January Poetry Dump

Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s the first one from 2025. All January’s poems…

I seem to have started this thing where at the start of a month I share the previous month’s batch of poems. I’m writing them when and where I can, sharing most of them on this site here, although not always emailing them out to you directly, so instead I gather them all in a ‘dump’ here at the start of each month. Here’s last month’s featuring the final poems of 2024.

Follow that link back and you’ll get to the rest of the poetry dumps from last year if you’re interested.

But now it’s time for a recap of the January poetry — all new poems written by me in the first month of this year…

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AFTER XMAS:

it’s quiet — and I like it.
Exchanged a book today, and the guy
behind the counter said, “uh-oh,
this looks ominous”. I told him
I was returning a copy of a book
I’d already bought from him, which could
only mean he, me, and the gift-giver
all had excellent taste.

After that, I stopped.
That was enough for today.

---

GIFT:

A friend gave me a rock. Look, she said,
it has a fossil contained in it. And it’s
limestone — it was formed above water.

And it’s certainly good to stay above water;
to keep your head held as high as you can.
She placed the small rock in my hand,

it was smooth as fluvial processes allow. So it was
cold like clay, with just a soft rasp to it. A warmth
too. It will live on my bookshelf now.

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PINE HILL:

In Dunedin, when I was 13, staying
with strangers, it was cold in a way
I had never experienced until then.

We were there to play hockey, the
games ran smoothly — but the family
we stayed with left us alone at night.

Waking up alone in someone else’s
home meant the frostiness we felt
wasn’t just the weather.

You remember odd things at
strange times. Especially when
they seemed to mean no harm.

---

PATTER, FAMILIAR:

Blood is thicker than water they say.
But remember the full line about how
blood spilled in battle — shared with
the friends you meet in your wars —
is thicker than the water from the womb.

It’s been conveniently short handed.
With less to read, the gas-lights could
be dimmed further. Remember the blood
you spill, and where you are, and who
you’re with when it falls from you.

---

GREY GARDENS:

Sometimes the dishes spill from the sink.
And sometimes the floordrobe is holding
more than the shelves and cupboards

ever could. There are too many books,
and plants, and records — but these items
spark so much fucking joy! If it ever gets

to newspapers on the floor, deliveries
to the door — and the dank delusion
that things are looking up even when

the eyeballs have long been plucked
from this life, we are moving! We are
selling up; letting go of such madness.

---

HEART OF GOLD:

Being billeted was weird. One time I had to
sit and eat dinner with a kid four years
younger than me. And his family of course.

I’d just beaten him 27-0 in hockey. I scored
14 of those goals, and I wasn’t even a striker.
The kid’s dad laughed in his face

when he cried, announcing the score. I had
been pushing cold peas around my plate,
hiding them under the clump of potato.

After room-temp jelly, I went to bed
as early as possible. Put my Walkman on,
fell asleep listening to Neil Young.

---

THE HOUSES I’LL NEVER ENTER:

These aren’t houses I have been in,
The homes from my old neighbourhood:
me walking by. Sure, some of them

even look the same — just as I might
to many, maybe even to some of the
people still behind the same windows.

But I’ve changed my skin so many times
since knees were scraped, falling off
bikes without brakes, and how skateboards

wobbled more than when anyone else
was riding them. Those houses too,
no longer a blur, they’ve changed

skins too; internal organs as well. New
people in new rooms that used to be old.
Old people still in there with the new.

But I recognise the trees, still moving
with the breeze, forever channelling
centuries, standing to outlast us all.

---

PAVONINE:

There isn’t much to say.
There isn’t really a relationship.
He comes to town and flashes his feathers, and almost everyone’s in awe.
But I guess I’m not. I stand by the door and make jokes.
Money is just something we kinda need, pesky hindrance —
not the trophy that lets people know you could win lots of trophies,
could change the rules of the game so that the person with the most trophies
wins another trophy. I find such plumage no longer beautiful —
and that makes me a challenge…to the authority, to this
new best way of living; to the sequence
that ranks achievements solely on monetary value.

If there’s no one dazzled by the iridescent flourish,
is the peacock even beautiful?

Could it be that such an odd bird is made to seem rather ridiculous?

---

SCOUTING:

There are jokes about cubs and scouts,
and I got out before it was brutally uncool.

But I do have a memory of a jumble
of furniture, cloaked in sheets, lights off.

We are sent through tight crawl spaces,
the leader in there, somehow watching.

I never felt anything — thankfully. And made
my excuses that life was getting in the way,

that I was too busy for darkened rooms
and tight crawl spaces, and prayers to god.

---

RUBRIC:

The difference
between self deprecation
and self awareness
can be measured
in the length of the laugh —

and who starts it…
and the number of people
that join in

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DIABOLIC:

In the house where they choke
All that matters is hope. It hangs
by a rope, dangling just out of reach.

In the home where they screech,
there’s so much they could teach
but still too much for them to learn.

Where they yearn for some lift,
for hope and heart, for some gift,
instead they choke, but keep breathing.

---

CONSTRUCTION WORK:

If I hammer the story too hard,
it’s because I am writing
with nails. And I

want to make it stick, and I
need to make it hurt. And I
want it to stand in all weathers

through storms, and as paint
peels. Words nailed to each
post feels “Correct” —

even if it’s not always right.
Even as I splinter art, with
the toy hammer of my heart.

---

UNIVERSAL MOTHER:

Don Cherry said he always tried
to recall the feeling of his mother

giving him his first trumpet.
That’s what music meant to him —

that might be the goal for all
great art. Finding your way

back home. Or finding a new home.
The track marks on Don’s arms,

souvenirs from a time trying
to forget where he came from.

(Despite leaving a map). The music
his gift to his mother, and the universe.

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THE HOMILY OF CHRISTOPHER LUXON:

He failed his physics exam, lying there cold
on the floor. But could not ignore the chance
to do better than someone with a higher degree.

He’d show those absolute saps. The tree of knowledge
provided footholds to really branch out. He would
do something with a higher degree of difficulty.

And what he would say is that he pulled himself
up by the bootstraps. And then made a motto
out of the physically impossible — you just have

to really want it. And anyway it was all for the public
good. He could take something meant as sarcasm
and plaster his dry personality right up against it,

just as you might turn your coat to the wind.
If you were hardworking and honest enough
to have one…

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APPLE CIDER VINEGAR:

I take a shot of apple cider vinegar most days, often as depth-charger in a glass of sparkling water. It’s good for the gut, and with the way these old white men won’t let go of their versions of power, it’s enough to make your stomach turn, so a shot of anything else is welcome; something to help you — if not them — along the way. Of course the biggest problem with these old white men is I’m probably going to become one; notice I don’t say ‘I’m thinking of becoming one’ or ‘hoping to become one’. I’d prefer not, if anything. But I’m two thirds of the way there, at least, and that was always the case.

Though the little twist to the gut of this tale is my complete lack of interest in power. I’m embracing the powerlessness of the situation — embracing listening and helping and sharing, which are indeed their own form of power. The good kind. One best shared. It tastes almost of apple, and has the hidden potency of vinegar.

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FLIGHT MODE:

It was a weird fight about how I never
want to go anywhere; weird because
in the morning I had a plane to catch

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So there you go. That’s the first month of the year in poetry. Billeting stories, our charisma-less husk of a PM, apple cider vinegar, memories of my childhood rekindled, and a few other things. See anything there you like? Or really don’t like? I am available for wedding anniversaries, and children’s parties…

Until then, happy reading. See you next time.