Wordlovers Weekly
Noel Fuller, Pavel Chichikov, Marc Sherland, Peter Gallaher, Sorana Salomeia, and Bill Cunningham
Volume I:v. 19 February, 2004





Sri Lankan girl


hope denied

fear confirmed




screaming anguish





without hope

to where?

to sexual abuse?

to the streets in six months?

to anything?


act of cruelty

by the state

where rules are rules

in breach of the treaty

for the protection of children



shame New Zealand

I'm ashamed of my country


Turn about

Turn about New Zealand

Return her!

with compassion

with apology

with a future

If she will come.


© Noel Fuller, February 14, 2004


The Untouchables-

South Asian Artists in New Zealand

19 February, 2004

Immigration authorities have backed down from sending a sexually abused Sri Lankan girl home until aspects of her case are reassessed.




Gold from straw my man?

What's your secret name?

Are you a poet, a magician?

Yes, I am the same


I shuttle straw from thin air

That all my ponies eat

Playfulness from despair -

Wine grapes with my feet


Weave songs from rivulets

That come from solid rock

Bread the growing winter wheat

By spring heat sun struck


If you learn my true name

You will know that much

And you will also saddle tame

The swift unbridled goose


The unbridled swift goose

That Rumplestilskin rides

Saddle back, reins loose

And all the world wide


One leg in the underworld

The other by the hand

Tore himself in smithereens

But he was whole again





Lost Love



Guardians were with me as I slept last night

The Blessed Virgin of Kazan, God's mother

And her Son, immortal, at her side

They have no need of rest - they are at rest


And yet they move all ways, without delay

For she and He are always in their proper places



Nocturnal snow came down by touching ground

And one I loved two hundred miles away

             Was with me in their rest

And by their grace and love the loving ones

            Watched over both of us

Until the two skies, earth and heaven, touched

And where they touch lost love is found







Smart Crab



Eroding sediments pliestocene

Spread below shell banks in slick brown gleams,

Sucking quick steps, quaking plastercines

They're pitted with holes, hides of crabs unseen

Speckled red on brown with mud they blend

While in search of food the shores they wend

Till frighted as shadows cut the sky

Down nearby holes claws scuttle and dive

From some mud caves small bodies eject

Full up! too bad! crabs their hides protect

The high tide line fruits of mangrove bead

From there suddenly a dash of green

A small crab carries a mangrove seed

To its hole, a door, small crab unseen


Some people I've known always agree

Hiding small minds in conformity

So wise and thoughtful we try to seem

The unknown the bird of prey we fear

Oh! smart crab hiding under the green

You'll grow too big to remain unseen

The strategy by which you survive

Will no longer help you stay alive!


© Noel Fuller, February 14, 2004



Remind Me


Remind me to regret you

As if you were the only dear one I have ever had,

Remind me to fall on my knees and cry

As if the cold ground was a well sipping your soul away,


    Make the wind howl

    Through the ruins of this dying memory,

    Let justice revolt and throw its stones

    Towards this hidden grave,

    Remind me …


Write the poem of infinity

With the shadow of my body,

Taste the essence of the sweetest scents


         In heaven,


Run your fingers through the blessed dew of wax

    That will be gently dancing on your face

    The moment you remind me

    That I should forget you…



Sorana Soleima



The Week with Marc Sherland





Cupid your arrow stings and spears my heart;

I did not demand you to fire it,

Nor ask in festered wound your venom spit,

When hit bullseye by your love's wayward dart.

Now look along my sight, your aim is false,

This cannot be the truth that you would have,

Me on my knees, to knave, slave, wealth to halve,

On idle occasion to take to waltz.

This course is set to ruin my whim's ease,

For how can mortal flesh the godly reach,

Each day and night in glory of your tease,

Must I now bask in his unwelcome teach.

So know your folly I adore to please,

But register fail by your stupid sneeze.


February 2004




Life Jewellery


Diamonds are black soot crushed under pressure,

The same substance that makes pencil graphite,

Or is the heart of coal fire's delight,

Still on a neck line dangles in pleasure.

And carbon when it combines with atoms,

Is the base of all life elemental,

All things that slide, glide, growl or are gentle,

Even trees, plastic flotsam and jetsam.

Now there is a process that can reduce,

All flesh to crematorium ash and grit,

Taking that dust it will in time produce,

Diamonds from a life of hard toil and spit.

Yet every gem so made from a life's juice,

Is nitrogen yellow, `machina ex deus'.





Marc Sherland

February 2004




I dream of empty streets in the early morning

Of dawn's halo behind the walk ups on Jerome Avenue

The B-20 bus running down Kingsbridge Hill

In the last bleached shadows of night lingering

In the cup of Bailey Avenue, the frogs

Of Tibbets Brook by the railroad tracks

Where Barney Haviland touched the third

Rail one morning and never worked again.


