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.
Take Flight 4 out now
Click on image to download PDF of Take Flight 4 featuring poems by Michelle Elvy, Piet Nieuwland, Aaron Robertson, Arthur Fairley, Jac Jenkins, Martin Porter and Vaughan Gunson.
a pub in Kaitaia on Anzac Day
by Vaughan Gunson
a space with more room
than what’s needed
pushes back
the hazy night crowd, watching
the play
at the pool table.
the young sailors
showing-off,
wearing ridiculously white
square collar shirts, low-cut
revealing tufts of hair
on their backs.
they look
like guys I went to school with,
not men
standing on a ship
in the Dardanelles.
then there’s the boys
in Wu-Tang jackets
wondering what the fuck
I’m doing here.
the woman in the yellow jersey
with the fluffy neck
sinks the black
in a corner pocket,
there’s few claps of applause.
her opponent,
a grey bearded gentleman in shorts
goes over to her, they embrace
& kiss each other
on the cheek.
everyone who’s been watching
turns to talk
to someone else.
I raise my glass
to the Wu-Tang boys
who smile back.
I saw rhombuses that looked like diamonds
by Vaughan Gunson
I saw a lady with a blue rinse
the same as her car
I saw a dead moth floating
on a pyre of plastic
I saw weary flowers
wrapped in paper packets
I saw sunlight hitting
like a shower of ice
I saw a thin man dancing
on stage
above a metal furnace
I saw the breeze
brush the blossoms
of cherry trees
I saw soft leaves of grass
to step on
I saw rhombuses
that looked like diamonds
& I know
that no matter how hard you throw a marshmallow
it’s never going to hurt.
why do it?
by Vaughan Gunson
I guess it’s because
if you don’t write it down
tell it to your neighbour
plant it in the ground
it all just slips away
which is where
it’s going anyway
but we want, at least
to feel some friction.
Language and Place on the Edge: Six Poems
Aaron Robertson
Vers au Vert
From centre to circumference
we drift, crossing this great expanse
to speak in tongues considered pure
by uninitiated ears.
Old words, once tentatively used
then fashioned thin as life imposed,
become an enigmatic code
charged with the trace of others’ deeds.
Deprived by empire of a waiting
embrace, language devolves, begetting
forms like those strange conventions now
spoken in parliaments of two.
Vaughan Gunson
Big Love Song #17
the golden night has locked down
the unreal day gone, thank you, for now.
the persistent thud of a million feet
stamping the ancient cobblestones.
I laughed, the outrageous image of you
seated next to a fat satyr from Hellene,
your thigh raised to the sky
tapering to a desirable end.
the threatening cataclysm
is more than a grim tattoo.
the responsible hordes hold in their hands,
for the first time, the battering-ram.
Martin Porter
The Tree at the Edge of the World
Clawing onto the cliff
Face into a salty purge
Tenacious
Stunted
It has given up flowering
Starved
On exhausted soil
Rooted in the underworld
Grasping at the air
Where the dead
Leave the living.
This is the tree
That clings to the edge
Of the Earth.
Piet Nieuwland
the altar of wind
my country is an idea born on the altar of wind
earths deep blues carried on galloping horses
lizards names etched into knotted stone archways
we drink cups of obsidian Columbian coffee laughing
in blood drenched gardens candles melt tanekaha perfumes
nikau palms dance cities of moonlight frenzies
WairoaRiverveins nourished by children throwing petals
a thousand tui chant dawn prayers
from puriri groves kneeling on aging hills
the skies cloud mask pours nipples of rain
voices of birds name the deserts language of maps
flocks of black coated women expand covering all distances
matuku moana call from blue fired clay minarets
on your breasts whole kukupa sheens breathe in
what you breathe out
you are venus bathing like an orchid
in loves memory of the moment
kahawai inhabiting a river mouth
hear pebbles hiss in your depths
your hands move in cascades of feathered leaves
mottled oyster skin a pale silk of ice trembling
your name is a gift of lavender in luxuries of passion
my heart a burial ground in the mutilated colour of dunes
as drops in the tide we evaporate into manuka fires
flying on humid rituals under tents of mirrors
Michelle Elvy
The Other Side of Better
Running up a hill
tripping upwards
falling downwards
making deals with the devil
or God — whichever works better
Radio’s on
Bush is burning
I turn it up and feel me yearning
for your devil grin and thunder heart
or God — whichever is better
As I listen and wait
I soon find myself
in a song
it’s you and me…
in tune
It’s you and me who won’t be unhappy…
in love and singing
– this is better
Bernard Heise
Cause–Effect–Cause
Sleep. I can’t.
