Auckland Poetry

October 6, 2007



Poem:Bernie Kyle

Filed under: Bernie Kyle, Poet, on the Page, Poetry — Editor @ 2:28 pm

New Zealand

by Bernie Kyle
Copyright, 2003

Do you know where New Zealand is ?
Oh where, Oh where, on Earth ?
Is it big - or is it Small ?
Just How Much is it Worth ??

It’s not so big, I must Confess,
It’s in the South Pacific,
And Money isn’t Everything !!
The Country is Terrific.

There’s a green, green Land, & Mountains too,
Within the Easy Reaches,
And Walks and Lakes and Everything,
And lots of Sandy Beaches.

Without a Care, there’s God’s Clean Air,
And Nature’s Gifts are Free,
There’s Caves and Waves and Worldly Raves,
Why don’t you come & See ?

So from this Land, of the Long White Cloud,
There comes, a welcome true,
We trust you’ll come to visit us,
And enjoy our lifestyle too.

Bernard Kyle



Poem:Nicholas Alexander

Filed under: Nicholas Alexander, Poet, on the Page, Poetry — Nicholas Alexander @ 1:57 pm

Lost Pearl

When she went, she left behind her family of six
Her blanket and bed she lay on for seven years

Old Bentley slept on the well worn spot
and her books lay open in the bright sunlight

but her pearl brooch was nowhere to be seen
Something strong she could take over the end

a grasped for thing that stayed with her
like her accent or that way of looking at you



Poem:Julie Walker

Filed under: Julie Walker, Poet, on the Page, Poetry — Editor @ 1:34 pm

Pantry Skulking

My eyes flare wide
No tomb robbers would dare
Unyet you gamble with my skin

I do not wish to be screwed
Or unscrewed -
I want to sit upon the pantry shelf
And swing my feet

I can see a lot from way up here
I see through you
my transparent friend

I lost my rose specs long ago
In a pile of tissues on the floor

© Julie Walker 2007



Article:Online Publishing

Filed under: Article — Editor @ 1:24 pm

Of all the online writing tools I have used, I rate Google Docs as the best. I hardly feel secure about a manuscript unless there is a copy of it on Google Docs. It will take the End of the World as We Know It to reduce that mountain of servers to rubble. I think my writing is safer there than my hard disk but multiple DVD copies and USBs with copies are also ways of preserving digital data. The main thing is do not rely upon location and that is why Google Docs is better than Microsoft Word which I long ago found too interested in how I was writing than allowing me to break what rules I wished to…

So now publishing on line is supported by filing on line. But google docs is not so good for a shared magazine style of poetry publication where we can find videos of poets alongside great work published by the poets themselves and perhaps edited due to constructive comments. Doubt it will ever work - poets are like other people: competitive.

I personally do not like competitive poetry slams or such like. I like that they exist and others enjoy them, but for me poetry does not inhabit the same cells as rugby or other sports where I want to feel like cheering it own. It is a little more like catching the elusive moments for me, just some poetry is up there in some kind of intellectual cloudscape waiting to be ignited by your words.

We keep on performing Shakespeare for good reasons. It is not due to how fast it can be rendered or how loudly we can stamp its essence into each other’s brain-space. I have decided to declare this site as open to a general membership as the elusive will only be captured if an online writing community supports it - not with rampant approval - but with constructive criticism or at least some kind of feedback.

My hopes that poets would adopt this publication easily are being hampered by the short attention span of modem users and some stupidity on my own part. I have been severely admonished by some past users who felt that I was not savage enough as an editor, or that the site was too hard to use. The trouble is that I totally agree. So, here I present a site that does work - does not lose your precious moments of inspriation and lets you instantly publish poetry. Plus its category and tagging system is easy and sensible - you can find your works on the site instantly.

The Editors can now take individual poems from the Wordpress site and publish them on the google indexed blogger site - which will be updated with a new design sometime soon.

We are now reliant on Auckland Poets joining in and enjoying each other’s poetry.

Poet’s name goes in the Title of the Poem and the title of the poem is part of the text entry (so stored in with the poem) - in Bold

Poetry must be of a standard or please leave comments if you think a poem should be removed. I would rather see fireworks and broken egos with lots of poems being discussed than a few perfect poems. This is the internet - things may get a little rough! That said, comments should always address the work, the writing or the subject, never insult anyone or your access may get removed.

Oh, the new site just got noticed by Google - perhaps this boat will launch!