I dream of the sound of trains, dull roar

And rake squeal a mile or so away on Marble Hill

Waking to the music of milk bottles chiming in the hallways

Of my own building and Mrs. Smith cleaning,

Cleaning, cleaning, everything in sight;

The rocks and weeds of empty lots, cotton clothed

Kids playing ball and tag and war in the ruins

Of houses begun but never finished,

Sticks for guns, clods of dirt for hand grenades.




I Dream of Empty Streets




I dream of the freight yards across the street

Filled with mystery behind steel doors

Inbound to the city, outbound to the world;

Our own Urbi et Orbi messages to unlock,

Tanks and guns to crawl over attacking Japs

Germans and Commies, watermelons stolen

In the summer from the cars, huge ovals of red

Lusciousness, and running from the railroad dicks.


I dream of the Harlem River at any tide,

Any season, filthy beyond imagining and

The great spa of Flat Rock, a sewer's top and

Urchin's resting place after a brisk swim

Through sewage and bits of humans flushed

Away the night before, or just that morning;

The mile wide Hudson menacing and inviting

Both at once, the ancient stream spanned

By the dream of Washington's Bridge an hour away

On bold feet and fearless in the long days of summer,

The granite Palisades attacked on rafts disintegrating

In midstream and rescue by a smiling cop.


I dream of the riches of my first home

The great wilds of stone and brick and strangers

By the thousands just within reach so far

Away that you will never meet them though

You brush their shoulders as you pass them by;

Languages and faces like my own, and yours, too,

The unchanging stone faces of buildings

And people long dead now or demolished

Who live and move and have their being in me.



I dream at last of empty streets, quiet skies

Deep in every seasons' blue, rocks and fields,

Rivers whispering in the morning stars,

A single robin singing in some tree,

The thump of the newspapers thrown from trucks

And the smell of breakfast on the cool breeze .



    I am on the platform of the IRT

    As the sun rises and the world begins

    Again, and again in, Oh! so deep love.



Peter Gallaher






     Atop the Hill of Slane


    If I remember it correctly

    The first day of February

    Was New Year's Day, Beltane.

    In another place far from here

    The day once had that name.

    It had something to do with kings

    And hills of course, and flame.


    I was in that country not long ago

    At year's other end from Beltane

    Near Tara's Hill, atop the Hill of Slane.

    A tree was there, a ruin, a pasture

    Spread with grass, wet manure

    And old tumbled stones, crushed ruins' bones.


    This is what I saw

    And this is what I saw.

    The sky above, the earth below

    And waiting all around

    The light of day against the night.

    The light of Christ in Patrick's hand,

    Tara and the king far off, so,

    Beltane a memory, wish and shadow,

    The four points, once far, so near,

    The light of Christ with Patrick dear.


    Peter Gallagher




t' twa corbies tak tea


Kippers for Bill


Ah kippers, food for bonny wee nippers,

And for adults worn and weary with works,

Or those who effort make but fortune shirks,

For others retire to hope and slippers.

Through sleek and scaly form, wisps smoke of oak,

That whispers strength and eons of service,

Hangs in serried racks that sheds life feckless,

Infuses scents that finished product soaks.

Packed with such hands as serve from trawler ships,

To weigh the produce on the empty dish,

We harvest seas, yet how our vision slips,

Is wrecked by whim's failed stocks of extinct fish.

Now must we realise the highs and dips,

If still we want such taste to slip our lips.



Marc Sherland

February 2004



Kippers tae ma tea


A like eatin’ fish, an’ a like eatin’ meat

There’s no mony things that a wiina eat,

Some fresh po’ed heid, some hoat sauty tatties

Some dripp’n oan a piece;

Or ma ma’s mince patties.


Noo there’s folk roond the wurld

Eat Russian caviar,

An’ thay pey a big price

Fur a wee bittie jar

They hiv a loat o’ money

But still they dinna ken

There’s something much more tasty,

It’s herring roe for Scottish men.


A’ve read aboot the Romans

An hoo thay et the starlings

But a’d raither live in Leith

Where thay eat the “Silver Darlings”

So if ma freens ye’d like

Tae see a twinkle in ma’ e’e


Jist sit me doon an' serve me

twa fine kippers tae ma tea.



Bill Cunningham

Copyright13th February, 2004

    Celtic Heritage Corner   

Poets A-F

Poets G-L
Poets M-R

 Poets S-Z


22 January, 2004
30 January, 2004

5 February, 2004

12 February, 2004