Auckland Poetry

A Day When Nothing Happened.

A perfectly quiet day is coming to an end no breeze rustles
amongst green leaf that have got a shimmer on from
the pale sun. The almond trees that have been allocated
the best place in the sun have sprung flowers pink and white,
I can sense their boastful jubilation, and why not?
After being spindly and ugly for months they deserve
applause and, yes, a bit of envy from the less successful ones.

Rabbits on green run under stones I see more of them now
than my old dog lived, she was forever chasing rabbits, even
in her sleep. From my vantage point I can see the sun go down
behind, not the first sea but the seventh one, as this day is so
clear that I can see forever, but there are no clouds on the sky
for it to paint pink, but there is no need today.

And then it is night and dogs will bark from one village to
the next, perhaps they lament the burden of living in the shadow
of man, or they just like to gossip and have a good laugh on our
behalf. Should they stop barking one night I will wake up and
fear for my life

Years To Remember.

The war years, she said, was a good time, people
were glad of heart and helped one another, pigs
and chickens in the back yard had many owners,
as had rabbits in hutches on the verandahs.

The man who had a rowing boat caught codfish for
the whole neighbourhood. The middle classes went
hungry too, in bigger houses; and unskilled lawyers
learned, from clients, how to steal carrots and beans

And as the war years came to an end the occupiers
soldiers starved, asked for fish to cook in exchanges
for cigarettes or a bottle of booze, no one gloated; till
peace came and each one of us had to struggle alone.

Tanka  

Is it written somewhere? That those who bore the holocaust Shall be new masters And let the lambs of this earth Be scarified to honour them      

Senryu  

Valentine day Hiding married boredom Behind glowing words     

An Olive Branch

A very old olive tree, owned by a Palestinian,
so aged that it might have given shade to
the carpenter Joseph when he was resting under
its shade a hot august lunch time and contemplating
his sons’ futures, was bulldozed this morning.

No big deal you may say and I agree, everything
must come to an end, even olive trees, only
the perennial was got rid of because the Israeli
army’s snipers needed a clear view to the village
where people, who didn’t like their regime, live.

Indian Poem

As I waited the first cold morning of
the year awoke, streams of sunlight
came over the ridge;

so it began again, and as we cling to
our entities and hold on to our life, we
must surely hear the unsaid;

spoken by a saddest of hearts: we are
mere mortals, new days will arise and
fall long after we have gone;

and from my old school’s window
a child will see the blue mountain and
wish he could see its other side.

Tanka

Walked in blank streets
Bitter and confused cried:
Where is my home?
It’s very hard to understand
That the past has erased it

Tanka (Eyak, an Alaskan Indian Language)

A frisson of fear
The Eyak language died
Its speaker too
A minority language gone
Its silence is terrifying

Tanka

I couldn’t find the street
Where my lover used to live
A morass of houses
Anyway it doesn’t matter
Hopeless, bringing back the past

Tanka

The festive street
Now that bars and clubs have shut
Looks disillusioned
But is a dark hunting ground
Where a rats, caught by cats, shrieks

Stagnating in a cesspool of desolation
The gravy texture clings whilst insect
larvae hatches in-situ surrounds of habitat …
the regulation of homeostasis principles
fighting back from irregular control.

Wind movements scent putrid air
out of touch to unknown horizons.
Effluent seeps at corrosive edges
worn barren by trampled herbivore
grazing and footsteps of human
occupancy… rates of trophic state
undergo relational effect of changes;
light, water, temperature and nutrient
factors determine my health. I want to
flourish and breath oxygen again
in need of balance redirect to my life.

Copyright Deana Platt 21/1/08

Emancipation Planz

Is it grief?
when your bent to a crease
from a throw-up posture
that’s retched in disease

Perhaps it’s anger strum
on a metallic fender
where palpitations burst
each heart-beat rendered

Strap tighter rejection
as it flaps on the side
it’s a bag to be carried
not hidden nor disguised

Where do you hang laughter
designer born of fine crafters
then somersault three-sixty
over-love-locked disaster

Now I’m awakened from
a deep depression in bed
to slip on bathed colours
of eternal hope fashioned
for twenty-four hours ahead.

Copyright Deana Platt 1/17/08

Emancipation Planz

That the unexpected matters
give leave to grace
when what you do becomes
obvious again when what you
think is now no not a mystery
not to others now they understand
they can run from it too
when you touch impending danger
it informs you to pick up your sad
legs and carry them
even if it seems
all is lost
behind a prayer
walled inside the mind
in the halls of desolation
the extinction of grief

Tanka

Hazy Sunday dawn
A man on a rimfrost field
Has shot five hares
He has tied them to his belt
Blood drips on his trousers’ legs

Haiku

What! The almond tree
A beautiful bride in pink?
Yes, in Mars I think

The Last Farewell.

