Category: 2013

The Scar   He walked into the classroom scuff freckles, tough, lichen rock, and Beatle boots.  The radio played ‘I Want to Hold Your Hand’. He was ten going on Lennon; I was mesmerised at once. At twelve he lost my signet ring.  I announced in class, ‘I do not…

Hey Tiki!   Hard and cool you remain f/rigid against my soft expanding touch     It’s always been your style to make hearts wince Fuck off Bro you carry me around a trophy show off to your friends I chose well hunter eyes    shark sharp mouth    mark of a warrior but…

Reading poetry to my boyfriend   There’s more space than mass I suppose the wind likes that ratio Otherwise it wouldn’t move …   There’s more space than mass? Well, you need to have an inertia balance Hang on… let me… Mass always stays the same Weight changes relative to…

1 | 2 | 3   Dyed in Paru   ‘Kahu Ora’ makes me think of Blanket Man. It makes me think of Ben.   Ben Hana braved streets paved with cold; drunks drunker than him; histories untold.   At his tangi in Waitangi Park, his coffin was bare. It was bare.  …

1 | 2 | 3   Makariri   ‘It not only gives me warmth outside but I feel very warm inside.’ – Kūkupa Tirikatene   1.   They said this country would be cold. So cold my arse would freeze on the seat.   2.   My husband’s brother asked me, ‘Why?…

1 | 2 | 3   Draft Manifesto for a Feminist Asthmatic in Aotearoa   For so long a feminist e Hineahuone Like the air that I breathe Tihei mauri ora!   Feminism had become e Hineahuone Something I could take for granted Tihei mauri ora!   This year I was diagnosed Tihei…

Dance, Nora, Dance   Dance, Nora, dance! Life of the party importing your coconut macaroons, permafrost white, sweet morsel from far away, hidden in wrappers – you carried back more than a husband.   Dance, Nora, dance! Norwegian dance (hardly!) kicking demurely, toes trotting, half-gliding, feet skipping steadily, hopping invisible…

1 | 2   Vias Plage   As evening comes lie on your back in the soft sand and watch the frilly-lipped clouds swallow stars.   Startle up as sea steals swift bites of the sandcastles left by children who have gone home to grow up.       Contents |…

1 | 2   Harvest   The fields are cut. The golden stubble a spiky ‘number two’. Swollen grain spilled from harvest rolls and glows in the gutter. Hay baled, old gold stacked against the barren season. Machines bloom, giant flowers in the field. Workers smear sun-blistered skin, drink pastis in…

KM to Ken Russell & Glenda Jackson   Dear Mr Ken Russell, I see like me you have died Please regard this as a posthumous acknowledgement of your gorgeous film   Miss Jackson as ‘Gudrun’ plays my good self And Mr Oliver Reed (‘Gerald’) is Dear John Middleton Murry  …