Why?
Alcohol – much too much.
Drinking began yesterday.
Crashed car and burned house.
You left.
I destroyed
everything. Everything
destroyed. I
left you.
House burned and car crashed
yesterday. Began drinking
much too much alcohol.
Why
can’t I sleep?
NOTE: The Other Side of Better by Michelle Elvy and Cause–Effect–Cause by Bernard Heise were originally written for 52|250: A Year of Flash.
big love song #21
by Vaughan Gunson
after the Futurists
we sing a curious love, conceal our fear
between dull habit & fitful energy.
but courage, yes, & some audacity
is the essential element of our poetry.
’til now we’ve exalted a pensive dance,
ecstatic seconds, the gnawing sleep.
no violent action, or feverish reprise
breaks our stride; no irresponsible leap.
our world’s found a new beauty: a distance near,
a lasting hold, truer than Madonna’s smile.
we can hymn the circling seasons, run
the orbit of the Earth, & maintain our guile.
before the music starts
by Vaughan Gunson
I’ve had a shower,
got changed
into a nice shirt,
put on mauve coloured
square-toed shoes.
placed upon my head
a baggy cap.
poured a whiskey,
taken a sip.
pushed the button
on my laptop, waited.
looked at the face
of Garcia Lorca
on the spine
of his collected works.
thick dark eyebrows,
hair combed back,
he’s waiting, too.
the computer
has finished starting up.
four minutes past nine.
I take another sip
of my drink.
it tastes good,
as does everything
so far.
a short sharp skid
of noise,
the record’s ended.
I get up & turn it over.
place the needle, hear
so clear
the first scratches
before
the music starts.
I go back to my desk,
sit down.
a car pulls up outside,
two friends.
they knock on the door.
I let them in.
inside the museum
by Vaughan Gunson
at one of end of the room a grinning idiot,
at the other a dying man, trying to hold
himself to the wall, his struggle alone.
a slave brings in a bowl of red wine
which she pours into each of our cups.
on the ceiling an aristocratic dandy
lifts an arm towards God, the angels recoil
& the artist says how much he knows.
the revolution of reason is talked about,
Socrates says it comes, reaching for his cup.
someone has spilt yellow paint on the floor;
outside, people cross a bridge in the rain.
a woman in agony holds her dead child,
a picture of terror that won’t go away.
not even when you see the joker, standing
with his legs apart in multicolored tights.
in walks the leader, smoking a pipe
& wearing a full length silk gown.
he takes a look at the poster on the wall
& says he doesn’t understand why
some armies must be defeated, wars won.
he doesn’t notice the bags of coal above his head,
or the black dust on his shoulders & in his hair.
he ambles over to the pious monks
sitting in deckchairs, contemplating their own.
they don’t hear the noise of soup cans
being stacked up high on the shelves, or
the tower being built, only to fall down
on its shadow—or the bulldozers being used
to make something that will last.
beside the spilt paint a sign has finally
been placed which says “WET PAINT”
& through a window in the prison wall
children fly their kites up into the sky.
to American poets of the 1940s & their parties
by Vaughan Gunson
tired birds tweet, up the back
of a gorse covered hill,
not from a window ledge, London.
everything here tied up
in the air of all the familiar chaos
that ends the day.
I’m listening to Maria Callas,
reading a story of poets
when they were young, dangerous
with a glass of Laphroaig,
a smoky peatiness on the tongue
for boasting, for entertaining guests
who know how to talk
about Auden, Elliot & Proust,
Yeats, Thomas & MacLeish
who won’t mention the war
at 3am, but into another round
of Shakespeare, then Donne.
all our directions home
the taonga are placed on the sand.
taiaha stand quivering in the wind
speaking to the rōpū of sand-diggers
fire-lighters, early morning risers.
the people of this place mix easily
with us manuhiri, come to watch.
the greenstone mere from long ago
today, smashes the seashell in half:
a clean break between where we’ve
come from & where we are now.
we talk on the wind—impatience,
the ragged wave, sinks into the sand.
we listen to a story of sea birds—
how in the evening, their bellies full
they’ll spiral upwards on the wind.
when high enough, the leading birds
will cry out & begin to fly straight
in the direction of their island home.
the birds on the sea, watching this
lift off & follow, flying to the horizon.
—friends
you who first rise up on the wind
to see which way for us, we promise
to follow. call out loud from above
& we in our numbers will fly!
the tide turns, we gather the taonga,
put them in the boot of the car
& drive to the whare, where we eat
together silently—before, one-by-one
we rise to the heights & speak
of all our directions home.
-Vaughan Gunson
