Noel Fuller, Pavel Chichikov, Marc Sherland, Peter Gallaher, Sorana Salomeia, and Bill Cunningham
|Volume I:v. 19 February, 2004|
Sri Lankan girl
to sexual abuse?
to the streets in six months?
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 New Zealand
with a future
If she will come.
© Noel Fuller, February 14, 2004
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
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
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 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
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…
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.
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'.
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
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 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.
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.
t' twa corbies tak tea
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