Sunday, November 6, 2011

Colonialism gives way to Post Colonialism


Oamaru, rail-head  and port
is not really for the jolly.
One could though
catch a glimpse of the Frame girls
gazing into a shop.

Over the streets, the cobble-stones
the post-colonial flows onto
the colonial:
the tragedy
of Janet Frame.

INTERNATIONAL INTERIOR - My yellow English Coffee Pot

I espresso the coffee
and pour it into
my heated coffee pot
then I pour the coffee in its thick flow
into my Japanese copy
Viennese demi-tasses;
they almost tremble on their tiny saucers.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011


Middle Harbour: Humid Day

Settled under a yellow-grey film
the headlands wilt towards
their bays,
water as reflective as lead;
something will stir
in the canopy.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Interior: North Shore, the Twenties

Aquamarined fireplace,
catching up indigo cushions
on white upholstery,
 a small landscape, plainly framed
on the wall,
a whatnot table bearing a terra cotta pot
flourishing a fern.

Sunday, October 9, 2011


Dutch Kitchen

The sun falls in
warm with tea
and these biscuits,
even the slate flags are warm
under the hooked rag rugs
replicating maps of the old Empire.

The light catches on
the Delft jugs,
radiates the blues and the white
of vases and cannisters,
jugs and saucers.

Warmthe flows
some Dutch kitchens.

Monday, October 3, 2011

contemporary miracle

The miracle of taps

which turn on the soul,

let flow inspiration

in gushes and streams,

maybe rusty at first

but always

running clear.

Monday, September 19, 2011

For those who doubt they are poets

Star Struck

Fixed for your moment in the sky’s turbulence,

its rose gold steadfastness

amongst the violet, mauve clouds, its highlights

lost and skipping battering –

our star,

the writers’ star – ‘Evening,’ to Coleridge,

apostrophes to Keats –

certain you could set your course

but for the wheeling of the Heavens,

the dealing of the winds,

the fickleness of clouds,

the waxing and the waning,

the thinning and plumping

of the lemon wedge moon,

the strawberry moon,

the bitter cold sliver of moon

ready for a teacup,

a g & t,

to decorate a fillet of fish

but for the wavering.

Take note of its presence,

fear not its failure,

trust to its shine

even up against the silvered brilliance

of the full moon,

the blue moon, 

the headless moon.

Trust to its rising,

its course,

its setting,

trust to its hovering,

its hiding,

its always taking its place

in the zodiac,

in the galaxies,

the constellations

there in universal space.

Do not ever be deluded

into thinking

things mean less,

that the penumbra

is an after effect

of the source.