New Poems from April/May
Wednesday is about books and reading. Sometimes it's about writing - and not to be pretentious but here's another batch of new poems from moi to vous.
It was about a month ago that I sent out a batch of new poems. I’ve moved off the “Richard” sequence. For now at least. If I haven’t completed it, I’m at the least giving myself (and therefore you, as well) a break from it…
So I shared some new poems:
New Poems (The Non-Richard Kind...)
And, well, they’re piling up. I write them on my phone, in stolen moments. I write them late at night sometimes. I write them very early in the morning too. It’s not quite back up to the poem-a-day stakes, and probably just as well. But they’re coming through thick and fast. And maybe that’s a problem (thick/fast). But hey. Here there are.
So here’s a few more for you to check out via a newsletter…
As always, let me know what you think. Or don’t. Your call.
DAMN:
Listening to Kendrick Lamar
as we drive around killing time
in the car — but no one killing us
or coming close, because we
ain’t the colour of suspicion.
I never knew suspicion came
in colours until I was old enough
to read the news. Now, everyone
has their views but avoids
the most brutal truths:
Nowhere near enough has
changed. It’s not ok to be born
to such privilege; it’s an ugly
convenience — this world
just isn’t working correctly.
I USE ADVERBS, GLADLY:
I’ll say it softly, wouldn’t want to shout it
loudly. I use adverbs gladly. Why not
use them willingly and sometimes certainly
wilfully. Stephen King said he avoided them
dutifully — and finally the snobs all listened
diligently. If there’s a page to fill and/or
a story to tell, I’m going to do my best
and I’m aiming to do it well. But I’ll also
be using any words I can, even the most
absurd adverbs. I’ll use them gladly.
I’m all about getting the work done. Sadly.
Don’t take this badly. Use adverbs beautifully.
FINAL LINES AS COLD AS WINTER:
Winter’s coming and I have
spare coats, I’ll donate them —
and not just to feel good.
One man’s clutter is another
man’s lifeline; I’m writing this now
and not just to feel good.
But if this was true, really
totally honest, I’d share the
coats and not this poem.
REMOVING TRIAGE:
It is getting cold out there
and people can’t breathe
there’s not a lot of room
to move, and no real way
to leave. This is how your
government likes it; their
absolute cruellest deed.
They need money for the
people that voted them in,
so they want others to bleed.
CAUGHT BY CRIMSON:
I bought In The Court of The Crimson King
when $1 records were a thing, and it felt
ceremonial to drink it all in. And we say
that album changed my life. And it sounds
silly and far too dramatic. But our lives
were so small back then (they still are now
but we have heightened our worth). We
are the $1 records ourselves. Cracked and
scratched — but shiny gems. A world of
possibility lying in the hum under the
needle. Cock your ear and take the time,
there’s magic there, it’s someone’s
absolute promise. Crimson King has a
metal edge and the frozen shriek of the
cover conveys the music. It was terrifying
to the point of excitement — and though
that first listen was always best, the drug
had been tasted.
THE STAIN ON THE FLOOR AT TACO BELL:
It’s a gig economy, but currently it’s no one’s gig to clean the floor
at the Taco Bell. Maybe, soon, some former public servant can pull
themselves back up by the mop handle and clean that fucking shit
right up. That’s what a hardworking Kiwi would do. Cleaners, and
journalists, and ex public service workers are all just there to clean
up the shit. Let’s make it interchangeable because it’s going to be
intergenerational. It’s a gig economy — and all hardworking Kiwis,
smokers, and non-smokers, Māori and non-Māori, public servants
and now non public servants need to be there for the encore. You
know what’s got real stickability? That stain on the floor, just sitting
there soaking up everything and costing the taxpayer nothing. That’s
the stain of humanity right there.
I NEVER DID GET MY GARFIELD PHONE!:”
That’s the extend of my childhood trauma,
if forced, that’s my spicy memory. I wanted
a Garfield phone — to go with the books,
wall poster, calendar, and T-shirt. I did get to
meet Garfield though, in what the Polaroid
picture documents as quite Lilliputian circumstances.
I was 9. And rather tall. Everyone else was four,
so therefore small. It’s like a meeting between
a basketballer,and the Shetland pony jockeys.
I’m glad I never got that Garfield phone. People
would see the picture and it would be off the hook.
But my dad likes to show the photo time to time,
of me looking awkward, dressed like I’m auditioning
to bea teenager, surrounded by toddlers, next to
some grown-ass man or woman pretending to be a cat.
AMERICAN SCHOLAR:
When Patrick Bateman raved
about Huey Lewis, I listened
to The News. I already knew
Whitney was a great singer and
Phil Collins was a great drummer
but what a revelation that Huey
was so much more than a few
big hit singles and some prime
product placement in the movies.
Patrick Bateman might be a bad
date but he’s one of my favourite
music critics; still real to me damnit!
SAFE STEPS:
There are phantom footsteps outside our
place some nights — something about
the energy of a valley, certain sounds
that echo; sometimes dull or else quite
sharp. But I’ve come to enjoy them when
I hear them. Such a western thing, to
think of spirits as ‘evil’. I like where I live,
so it’s not unreasonable to think someone
else once liked it too. And whether they’re
back to check in on the place — or
to check up on me, there’s a safety attached.
Some scurrying, but no hurrying in those steps.
REGARDLESS:
White male confidence
needs no introduction.
But you can consider
yourselves extra lucky
because you’ll get one.
Regardless.
TOWARDS AN UNDERSTANDING OF HUMOUR IN POETRY:
(There’s) Humour in poetry:
Three theories arise. Firstly,
Superiority Theory. We are
better than what we’re laughing
at. Secondly, Release Theory:
Suppressed feelings. Finally,
Incongruity Theory: Laugh
because of the perception
of something incongruous
(which may/may not be there).
IN POWER:
It’s really winter, because the power
might be cut. A politician actually said,
just yesterday, about another matter,
that its darkest before the dawn. Another
said today, it will be coldest in the morn’.
But the coldest thing he did was blame
the last lot for not drilling down deep, for
not giving permissions to explore more
of the land and dig for more coal. Please,
don’t be a cunt this winter. No matter
how cold it gets. At the very least,
make that your goal.
So, there you go. That’ll do for today. The latest batch. Some of these will get worked on a bit more, some will be discarded. Some are probably fine just as they are. I notice more political stuff in my poems. It’s never been the case previously. I’m not sure I like it, and I don’t think I don’t like it. I’m just noticing it for now. It’s there. And there must be a reason for that.
I’m still taking ‘Richard’ out to the stage in little bits and pieces. I shared a second short reading recently. If you missed it, it’s here:
