Poetry Live at the Classic - Tuesday 31 July 2007

It's been a while since I managed to drag me feet along to listen and if it felt right, read out one or two pieces at Poetry Live - the event which this site advertised for years - but which I guess some had taken a break and others had moved into that space. And how they have. Not only have they moved the gig from the odd box at Grand Central to a wonderful room with tiny little tables and lots of seats. Plus a great sound system and lighting. Reading poems in blue light was new. The guest poet was Jill Chan who read out her deep in the heart simple truths. There are a few poets that one can admire. Jill Chan read her works slowly sans affect but you will see why - when she writes lines like:

Sometimes the things 
we belong to 
don't belong to us.

then we already know too much. To be drawn by the words alone is the skill of a reader reading a writer. Jill Chan is a great writer and a mesmerising reader. Letting out just that amount of the art that things happen without showing anyone how.


Jill Chan read from her new work 'Becoming Someone Who Isn't', available from www.earlofseacliff.co.nz.

Montana Poetry Day 2007

July 27: Montana Poetry Day 2007 will mark the fourth birthday of The Divine Muses Poetry Reading, an annual event which this year features nine New Zealand muses: Iain Sharp, Harry Ricketts, Mark Pirie, Riemke Ensing, Andrew Fagan, Serie Barford, Olivia Macassey, Siobhan Harvey, Kirsten Warner. Each speaker has 10 minutes to showcase their poetry. There will be books for sale, as well as snacks, wine and juices. 7-9.30pm. Main gallery, Auckland Art Gallery, corner Wellesley and Kitchener Streets, City.

Beattie's Book Blog

Beattie's Blog
Info on Book Awards NZ Listener

Bernie Kyle

RETRIBUTION.
BY
Bernard V. Kyle
[C 2007]


After the fray, there cometh the day
To silence all Oz, & the mockers,
For the ABs & Ferns, have both taken turns,
And triumphed all over the 'Ockers.'

Now coming up, there looms a World Cup,
When poor play, just wont have the clout,
For no prize, is awarded for second,
And that's, what it's now, all about.

So gird up the loins, protect, chest & groins,
And with support from pakeha, whanau, & iwi
Play to your best, when put to the Test,
And give them a touch, of real Kiwi.

Jan Oskar Hansen

Yesteryear’s Summer

Rusty, padlocked gate, trees in the big garden need
trimming, on a swing, two rusty chains, it lacks
a seat. Autumn and there are apples unpicked on
the ground, fine rain has fallen, drops drips from
trees and glint on tall grass. Soon winter storms
will come rattle the gate and the derelict house-
unlit- will have to shoulder nature’s irate violence.

If you close your eyes and listen, can you not hear
laughter and see a child sitting on the swing?
Ice-tea and lemonade anyone? July 1956, no one
knew this was their last, a family was about to be
overtaken by life; ruin and scandals, “got what they
deserved,” the hateful said. The child, on the swing
disappears in the mist, rolling in from the sea. .

Jason J Page

Is Nothing Sacred

Three years and no phone call
let alone a knock on my door
I am lonely still
right down to the floor
For me it doesnt exist
thats why I didnt answer a brewers call
for me it means nothing at all
A sleeper I remain
working for sombre
I believe not anymore
she changes her view
my history no more

Nicholas Alexander

History Walk

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

Gmail - Poetry submission

THE STORM.

By

Bernard V. Kyle.

[C] 2006

It's a threatening, grey, winter's day,
There's that leaking, window pane,
The gale is screaming,on its way,
And flinging, sheets of rain,

The trees bend forth, and back & forth,
The leaves, fly out of sight,
There's not one bird, seen, or heard,
Contesting, Nature's might.

The deluge seems, to never end,

The threat of flood, abounds,

So farmers haste, to move their stock,

Up to, the higher grounds.

The sea becomes, a foaming mass,
Waves race, before the storm,
While we just stay , & scan the scene,
And thank God, we're dry & warm.

But thoughts go forth to travellers all,
And those , upon the sea,
We trust good fortune's guided them,
To some place, of great safety.

The lightning sets, the sky alight,
Loud thunder's, close behind,
How near that last strike must have been,
Engages, every mind.

For in the path, of Nature's wrath,
With the chaos, seen this day,
The call is there, for care, & Prayer,
Till this storm, is on its away.

Scoop: Poetry in the city

Scoop: Poetry in the city

Bernard Kyle

You Win Some..... !
By
Bernard V. Kyle.
[C] 2007

There's a state of National mourning,
In response, to the grief and the woe,
For the ''Auld Mug'' is now but a mem'ry,
And that All Black loss, was a blow.

Now ''Old Nick,'' & mischance, had colluded,
And joined, in an unholy pact,
While Murph' & his Law, had come to the fore,
And hastened, to get in, on the act.

Yet one should recall, that despite, ruck & maul,
With no matter, the tears, and the yearning,
Though one be forlorn, the day will still dawn,
And the jolly old world, keeps a'turning.

So Please, don't remain, too downhearted,
Take pride, in achievements, to date,
For this Land, with just four million people,
Punches right out of its weight...

Jason J Page

Juan’s Anthem

“They” asked him to do
It
His homeland unsafe
Our haven here
He felt “impolite”

He was an import
But one of our best
And he had a gift

With me
He killed two birds
With one stone

All art is beautiful
All art is a gift
Art is the creation
Of what makes us tick

The words of a Nation

has all played a part in this

a long time coming
Let Me have My GIFT

COPYRIGHT 23rd June 2007

Bernard Kyle

A REQUIEM FOR A BOAT.

Lost Sunday 5th March 1995, America's Cup, San Diego.

[ with update 15th February 2003 ]

[C] Bernard V. Kyle , 2003.

"Well Bugger me," The Kiwi said,
The Ocker looked askance,
The Pom Sat up and stared ahead,
And the Yank, just did a Dance .

The Kiwi stroked a stubbled chin,
The Ocker didn't cry,
The Pom just had another can,
While the Yankee said, "Bye Bye."

Now this was not a pretty sight,
Upon the mighty Main,
A good ship going to her doom,
Where many Ships have lain.

For with broken back, alas alack,
That Aussie boat did go,
To see old Davy Jones & Co,
In his Locker, down below.

But the Crew all lived, to sail again,
For the Land, of the Young and Free,
By pulling digit, P D Q
And diving in the sea..!

Now Kiwis wept, and barely slept,
To see a sight so tragic,
But fate will have a trick in store,
For that Kiwi boat, "Black Magic."

Update America's Cup, Auckland N.Z.,
15th & 28th February, 2003.

Now Murphy's law, can sure apply,
To make one scowl, or even cry,
For you saw that Kiwi, with his bucket,
Oh 'Bloody Hell,' and 'Goddam stuff it .'
[there's a better rhyme !]

Now I've said before, in sport it's clear,
One day you'll win, and buy the beer,
Then comes the day, the mast gets busted,
Yep, the whole damn thing, just turns to custard !

So it's some day up, and some day down,
When that cheeky smile, becomes the frown,
But whate'er befalls, in that sporting quest,
You can't do more, than do your best.

And after all, you win, - you lose,
You're 'Cock A Hoop' - or got the blues,
But in days ahead, a few, not more,
You may hope to God, they forget the Score !

[Go, The Black Boat...]

Nicholas Alexander

Matriarch


Have we always got to do what we are told? she mutters
as this wind tugged our memory like a sheet in a tornado
and this is something we think we lose
but she left a story behind
that famous past is recorded

Our mothers were taken to safety
while blitz burnt life from the eyes of Europe
they found comfort in the kindness of strangers
as the bombs dropped, children were protected

Her world was burned but she was not
She learned with love in a world of hate
and from this we were all borne
children playing in the garden
watched over by a mother who knew

with our fragile selves exposed
we sense her pointing finger at
our shortcomings
summed in a gesture

Her love leads us to pathways
go down them with mischief in your eye

Nicholas Alexander

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