SPF infinity

the middle-aged cashier gives
the inevitable antipodal greeting:
How ya goin’?
all business in her short sensible haircut
and utilitarian bifocals
she scans things quickly
leaves them on the belt
for us to pack ourselves
then suddenly stops
seizes a bottle
looks at it quizzically

What’s this? she says
and I almost answer
it’s sunscreen
 before I catch the twinkle
in her eye

We’re feeling optimistic
I say weakly
while rain lashes the store windows
but she just smiles
and shrugs

poetry

south

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south

sand like snakes
runs to the end of the world
long braided rivers of grit
fly a hair’s breadth above the packed shore
desperate to hurl every grain
into the insistent southern ocean
the greenstone sea claws at each stream
turns it under pulls it out deep
toward the aching cold white
where ice and pole call
in a shrill whine
that won’t be denied

poetry

royal (albatross)

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Owen took this photo.

royal (albatross)

through the whirl of white-bodied
red-legged foul-mouthed retching gulls
she wheels on impossibly long thin
elegant angular
tapered black-and-white wings
her dark eye unfazed by either
the mob of petty gulls
or the gasping people
dodging guano bombs below
and with her sweeping circuits comes
a silence seen (not heard)
a stillness felt
in the presence of grace

poetry

Kiwi in Disguise

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Kiwi in Disguise

in New Zealand
I try not to speak
each syllable gives me away as other
my fat flat short American a’s
broadcast my origin

I’ve read so many books by (to me) foreigners
mentioning that abrasive American honk
our loud crass obnoxious accent
I try to turn mine off
order tomahtoe sauce instead of ketchup
speak of rubbish bins instead of trash cans
ask if someone is in the queue not line
get directions for the toilet not bathroom
take the lift not elevator
go to the car park not parking lot
am tempted to just talk like the locals
lips stretched out into a thin line
talking about those swimming shelled reptiles:
turdles don’t have any ees
but I will never add up
to more than a Kiwi in disguise

poetry

Lake Tekapo Blues

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Lake Tekapo blues

listening to the brisk burble of glacial gush
that menthol blue pops to mind
and cools my tongue just by thinking

what could a teaspoon of that turquoise tonic do?
what might you be capable of
if those minerals went coursing around your ductwork?
mightn’t you shine
like you were plumbed with cooling rods
like the bonds that held you together/back
might split at any breath?

now imagine immersing your whole heavy body
in that cocktail of salts
bits of earth’s heart holding you buoyant
flat out so all you can see
is that calmer blue sky
that you know somewhere fades to black
but not for you today

poetry

cross-Tasman smoke

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cross-Tasman smoke

at first it seemed low-lying cloud
like the grey embedded in Great Lakes life
a natural ceiling for a January day
but when I saw the sun
my heart slumped
that sick pink-salmon shade
that without fail means fire

it doesn’t matter how many oceans we cross
the earth everywhere is burning
still we recklessly slake our thirst for jet fuel
while the ash rains down on our hair

we should undoubtedly stay home
satisfied with others’ memories
but it feels like asking too much
to refrain from ever knowing
some of what is left

poetry

endings/beginnings

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endings/beginning

that time of the year
when the serpent swallows his tail
and the skin is shed inside out
even the eyes seeing afresh
change is always possible
especially tomorrow