October 5, 2007



Poem:Alexander Mikhaylov

Filed under: Alexander Mikhaylov, Poet, on the Page, Poetry — Editor @ 1:58 pm

Piano lessons

I was seven years old when
My parents signed me up for piano lessons.
I went there twice a week
They were held in small room
Furnished with two chairs and an old piano.
My teacher was OK but still
I hated those lessons with all my guts.
And I despised to turn up in that room.
It felt like torture.
In addition, I practiced at home.
My piano stood in a living room, next to
A couch.
My father was often lying there, reading, smoking
Spitting pieces of loose tobacco
On book pages, sometimes farting.
When I stumbled
He yelled ‘You son of a bitch! Play it again and play it good.’
It was especially bad when he was drunk,
‘You’re fucking idiot! How many times you’re gonna play over this shit?
Do it again. Do it. Do it. DO IT.’
Sometimes
I had to sit at the piano till midnight
Sick with headache,
Hating music, my father, everything.
The more I stumbled the more he yelled at me to play again,
Again and again until he was tired himself.
Once I said to my mother ‘Listen, I don’t want to go to those lessons anymore.’
‘Do you know how much I’ve already
Have paid for your lessons? You wanna waste all these money or what?
Stop your whining, ’ –She said.
But one day I decided to skip it anyhow.
I nicked a knife from a kitchen,
Went to my room and started cutting my arms. A knife was blunt so
It did not even cut my skin properly.
There was preciously little blood but still
It looked like mess. I became frightened.
Mother returned home and cried ‘Son! Hurry up. It’s time for your piano lesson.’
I shoved her my arms. She gasped:
‘What the Hell is this?’
‘I scratched my arms. It was an accident’ – I lied.
‘Are you crazy? How could you scratch your arms so?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Are you an idiot or something? Anyway, it is time for your lesson.
Hurry up now and put on something with long sleeves.’
I grabbed my notebooks and headed to
A piano lesson. My arms burned badly but sleeves of my jacket hid all cuts.
That day the lesson went as usual.

Alexander Mikhaylov



Poem:Standing Still

Filed under: Nicholas Alexander, Poet, on the Page, Poetry — Editor @ 11:10 am

Not
the vapour that leaves
the trees in the morning
that silent stream light fog
driven by limping memory
Not
the growth rings
natures spare tyre
marking age as though
it were an event in itself
No
more grain invested ceilings
or laughter at dawn
that moment before you smile
collapsed about my eyes

October 2, 2007



Article:The Ranks

Filed under: Article — Editor @ 2:10 pm

1/ Editor

2/ Author - can post at will, articles and comments will appear immediately

3/ Contributor - can submit articles for consideration. Presently the Editor will publish on a weekly schedule to bring out a new issue every Monday - can leave comments.

4/ Subscriber - someone who has registered with the site can submit comments

5/ Guest - some who visits the site - free to read the site

Guests: To become a subscriber - simply register your email address on the site. Subscribers may maintain their profile and be listed on the profiles page by Nickname. Subscribers may receive emails from the site and by subscribing you grant us the right to email you (until you unsubscribe).

Subscribers: To become a Contributor, send by email a single work to the Editor with “AucklandPoetry: Submission” in the subject line and the statement “Okay to publish on AucklandPoetry.com” following your copyright statement.

If we like your work, you may be invited to be a Contributor. If not, we may ask you to have another go.Contributors: You must have several good poems published by the Editor to raise your rank from Contributor.

When you submit your work put your name in the Title and place your title in bold inside the body text of your poem. Your works will added to our editing queue. An Editor may publish it when it seems right. Contributors who have published at least 7 poems that have attracted comments, may be given Author status.

Authors: You are trusted to have spell checked or taken care to edit your work as you want others to see it. It is often a good idea to access the site as a guest in a secondary browser (we recommend Opera.com for this) that is not logged in so you can see how the rest of the world views your work before you consider it published. All works should carry your copyright notice. To create the c in a circle, use the HTML entity code © - that is entered ampersand then copy followed by a semi-colon.

September 24, 2007



History Walk

Filed under: on the Page, Poetry — Editor @ 5:47 pm

the walk through the hallows saw storms brought
into gardens that tore limbs from living wood
ancients as large as buildings now lay on fences
cordoned off with tape to keep the public safe
from its own curiousity

when the mess was cleared what was missing
now relied upon memory except for the tree
that was cleaved clean in two. Its left side
was torn asunder by the terrible winds

its right side stood and watched its heart exposed
and the giant Totara that had grown from
a stump from the forgotten ages
perhaps two hundred rings and its entire
root structure lifted history lost

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