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The archaeology of wind
The archaeology of wind
Is a moment in the shape of a cloud
A style of humidity
An inflexion of temperature
The invisible colour of blue
And vectors that flower from crystals
Troupes of wings
Tissues on fine ribs
Algebras of curves
The geometries of curvature
Vibrations of laminar flows
Kicking it
The fields wind themselves
The fields walk into the moon
Get with what you’ve got
What you’ve got
The maps trickle mica plates
We fall into the trapezoidal air
The bright is darker
We’re all just doing what we can eh
We’re all just doing what we can eh
Walking back down to the base of the ladder
Kicking it
Kicking it
Vaughan Gunson’s new poetry collection
To purchase Vaughan Gunson’s poetry collection this hill, all it’s about is lifting it to a higher level (2012) go to the website of the publisher Steele Roberts. Or send a cheque for $20 (includes postage) to Vaughan Gunson, 71A George Street, Hikurangi, Whangarei (with return address).
To listen to the Arts on Sunday (9 Dec 2012) Radio NZ interview with Vaughan Gunson click here.
Blinded in the jungle
I am blinded in the jungle
Walking upon the photosynthetic
Dodging the ferns and low hanging branches
Hopping skip
Doing the bend down
Touch the wet soaking
Terpenes in lignin and cellulose
A braun blanquet on dipterocarps
A chi square measure of association
Phrenology of Food
After the flood
A treasure trove had collected.
Shiny
In the chaos
Each casket
Baptized by ocean
Not yet tainted
Or corroded.
It was believed
That by passing sensitive fingers
Over each crease
In the skin,
Or over the slight swelling
Where the container
Was about to blow,
The contents
In some predictable way
Might be identified.
So tuna and rice pudding
Became anonymous,
Cling peach halves (in syrup)
Were transformed
By the alchemy of madness
From shiny aluminium,
Corned beef
Became edible.
Now
Mystics and mesmerism
Has been replaced by the glint
Of the knife and the opener
And magic
By the turn of the key
Nga Parua 16
trembling archipelagos of birds
gusts and eddies of tribal gull calls
the sky populated
by a deluge of caressses
between black sheets
on fields of extinct lava
the silence of shadows
and the girl of honey who swims there
living in that tree
a glow of lunar light
she spreads out
under her skirt of tui
the fristion of lips
sleeping slips of minute lace dancing
in the marsh of night
perpetual triangles entangled
Prelude
by Aaron Robertson
I
The koru unfurls,
loosening a careful hold
and the sequence starts anew:
bumblebees clamber on stamen,
pistil; branch split by shoot
as red leaf breaks from
green, unconscious of days
fog-filled at noon.
II
Out past the pillars,
we must name the waves
and patterns that bind them;
helmsman to surf is
gannet-led, longship
by light when maps cannot doubt
a knowing ear to wind,
prow pulled to sun.