When I worked as an orderly at a clinic in New York,
(now shut) that used to look after celebs of the music
and theatre world, I met Marilyn for the very last time.
Dressed in a fur coat – and nothing else, hair untidy on
her breath the lingering smell of alcohol; behind her
a gelatinous, howling mob of reporters that wouldn’t
let go of their wounded prey they wanted to absorb
every little detail of her immense suffering, I showed
Marilyn to the lift, held my arm around her to shield
her from the cameras; pressed the button, it seemed to
take forever before its door opened, when it did and
she entered, I whispered: “I will always love you.”
She turned, and as the door closed, smiled and she was
beautiful again, just for me.

Haiku

Languid winter came
Kissed my brow till I froze
Indoors now, I stay.

Haiku

Overcast, dull summer
Where are life, love and laughter?
Rain streaks my window.

Senryu

In an empty house
Silence is a sad prisoner
That sighs in the night.

Tanka

How lamentable it is
This broil to keep the belly
Inside the belt
Not swelling over as a dough
The baker forgot to knead.

The Misfits.

Snow, powdered glass thawed became slush and
dejected rain fell, bored children sat in sheds hitting
the smaller ones over the head with wooden spoons.
No snowman with coal eyes and carrot nose was
made that year as dirty paws on clean kitchen floors
became a top issue; the ministry of health exiled dogs
and, mysteriously, also ducks, from suburban homes.
Then it was summer, a dry one, yellow lawns, dead
frogs, and dust on rubber plants.

Olga, the mother, took to drink kept her bottle of gin
under the sink, sobbed every day into her dry rubber
plant, it thrived and sprouted gum. Her neglected man
looked as a tramp till a mermaid took pity taught him
to swim, when they make love it takes time cause he
has to surface every so often. The mermaid doesn’t
mind at last she has found a man who’s not in a hurry
to watch sport on the TV. Of Olga’s two children one
became a diver and the other, an alcoholic petty thief.

Alms

Sunday evening sermon and as the parishioners
leave this up-market church, some are in a good
mood and feel generous towards the beggars at
the door and give coins, others, of moral frugal
hearts are busy reading a leaflet- handed out in
the church- and thus didn’t see the supplicants.

Had a fifty centimes coin in my pocket, which
I intended to the man with the Labrador hound,
as I did so the dog followed the transaction with
serious eyes, as far as the dog understood it, its
master was higher up on the human hierarchy
then me, after all I was the one doing the giving.

The Suit.

I had bought a suit at the sale it was striped and according to
the mirror in the hall I looked smart, as a successful business
man. At the newsagent’s the girl smiled and said my suit was
lovely, but as I turned to go out I sensed mockery in her grin,
and her suppressed laughter followed me down the street till
I turned a corner. Stopped at a big shop window looked hard
and honestly at myself and was shocked. I saw an elephant
trying to look as a zebra, worse, a doorman, at a seedy hotel;
a failed mobster who now procures girls for the guests.

Passersby were staring at me, some with a smile,
others with contempt, it was now I noticed the window displayed sexy
lingerie. Horrified, so they sought I was a pervert, pained I
took off my glasses and since faces were now indistinct it
didn’t matter so much what they thought, but I sensed their
hissing giggle. Found solitude in a park on a bench amongst
green bushes, falling leaves and birdsong I read my paper in
peace. Coming home my wife asked me where I had been,
since my suit was covered in bird droppings

Tuesday Rain.

The café facing the busy street has big windows
and I see umbrellas walking by, some of them
stop, fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.

I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; a lady umbrella was a bit
smaller, had frilly silk borders, but was sable too.

Now they are of all colours but black, cheap and
cheerful a sharp breeze and they turn inside out
and that’s ok; it’s the cheery bit I like.

During world war two, the German air force
dropped a few grey bombs down into our town,
no big deal, pale flames warmed winter nights.

In colours everything tend to look good, poverty
too; the hungry wear colourful robes and falling
rockets look like fireworks a festive night.

Vengeance

The third mate went ashore an early afternoon,
with the sole purpose to go to the bar and steal
the cook’s girlfriend; the cook had to work till
eight, and when he finally came to the bar his
girlfriend had gone with the mate to a hotel.

How they mocked him next day, but the cook
smiled showing even, wolfish teeth, not his
natural once mind, but nevertheless very white.
It should have worried the crew, it’s no good to
tease a man who can spit into their soup.

Negligence

My neighbour doesn’t till the land anymore he has sold
it to developers, thought he had got rid of his animals,
I was shocked and dismayed when he led a mule out of
the stable where it had stood, in the dark, for two years

Standing there in the courtyard it was clear that it had
lost interest in life, the winter sun that shone into its
eyes met no reflection, blind and dumb it could hardly
stand on unshorn hooves.

There was a long silence no one looked at the beast till
the truck came to take it away, up the plank it walked
offered no resistance, a will so utterly broken that it
could never be repaired

I looked at my neighbour in the hope of seeing regrets
or shame in his face, there were none, and it struck me
that if humanity has no compassion for all life what
change have we got to find deliverance?

The Eraser

As I came to a low stonewall
on my daily walk
I saw before me a landscape painting,
Eighteen sheep and twelve lambs I counted;

as I thought who the painter might be,
there was a sudden blur in the air,
and when the picture cleared there
was a Jenny and its foal;

five wooly backs had disappeared;
and yes the painting looked better,
but I didn’t linger, I wouldn’t like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture