tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2983341701775786382012-02-01T22:07:30.376+13:00A fresh poem every tuesday and that's just the startMary McCallumnoreply@blogger.comBlogger961100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-70312046453350385992012-01-31T00:01:00.004+13:002012-01-31T11:29:38.064+13:00

Young Girl’s Dream When I was seven I believed in God when I was eleven I believed in the difficult ease of words when I was fifteen I believed I would always paint when I was twenty-one I painted myself half dressed by my bedroom mirror in a range of browns a few years later I shut my eyes on my brushes I opened them years later when I saw Van Gogh’s Starry Night and so I fell in love again …

Helen Rickerbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10652318704387476082noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-30043665569050184452012-01-24T00:01:00.007+13:002012-01-24T07:53:36.086+13:00

<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"ＭＳ 明朝"; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-charset:128; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:fixed; mso-font-signature:1 134676480 16 0 131072 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable;

Eileen D. Moellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08541192393993137203noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-82642608763221606682012-01-17T07:19:00.001+13:002012-01-17T07:24:05.177+13:00

                                                  Editor Mary McCallum Kobayashi Issa June 15, 1763 - November 19, 1827 Love them! A deliciously irreverent way to kick off 2012 - and they feel so fresh and contemporary, and yet the poet died over 180 years ago. According to Wikipedia, Kobayashi Issa wrote over 20,000 haiku - compared with the more famous Basho's 2,000 - and of those he

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-80649387644851610622011-12-20T00:01:00.004+13:002011-12-20T21:18:23.754+13:00

Wherever you are and whatever you believe, Christmas has become a kind of universal festival for sharing with friends, giving gifts and remembering those who aren't quite so fortunate. In the Middle East, our Muslim neighbours celebrated with us (and we celebrated Eidd with them), and this year we're invited to share the day with Israeli friends in Italy (it's Hannukkah at the moment).  There

Kathleen Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07645566938871914385noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-63643392551764101812011-12-13T00:01:00.000+13:002011-12-12T23:54:43.551+13:00

Extract You spill the sugar when you lift the spoon. My father had filled an old apothecary jar with what he called "sea glass," bits of old bottles rounded and textured by the sea, so abundant on beaches. There is no solitude. It buries itself in veracity. It is as if one splashed in the water lost by one's tears. My mother had climbed into the garbage can in order to stamp down the

Bernadettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16283715675254182896noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-16958329193797721582011-12-06T00:01:00.002+13:002011-12-06T00:01:00.493+13:00

how Leda must sit: how she will pick feathers from her breast: how the frame of an hour waits for more – a soft whistle, chill of shadow, dark kite – he comes. Sky wraps itself in the wing-span of storm- brilliance. And the cold whirr of myth turns her hot. Smell of grass and mute desire, trap her under rough wings, grasping for the soft down of his belly. Even a Sun turns aside. The artist

Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12993122885340788861noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-62891324540289858222011-11-29T00:01:00.001+13:002011-11-29T00:01:00.342+13:00

everything seems disconnected mottled hands mischievous eyes rough frosted hair and disobedient brown shoes cheeks with the blush of mulled wine your soft-vowelled Scottish blur you shuffle frailly inside your suit the blood must move so slowly now your mind still moving in worlds not realised you shared the air that Eliot breathed you know we all tell stories in coffee-rooms and corridors

Keith Westwaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03833695634102433794noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-10950648169856124702011-11-22T00:01:00.002+13:002011-11-23T09:13:22.219+13:00

the man in feathers shuts his eyes squats amongst jacaranda fallout drinks cold tea / forgets to speak up / as if his beginning had its faults in a syllabic nod in the screwed-up mechanism of a missing tomorrow # he spills daylight steps on bones washes his feet / my feet blackens my shoes / whitens my face for the photographer at the gate # I tick all the right

Orchidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524936404237018653noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-24330270042291481512011-11-15T00:01:00.003+13:002011-11-15T16:08:52.850+13:00

There's a stone wall around this heart. A moat, a marsh, various misleading traps. The finest model of modern man I've become. If you wish to touch me you'll need the skills to siege a castle, use the backs of alligators as a bridge to cross the moat. If you want my love you'll need to navigate past towers. Do this and perhaps I'll let you know my name. There's a drawbridge to this soul, shut

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-29502724443974371742011-11-08T20:09:00.000+13:002011-11-08T20:09:39.144+13:00

The books are all commuters pressed together on a crowded five o’clock train. Every commuter has a bird, trying to beat its wings, inside their chest. No one talks. No one talks about the furled flock of story harboured by the hard spine, the clamouring dusk chorus, suppressed inside the travelling body. Which hardbacks will open up, tonight? Releasing a piteousness of song, a murmuration,

Helen Heathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08844370992595871236noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-32212929019109169842011-11-01T00:01:00.001+13:002011-11-01T18:24:19.987+13:00

1) If things tarnish allegory if the picture puzzle becomes commodity, a fruitful but useless woman marking her birthday obsessively on friends’ calendars, then what? You want to object to objects; a shy child, retire hurt to the countryside as if it was tabula rasa. The dark – that’s centuries of varnish. Get your knife ready. 2) You think the root is silent but it grumbles: holding

Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08236329216260906624noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-11487168797051388002011-10-25T00:01:00.002+13:002011-10-25T00:01:00.341+13:00

This rather small goat was kneedeep in a paddock.The paddock entirely was fescue/rye/and clover green.Also, bushes were there, which are good for nibbling. Also, for hiding behind. This small goat was white, like nothing but promise.She didn't always come when they called herhome, she had her reasons. Familiesare like that. Sometimes she came - not announcedthrough a fence or over a fence - just

Elizabeth Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420253723750754324noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-84091669758872760142011-10-18T00:01:00.011+13:002011-10-18T20:47:42.406+13:00

 I have tapped the arch of the scapula      where the skin dips to the breastbone. Your breaths      are the quivering feathers      of birds rustling eucalyptus, macrocarpa, pine. It’s a question of listening: the guttural call of your dreams      a kind of offering I nestle in the cup of my hands.      I snatch the ghost of things      you cannot see. It is this that frightens you.

Tim Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14856414700019368658noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-81244364530390169992011-10-11T00:01:00.001+13:002011-10-11T00:03:55.569+13:00

the high wind has stirred thousands of dust particles that have become a mist hanging over the city in the early morning light that is a fragile pale blue similar tothat of transparent bone china teacups/ the police have raided 128 looking forterrorist firearms and balaclavas/ 128 opposed the notorious traffic bypass they fixbicycles and grow vegetables and rent out their front room for community

Janisnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-91399121222470965022011-10-04T15:11:00.001+13:002011-10-04T21:34:35.098+13:00

i could be Mother Christmas i could slide easing down your chimney be your pleasant present dropping on your hearth gift- wrapped to your order in my sad sack and ashes and You'd only think You'd barely got your own back i could crouch in my box You'd scratch at my windows and i'd close the curtains i'd phone out for life and You'd come as the van-man plumbers gasman police ambulance all badges

Cattyroxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05535303064712958520noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-70256095448424608082011-10-04T09:16:00.002+13:002011-10-06T08:51:01.926+13:00

Due to sickness in our ranks (and a server issue), there was no official Tuesday Poem this week - at first - so I posted a link to something in our sidebar: a dynamic, thought-provoking, 'webcomic' of a poem by one of our Tuesday Poets - Renee Liang - blended with the work of comic artist Dylan Horrocks. The remix is by Allan Xia, and it won the literature award in the just-announced mix and mash

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-37797318713299724982011-09-27T00:01:00.001+13:002011-10-04T09:15:42.468+13:00

Flying in, the sea is dark and demanding.Our island appears like a jewel and growsgreen until we circle to land, then I see the red sore gouged at its centreand my bile rises as the plane drops.On the ground I am lost in the chaosof unloading in a sudden dark that hides everythingbeyond our beams. I’m looking for the bread,fresh bread brought to last this first weekbut by the time I’ve found it

Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-34411074460207590352011-09-20T00:01:00.002+12:002011-09-20T09:04:20.557+12:00

                                                       Editor: Sarah Jane Barnett Apparently the words woot, sexting and textspeak have been added to the latest edition of the Concise Oxford English Dictionary. Personally, I try to slip woot into casual conversation. It is up there with squeegee in terms of pleasurable language. It's commendable (essential!) that the Concise OED keeps up

Sarah Jane Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16961615687658566366noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-64463962547788809052011-09-13T00:01:00.027+12:002011-09-13T08:35:36.912+12:00

I saw you walking through Newark Penn Station in your shoes of white ash....                                                [extract from 'I Saw You Walking', Deborah Garrison] ______ Editor Mary McCallum In recognition of the tenth anniversary of 9/11 this week, I am posting a 2008 film of New Jersey poet Deborah Garrison reading four poems related to the attacks, from her second collection The

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-67132023300692908472011-09-06T00:01:00.003+12:002011-09-06T08:18:43.105+12:00

'Now, lift the heart' my yoga teacher always says. I envision my heart levitating outside my body, at eye level. Its heavy pulsing, a slight squelch as I cup my hands under it, and guide it upwards, trying not to recoil from the very meat of it, the shudder of it as the aorta gapes air like a tiny mouth. My yoga teacher tells us to imagine we have strings attached to the tops of our heads. '

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-682155385059622462011-08-30T00:01:00.007+12:002011-08-30T08:23:24.737+12:00

The old Chinese lady who lives next door lays out her washing on a red-tiled roof as if she were back in her childhood home. She sings to herself a song with long pauses, a song passed on full of comings and goings like the sea on a calm day when it drifts in exhausted. It's a song with no real end or beginning. One we still hear even in the pauses as she stoops to water her money-tree or

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-88497432423808215542011-08-23T00:01:00.002+12:002011-08-23T00:24:14.309+12:00

We entered a year of slow burn I stole a line from her eyes She wrote by hand return The body awoke to the act of yearn Moisture met the heat of July We entered a year of slow burn A door ajar, could yield or close firm From colleague to intimate ally She wrote by hand, I wrote in return Disclosure inched by turn A long striptease of send and reply We entered a year of slow burn Shining and

Helen Lowenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-71475848634674830312011-08-16T00:01:00.004+12:002011-08-17T21:03:27.407+12:00

Forest and sea have had their way with memory. A few houses — silent,locked — remain. Between car and beach, a field of Shetland ponies, alreadycalling her by name. But I'mfacing inland, bush not far beyond, mountains piled like thunderheadsacross the morning light. Was thisour house, or this, or this now empty field? For eighteen months, we lived herewhile they built the road. I was two, then

AJ Ponderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15625252892255925438noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-53646877155974802192011-08-09T00:01:00.003+12:002011-08-09T00:01:01.126+12:00

I stick a stamp on an envelope. It is a lake, a little glassy, and a mountain, behind the lake. A little bit of lake is left behind on my tongue. I would not like to be a fish in that lake. A little bit of me would always be going missing. I would always be leaving the lake for the mountain. And now, it is several days later. I am waiting for a reply. Then I see that the stamp is still

Robert Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161792516642177307noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-59512023267655460202011-08-02T00:09:00.000+12:002011-08-02T00:09:10.224+12:00

A death wind swished across your open book and dusted from its dusty leaves and colophon the spores that gather in spines and gutters, that swarm when agitated like motes in sunlight like mites metamorphosing into seething bees that set the silence humming, throbbing. What comes alive in the shimmering shafts, dancing and lemniscating, constructs infinity inside a geometry of longing

Zireauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066215518736407170noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-51776576102642216492011-07-26T00:01:00.009+12:002011-07-26T20:04:39.719+12:00

A reflection fills the rain on the window: it’s Simon, proffering his lunch-taker filled with gold almonds: almondos he calls them. His eyes have the shine of all good editors’ eyes: polished by finding. I drop my pen, reach over, trailing red crossed-out fingers: I have been attacked by a man-eating grammar. My eyes have been prised from my head by looking. Simon studies the lines of

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-12466068046063942782011-07-19T01:10:00.004+12:002011-07-19T00:40:14.286+12:00

from The Radio Room by Cilla McQueen (Otago University Press 2010) About The Fog Damp sea-fog lay like a sheep on my journaloutside all night on the table,turned radiant blue ink to turquoise washthrough which the permanent horizons staredtwenty-eight pages empty.                                                Of vanished thoughts hereand there word-slivers, blots in the gutter, bled edges;some

Piokiwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06093612075587719561noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-31127896960246054212011-07-12T00:01:00.022+12:002011-07-12T00:01:03.031+12:00

Your girlfriend rang me up today, your former girlfriend, no, that isn't right the present friend of all that once was you; your fetch or what remains in the little photographs: a boy in black-and-white riding a horse into the scrub or, freckled, reading out of doors, both times T-shirted, your hair a thick, dark bowl-cut, my erstwhile son. Oh yes, she rang today, had taken somebody out to see

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-18116800603056266142011-07-05T06:51:00.007+12:002011-07-05T10:43:55.632+12:00

There has always been someone seated under this tree, looking up the harbour valley over rush-studded paddocks glistening after rain. And I’m the first                            you want to say you saw the hills                             it seemed like home ladders of sunlight leaned against clouds, then the clouds marched seawards like ranks of ghost soldiers. The point is to stop

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-70934638348012854442011-06-28T00:07:00.014+12:002011-06-28T08:41:08.268+12:00

                                                                      Editor Susan T. Landry Lorine Niedecker was an American poet, an avant-garde poet, a poet of nature, a poet of ordinary life, a poet who lived under the roof of the sky and beside a river. She had what people with limited imagination might call a modest life, and yet wrote imagistic, crystalline poems that convey a rich

susan t. landrynoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-63015156648938476122011-06-21T00:01:00.001+12:002011-06-22T11:35:57.867+12:00

I'd drink all night but stop at one glassof syrah, aromas of pepper, tar,black plum, and on the tongueblueberry, licquorice, darkchocolate, oh it is a dark winefor us to drink before enteringthe night in my cream and silvercar and driving, reeling,not from the wine but fromthe gypsy pirate Mexican musicon the CD (with an after-note, yousuggest, of Ukrainian folk), underyour canopy of silver

Helen Rickerbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10652318704387476082noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-9286307640422014502011-06-13T23:01:00.007+12:002011-06-14T11:45:49.428+12:00

          Earlier in the afternoon we had all admired           the newly constructed axolotl tank, more of           a complex really, with a glass bridge between           chambers, a grand axolotl hotel, five stars with           room service, porters and a parking attendant.           It was still empty, its soon-to-be residents           slumming it in temporary accommodation. like other

Saradha Koiralahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695981321873127632noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-54345768742858020242011-06-07T00:01:00.003+12:002011-06-07T10:31:11.312+12:00

Five verses from a hundred verse sequence, inspired by The Book of Equanimity, a Zen Buddhist collection of one hundred koans. 30. The upper hand lies forgotten in a bottom drawer. The lower hand is lost gathering dust somewhere in a basement. Now that all conflict has ended the roof tiles reflect the moonlight. 31. It's in the space between the pillar and the lattice windows. It's drawn to

Harvey Molloyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13168420609485849643noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-79165854760619673902011-05-31T00:01:00.002+12:002011-05-31T15:59:04.997+12:00

Often I have stood under the falling skydark with its plentitude of starsand listened as my father called them out,Orion and the seven sisters of the Pleiades;Antares, huge and crimson in its dying.The only star I know for surefrom all my father's lessonsis the North Star, cardinal star of every wanderer,and beyond that single blaze it's all a guess.Now he shuffled between his frailties,his

T. Clearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16509409207991963533noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-74218686000031423272011-05-24T00:01:00.001+12:002011-05-24T11:30:56.962+12:00

one husband lost playing a game of tennis serving or returning his heart just quit and in this queue for coffee his wife I can't ignore so order pay hug hold apologise for Christmas being just around the corner but this was not the one I had arranged to meet find a table, wait for another wife, one who wishes her husband dead in as many words one whose husband's heart just quit on her so hug hold

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-35337288875949079872011-05-17T00:01:00.044+12:002011-05-17T07:31:13.394+12:00

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, till on the haunting flares we turned our backs and towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots but limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas!

Ben Hurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08367615722744097913noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-6952918619291341642011-05-10T00:01:00.035+12:002011-05-10T06:51:07.504+12:00

He has found the green door at last, in a faded, jaded street.And, slightly askew, it reflectsthe slant of his memories. Behind it, there might be a childhood,if he could only reach the handle,and against the glass(the sunlit blood of stained glass roses)there is the shadow of his father. And the hallway builds backinto those small rooms.In that one the faces turned like flowers to the sun of her

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-25831772388977148592011-05-03T00:01:00.018+12:002011-05-03T00:01:01.302+12:00

Little Citizen, Little Survivor A brown rat has taken up residence with me. A little brown rat with pinkish ears and lovely almond-shaped eyes. He and his wife live in the woodpile by my back door, and they are so equal I cannot tell which is which when they poke their noses out of the crevices among the sticks of firewood and then venture farther in search of sunflower seeds

Eileen D. Moellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08541192393993137203noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-90484199923938579822011-04-26T00:01:00.001+12:002011-04-26T00:55:36.870+12:00

When the white ermine wings opened at night like a book of frost smoking in the dark, I understood the colours of vowels painted on moth fur – the black, red, saffron signs of a new language. Antennae grew from my forehead, my tongue was restless in its chrysalis. I felt lift-off as if my bones had melted. I stepped out into the snow – not even an exoskeleton to protect me in this strange

Kathleen Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07645566938871914385noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-21762451478661164312011-04-19T00:02:00.001+12:002011-04-19T07:19:42.328+12:00

@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }@font-face { font-family: "Georgia"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } 1.The telephone saysThe body saysThe multinational corporation says           

Tim Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14856414700019368658noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-31733328689227922382011-04-12T12:01:00.024+12:002011-04-13T08:14:02.114+12:00

... all laughed except Tyr: he lost his hand.  The Poetic Edda on the god Tyr hence Tuesday - A 6.3 quake devastated Christchurch NZ  Tuesday, 22 February, 2011   Two planes struck Manhattan New York Tuesday, 11 September, 2001  __________ He puts his hand in the wolf's mouth, the wolfswallows. Let's start with this. A god not gonebut waiting; his sacrifice a gesture of surrenderand

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-29637748360590385352011-04-05T00:01:00.003+12:002011-04-12T11:09:50.089+12:00

... all laughed except Tyr: he lost his hand.  The Poetic Edda on the god Tyr hence Tuesday. He puts his hand in the wolf's mouth, the wolf swallows. Let's start with this. A god not gone but waiting; his sacrifice a gesture of surrender and determination. And what of the tricked wolf? A god's fingers stuck in his narrow throat – no chance to spit out. It happens as it must. A handy guarantee.

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-8396070225705519972011-03-29T00:01:00.007+13:002011-03-29T00:37:58.424+13:00

You point out places & it's like doors opening Hallways filled w/ sudden light So caught in the frame Dead ends dark glass frayed wire You are so open to me, place a finger new spaces unfold a map of my need Editor: Orchid Tierney Stephen Bett's works are characteristically sharp and superficially simple. Yet they mask a sincere

Orchidhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13524936404237018653noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-4723746766658130732011-03-22T00:01:00.005+13:002011-03-22T00:04:37.343+13:00

You are confronted with yourself. Each year
The pouches fill, the skin is uglier.
You give it all unflinchingly. You stare
Into yourself, beyond. Your brush’s care
Runs with self-knowledge. Here Is a humility at one with craft.
There is no arrogance. Pride is apart
From this self-scrutiny. You make light drift
The way you want. Your face is bruised and hurt
But there is still love left. Love

lillyannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12752638206153634574noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-21124565727427169502011-03-15T00:01:00.002+13:002011-04-11T10:25:55.446+12:00

It is dark.Lightand dark again.It is so.It is something.It is really something.Small, beyond, becalmedso be-all and end-all.It is fine.It is all that blue can be.So be it.It is too good to be true.Are the odds against it?If only it had another namelike so.It’s alright. It comes alongin its own time, in the be-all without the end-all.When it’s miserableI fancy the oin so.So. It is this.This is it.

Helen Heathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08844370992595871236noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-1480803805035141672011-03-08T00:01:00.003+13:002011-03-08T11:58:23.884+13:00

For Rose's baby Body as Road Map Body sees the 'you are here' sign, then finds alleyways and highways, which connect the limbs and torso. An inner guide helps body explore, create meaning, detour round slips. Along these routes, body seeks a dwelling and to be nourished. Body as Telephone Body answers a ringing from the pelvis. It wants to spend all day, wires connected with other phones.

Janisnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-36993135915630094962011-03-01T00:12:00.010+13:002011-03-01T09:40:05.722+13:00

flower         with the body of a fawn                   under a cholla flowerstanding there         to rub your antlers                   bendingturning where you stand to rub         your antler                  in the flower worldthe dawn         there in its light                  under a cholla flowerstanding there         to rub your antlers                  bending turning where

Bernadettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16283715675254182896noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-35540882501589568362011-02-22T00:01:00.015+13:002011-10-31T22:30:14.828+13:00

He kept dreaming of a tree, dreaming of a tree, dreaming of a treeand its sound like a hush,and it seemed he could openhis mouth when he woke and make the othersknow something they didn’t already know, his tree. But he woke and he couldn’t.He kept thinking of a tree. He made a treeof his arms and called to the others,but all he could say, all they could say,was tree, not that one, no, not here,

Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08236329216260906624noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-31413758023635253022011-02-15T00:10:00.000+13:002011-02-15T00:10:23.103+13:00

Chickens in a shed with screens to let in air, a small door for them to step in and out, not an inch to spare. All things in their place, particular, the proper attention paid so that around them there seems a kinder light. And then the eggs to gather, one by one, warm in your palm. Each tiny sun contained, unbroken, no need for it to rise or fall, no need for anything to harm  you. Lorna

Cattyroxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05535303064712958520noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-32004357702468614052011-02-08T00:01:00.017+13:002011-02-08T12:43:10.869+13:00

If poets die young they bequeath two thirds of their life to the critics to graze and grow fat in visionary grass. If poets die in old age they live their own lives they write their own poems they are their own might-have-been. Young dead poets are prized comets. The critics queue with their empty wagons ready for hitching. Old living poets stay faithfully camouflaged in their own sky. It may

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-28643132777389625032011-02-01T00:27:00.008+13:002011-02-08T00:11:12.059+13:00

I shall come back Very quietly, very softly,A little brown shadow. I shall not comeWhen the moon is white like a bone,And the house-dogs howl.Not on a dark nightWith uneasy winds,When the ivy scratches the window,And the paper stirs on the wall. I shall come backIn the Autumn,In the early twilight.I shall wear a russet cloakAnd have a basket on my armWith red apples and brown nuts in it,And

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-6234866277373758102011-01-25T00:01:00.045+13:002011-01-25T00:01:00.745+13:00

The bones of his piano have fallen out of a tune,their shape stacked in loosearrangements of body parts. He has spaced the ivory keysacross the floor with spinalprecision as if each gap waslinked by the nerve of a note. Felt hammers lean in towers of hollow bones, air slipping through every crevice, the air breathing a scale of ascent. The physiotherapist humswith his hands, coaxes the

Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-90527386958593815582011-01-18T00:01:00.027+13:002011-01-18T10:29:21.354+13:00

Enough. Take your feathers dead or alive and flutter into oblivion. I'm done with the fractured wing, the punctured lung, severed spine. I will not weigh your soul and account for all its cherished works. Though your nest lies ruptured, and broken at my feet, all my remedies are used up, finished, expired. Mud no more, dear downy love. Burn the twigs, the riff-raff rags. Let the cats loose. Fetch

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-26733453573630230952011-01-11T00:01:00.067+13:002011-02-07T23:45:34.740+13:00

Where the first pear slug hasn’t won, the first frost has. Gaunt the hawthorn’s lichened boughs rise to cloudless skies and for once no mower clamours loud. Day? It’s a cracker. Just right for worship, celebration, carousel and the planting of jonquils. Reading Janet’s poems… the pocket mirror shows jaw and bone under a Sunday stubble. Next spring the bare hedge will bloom again; but

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-18149798628244751162011-01-04T11:49:00.004+13:002011-01-07T14:37:40.860+13:00

Te hinganga o te Totara haemata o te waotapunui a Tane — a mighty tree has fallen in the forest of Tane. One of our Tuesday Poets, Harvey McQueen, died early on Christmas Day and will be greatly missed by us all. To read 'The Last Post' by Harvey's wife, Anne, please click here. You will also see commemorative posts by Tuesday Poets on the blogs listed in the side bar (or use our search tool in

Helen Lowenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-83393775999954008812010-12-28T08:58:00.002+13:002010-12-28T09:05:08.713+13:00

Greetings TP readers.  Consider today's invitation to enter the Caselberg Trust's inaugural competition a comma in Tuesday Poem's usual weekly rhythm. . . and a challenge to submit one of your poems to this exciting new comp. TP contributors will be back in the New Year with curator Mary McCallum hosting the year's first posting on Tuesday 18 January.  Meantime, we wish you all the very best

Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-39722887533062471232010-12-21T00:01:00.111+13:002010-12-21T08:24:53.803+13:00

James Brown is great live. He has had a lot of success, having published several collections of his funny, satirical and clever poetry with VUP. He has also won an armload of awards and residencies during his time. But it's when I see him read to an audience that he seems in his element.Afterward, the crowd drifts away energised and uplifted. This may be because Brown's readings are self

Sarah Jane Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16961615687658566366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-59490783594925081382010-12-14T00:01:00.038+13:002010-12-14T15:28:15.120+13:00

Early spring, and a cold wet morning.      The wind mooches about outside,           planning a home invasion. It’s Mary’s birthday, our Mary whom      you’d have loved had the Fates           spared you. I take you back five years before you joined      the Maori Battalion, and six before you           died. I have many questions to put to you, many that may not even have      an answer. Why

Robert Sullivanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06161792516642177307noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-77223687428135674912010-12-07T00:01:00.005+13:002010-12-07T10:19:13.616+13:00

‘Taglioni’s lilies,’ he sayshanding her a long-stemmedbouquet in the bar near his chambers.He’s going through his repertoire –eyes locked over Brut Cuvée,fingers brushing hers as they reachfor antipasto. He imagines herconferring limbs. (After the tangledsheets. After the moonlight).It seems like the right time to move.But she’s miles away, out on theRussian steppes, not with himnot with anyone

Helen Rickerbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10652318704387476082noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-31342889493970758592010-11-30T00:01:00.009+13:002010-11-30T00:14:50.618+13:00

When the fisherman found he could no longer row his dinghy the tide went out with his heart, and when I asked him what he felt about that, he said he didn’t know where to start. You’ll have to… he said, but didn’t complete the sentence about a sentence because he’d already said it all. By Brian Turner from Just This (page 40) Winner of the 2010 New Zealand Post Book Award for Poetry Used with

Blah blahnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-20126258159443734312010-11-23T00:11:00.006+13:002010-11-23T00:23:22.499+13:00

As the cod that's cooked in a mountain of salt comes out delicate as butter, a fur of disappearances, unrecognisable, so have I buried the book of our lives in the salt mines of Cheshire, twenty miles of white tunnels, two hundred feet deep. I have taken a knife and carved out a shelf and placed there the first time we met, the bar where I read you my poems, the movies we watched, the first piece

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-89800451281041360252010-11-16T00:01:00.002+13:002010-11-16T00:39:25.019+13:00

it is a day for poetry   that is to sayone like any other   full of sunshine   paddocksand cold at heart all day I speak to screen poetsthe artless machine gives me breathand words             and I am sitting ina paddock far away    a cow roars out even I can tell distress from lovein cowsin others it’s not so easy blue seeps in at the curtainsof my cow-isolated studyI warn it off with words

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-21663876596433655962010-11-09T00:01:00.025+13:002010-11-10T11:36:53.722+13:00

The hand that signed the paper felled a city;Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath,Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country;These five kings did a king to death. The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder,The finger joints are cramped with chalk;A goose's quill has put an end to murderThat put an end to talk. For the full text of this poem, readers can go to the link below:

Ben Hurhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08367615722744097913noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-12998549918816275022010-11-02T00:45:00.002+13:002010-11-02T00:47:49.504+13:00

Let’s not talk about the whole truth. Better to let small parts speak for the whole – a look, a hand in the small of my back. Better to find that the truth lies in the smallest things we do. I chose this poem by Helen Heath because it is the first poem posted by a Tuesday Poet  that grabbed me - with its simple elegance. On the surface it is straighforward, but underneath it has

AJ Ponderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15625252892255925438noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-31434876460699879532010-10-26T00:04:00.005+13:002012-01-02T14:10:39.703+13:00

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds of cream diluting the dark night sky, don't want pralines or raisins, rubble in this smooth plateau. I like my coffee black, my beer from Germany, wine from Burgundy, the darker, the better. I like my heroes complicated and brooding, James Dean in oiled leather, leaning on a motorcycle. You know the color. Oh, chocolate! From the spice bazaars of Africa,

Kathleen Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07645566938871914385noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-76617889672329499872010-10-19T00:00:00.003+13:002010-10-19T00:00:05.960+13:00

3. Moss picked her wayover the mosaic of strange things away from his bed andbuttoned herself out the doorwhile he was in the bathroom without saying goodbye.Why? Becausegoodbye seemed like an apple i.e. needing a lot ofexplaining.She walked along the street feeling new-born, stretchedto let in light.The bark on the trees was rougher in the palms of her hands.She carriedhis weight in her backpack

Sarah Jane Barnetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16961615687658566366noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-14636074736367275892010-10-12T00:39:00.001+13:002011-03-14T23:55:54.893+13:00

1. Blake drew Newton naked, every muscle tense, seated on a rock, hunched over the paper world unscrolling at his feet, inscribing limits with his compasses like God in Milton’s paradise. 2. Rodchenko photographs his wife, Stepanova, working at her table, a pair of compasses in one hand, thumb and forefinger twirling the pivot, eyes intent on the interlocking spheres of her textile design. The

Helen Lowenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-47392585893606561272010-10-05T00:01:00.039+13:002010-10-05T00:11:47.239+13:00

TWO PHOTOGRAPHS (1970s)by Geoffrey Lehmann My sister took two photographs I love, Both indoor colour shots with yellow filter, Of father tinkering with a radio Glittering with tiny lights upon a table. Wrapped in a hairy old brown dressing-gown In heavy yellow light he sits and listens To ancient earphones plugged into the set, And in the next he has the earphones off, And

lillyannehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12752638206153634574noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-62967895903892985612010-09-28T00:01:00.012+13:002010-09-28T00:56:27.958+13:00

In fourth gradeI picked tomatoesto make money.The night before, we packedour lunches with anticipationand American cheese sandwiches.We left at dawn with the sunslithering across the desert,twisting the horizon into slivers of gold.The drive out to the farmlandwas filled with yawns and coffee.I leaned against my brother and dozed.On our way we passed farm workers,their painted signs blurring by.I

Elizabeth Welshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15420253723750754324noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-76570874543164512232010-09-21T00:19:00.008+12:002010-09-21T07:25:23.614+12:00

(painting by Penny Howard) I Entering the estuary Oyster Catchers & Red-billed Gulls swirl overhead then reel away. Estuaries expansive shadows green- ochre saltwater dappled with sunlight reflects the mangrove arbor. Miromiro dart unseen into the mangroves. Piwakawaka song; a sense of being observed. Creek bed swells then grimaces with the tide. Land crabs scuttle for shelter as the flat

Piokiwihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06093612075587719561noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-18994196981710963202010-09-14T00:01:00.036+12:002010-09-14T11:07:06.366+12:00

did you feel that    she puts his handon her belly    the baby has woken herwith its kicking and when she comes backto bed the feet pound up and downmaking bumps in the tight drumskin    they laughnot long now    if they have the dates rightWilliam for a boy    Isabella for a girl d i d  y o u  f  e e l  t h a t    the telegraphistin Wellington taps out the words mid-messagein eight seconds

Paparoanoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-76401680955930633572010-09-07T00:01:00.037+12:002010-09-07T00:11:28.362+12:00

Our thoughts go out to the people of Canterbury in the aftermath of Saturday's 7.1 earthquake - especially to our friends and family and fellow Tuesday Poets. With the knowledge that you're all safe, may the spirits of poetry fly to your comfort and carry your minds away from any troubles you face. Lines from Philip Larkin's "The Whitsun Weddings" and Vladimir Nabokov's "Pale Fire"Here's Larkin's

Zireauxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17066215518736407170noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-12880282295198936802010-08-31T00:01:00.003+12:002010-08-31T11:55:41.790+12:00

On the last night the moonmen came. We woke at an unaccustomed time and knelt by the window. The moonmen pushed lines out in front of them, they marked off their territories with orange markers. The moonmen made a regular thud thud like a generator. They walked in spaces we were used to seeing cordoned off. It was a strange light the moonmen moved in - a greeny glow they brought themselves, a

Saradha Koiralahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695981321873127632noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-16790170908164895012010-08-24T00:01:00.007+12:002010-08-24T01:03:41.930+12:00

‘Established’ is a good word, much used in garden books,‘The plant, when established’ . . . Oh, become established quickly, quickly, garden For I am fugitive, I am very fugitive – – – Those that come after me will gather these roses, And watch, as I do now, the white wistaria Burst, in the sunshine, from its pale green sheath. Planned. Planted. Established. Then neglected, Till at last the

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-67112145105389370732010-08-17T00:47:00.000+12:002010-08-17T00:47:53.397+12:00

The urge to tic—they say it’s like an itch. I try to imagine this, to be you for one involuntary moment, forever suppressing, tamping down, betrayed by neural pathways. It’s always eye blink, hand twitch, ghostly falsetto in the throat, that random soundtrack. I see how it becomes a circus in here but you can’t charge admission to the strangers who stare, the bosses who wonder, the mothers as

Eileen D. Moellerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08541192393993137203noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-60680149383145119482010-08-10T02:32:00.005+12:002010-08-10T08:11:12.837+12:00

"Driving Home from Elizabethtown"  At the top of Spruce Hill,just before the highwayplunges into the valley,the wide sweep of mountainsgathers me in to its shadowand silence,  holds me,until I am ready to fallwith the turnings of poplarand oak. Through the windshield,even the thin rain that takes ongold light from the sun in its fallingis fuel for the burning. by Bert Stern, from

melissashooknoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-6256686743162753862010-08-03T00:01:00.003+12:002010-08-03T00:01:00.368+12:00

for lmtiaz and Simon That time she stepped out of the rain into the restaurant, and suddenly I knew. Beautiful in her black coat, her scarf that shocking pink of fuchsia, geranium, wild campion, and he at the table, his eyes her mirror. She said she didn't know then – but the light in her knew, and the diners, the cutlery, the city, the waiter filling our glasses with a soft lloc-lloc and an

Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12993122885340788861noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-41306226050663627352010-07-30T01:00:00.020+12:002010-07-30T09:54:15.550+12:00

Friday 30 July is New Zealand's National Poetry Day and to celebrate both the day, New Zealanders writing poetry, and poetry in New Zealand, the Tuesday Poem blog is featuring a poem by each of the 3 finalists in the Poetry Category of the NZ Post Book Awards. A brief bio of each of the three poets is presented below their featured poem. (Please note: the 3 finalists are listed in alphabetical

Helen Lowenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-88296211321593562512010-07-27T00:19:00.000+12:002010-07-27T00:19:22.941+12:00

The last run Up the hill behind our house. He’d hardly been talking, too polite and quiet, like he had to conserve energy, take short shallow breaths – like he was old. Then he woke me one morning threw my running shoes on to the bed, stood shining in the doorway, dressed already brother again. He was faster. In the wind ahead of me his white t-shirt billowed round like a lantern. The street

Helen Lehndorfnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-6211113632983824402010-07-20T00:30:00.001+12:002010-07-21T02:12:17.887+12:00

I found youfolded in the armpit of a megaduneyou were cryingand the winds of the Taklamakan Desertwhipped up sand -it clung to your face.I had been stepping through sandon all foursin search of a lake.After two days,I was trying not to believeit to be fabled.I had been left by my Bactrian mate,not long ago,for a Uighur man with dusty black hairand green eyes of jade.To bide time,I had been

T. Clearhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16509409207991963533noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-23067300265799443372010-07-13T06:19:00.010+12:002010-07-13T11:53:42.187+12:00

When I was young, I used to steal through the suburbs in the middle of the night where we lived, and smash the light bulbs and garden gnomes from people’s front porches. I thought the people had foolish decorations in places where they never looked. I don’t feel like that anymore. Let’s put zinnias in the places where the people don’t look. Something pretty and specific, something that will only

Mariananoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-86660522839368214862010-07-06T00:01:00.008+12:002010-07-06T00:01:00.427+12:00

In the desertI saw a creature, naked, bestial,Who, squatting upon the ground,Held his heart in his hands,And ate of it.I said, "Is it good, friend?""It is bitter – bitter", he answered,"But I like itBecause it is bitter,And because it is my heart."Stephen Crane (1871-1900) was an American poet, novelist, short story writer and journalist. His life was short, but eventful, and his output prolific.

Janisnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-68207987397480508862010-06-29T00:01:00.000+12:002011-03-20T21:49:23.444+13:00

Dark falls on this mid-western town where we once lived when myths collided. Dusk has hidden the bridge in the river which slides and deepens to become the water the hero crossed on his way to hell. Not far from here is our old apartment. We had a kitchen and an Amish table. We had a view. And we discovered there love had the feather and muscle of wings and had come to live with us, a brother of

LentenStuffenoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-763130714778753212010-06-22T00:01:00.008+12:002010-06-22T00:01:00.862+12:00

Worry, a kind of aubadewhere the lover, mornings,doesn’t leave, she’s dressed,her shoes are tied but. I stretch my face Dad-like, Dad’s in my huffand sit-up puff. Whyworry? He’s only dizzy. I shower it off. All nightI’ve hammered doors shutwith my heel—I’m goingto do better tight-chested? I telephone him and loveis what I tell him, and helaughs like it’s a lie and saysIt’s too early to call. It

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-76554028737252876352010-06-15T06:00:00.003+12:002010-06-16T10:44:27.827+12:00

Take back your heart,that tattooed star. Take backtake back: your this and that, your pale guitar.                                  Only my harmonica                                 knows who you are. Take back the light on the water;also the body, scar after scar. There is a list of things -- the wordsyou might have said, etcetera -- long bridge and sky,the single car, each syllable and step,

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-64528161733492012622010-06-08T00:01:00.042+12:002010-06-14T20:27:26.417+12:00

Should we throw it away? Your fingers rub at a stain by your plate. Not a stain. It's a hole, and I could mend it, but won't. When the light shines through it, you notice the thinness, and soon, here and here, more holes. And see how the blue lines are worn by the pull of connection from my side of the table to yours, by paths of conversation, of passing gravy, salt. How many years have we

Kay McKenzie Cookenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-68010587860334345732010-06-01T00:01:00.005+12:002010-06-14T00:22:17.762+12:00

Con Brio Inert, the shadows fall, almost loud enough to break the pale silence of the street. Rustling, light drips between clumps of leaves, a sluggish beam skirts lazily that dark cliff between road and pavement before clipping in jaunty moonbeam style back to the blank black-rimmed hole of light at the top of the lollypop lamp-pole Adagio Know the bogey-men hiding With the growl of

Bernadettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16283715675254182896noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-15020922326022377072010-05-25T00:01:00.001+12:002010-05-25T00:01:00.776+12:00

Leaving, I stop to look where once the long hut lay under an outcrop on a sloping shelf; then, try to reconstruct from memory’s ragtag store its silhouette, woodshed and rusting roof. Almost, I smell wet smoke but no one stops now, soaked, to dry their clothes before a sputtering fire. Glistening, the land’s pelt shifts. Clouds break. Chill sunlight lifts low haze from bush around the

Tim Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14856414700019368658noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-51434711573498077812010-05-17T20:59:00.004+12:002010-05-17T21:03:56.912+12:00

<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:PMingLiU; panose-1:2 2 5 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:新細明體; mso-font-charset:136; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611969 684719354 22 0 1048577 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:1; mso-generic-font-family:roman;

Fifi Colstonnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-13391576716384251252010-05-10T18:39:00.010+12:002010-05-10T21:48:18.827+12:00

Tomorrow’s EveSince our gods and our aspirations are no longer anything butscientific, why shouldn’t our loves be so too? In place of that Eve ofthe forgotten legend despised and discredited by Science,I offer you a scientific Eve…— L’Eve Future, Villiers de L’Isle-AdamHadaly(1886)Let us obtain from sciencean equation for love. Give hersilver skin, impregnablearmour. Let Hadaly’s lungsbe golden

Helen Heathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08844370992595871236noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-60092387502527998212010-05-03T21:08:00.003+12:002010-05-10T17:58:13.003+12:00

This is what you said about my bodybang bang bang, three words all inone row. Out of your mouth. I drovepast a greenhouse filled with lights.I drove past a hill covered in tiny, tinylight bulbs. At the end of the nightI felt my hips in disgust, my headtipped back to catch words in mythroat. This is it all over. I am, I am,I am, I am, I am, I am, I am everything.The winter is coming and I can feel

Helen Rickerbyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10652318704387476082noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-50138083111694597312010-04-26T17:45:00.007+12:002010-05-10T13:17:21.034+12:00

He went south with the housing market to a cottage facing the sea, spent his last pay cheque on Swannis and draught excluders. Coverage was minimal. He called his children from the top of a nearby hill, struggling through gorse, matagouri — the visible teeth of the wind. He got through at last and begged until she put them on. Given the chance, the kids talked and talked: sports,

Harvey Molloyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13168420609485849643noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-26250613360802004432010-04-20T11:29:00.017+12:002010-05-10T13:15:52.316+12:00

Museum of Modern Art, New York She leans several angles at once, is all planes of Picasso,tilting. How will she stand, her six-sided shins, her five-walled thighs? How will she talk, one lip a cylinderand one a box? Her tongue is a skewed guitar; her three unblinking eyes dropped bombs, falling. He is a handsome proportion of blue, was mixed on a Matisse paletteand is gaze upon gaze from his

Claire Beynonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00005365677016923903noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-60110676011279824042010-04-13T00:33:00.004+12:002010-04-15T10:39:33.771+12:00

A tuba and a man stroll through the grass, a pretzel of flesh and brass you could say, I guess, except it's only a man wearing a tuba beneath late autumn reds as blackbirds flock overhead. The tuba is cold metal fact, and this fellow bears the weight on his back less like a broken-hearted lament than a bulky instrument. This sight, it's true, might remind someone less sensible than you of a 

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-46346786743487846002010-04-12T09:55:00.002+12:002010-05-27T10:44:05.211+12:00

Tuesday Poem kicks off tomorrow. This week's editor is Mary McCallum of O Audacious Book where the Tuesday Poem started four weeks ago.  Once you've read this Tuesday's Poem, try the Tuesday Poets on our blog list. There are 16 of them at present, and every Tuesday they will try to post a Tuesday Poem (one by them or someone else) and link it back to the Tuesday Poem hub.  We think of it as

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298334170177578638.post-52293435549469837742010-04-07T00:20:00.000+12:002010-04-09T08:24:14.397+12:00

We're just beginning. Our first Tuesday Poem will be launched here on Tuesday April 13, 2010. Please go to O Audacious Book for the past Tuesday Poems.

Mary McCallumnoreply@blogger.com0