Poetry Workshop – Submissions
We have got in a number of great poetry submission from our workshop participants. On the basis of the submissions I think we can conclusively say that the Seminar-workshop was a real success and Siobhan did an excellent job of bringing out our creativity.
Everyone has had a week to fine tune and edit their works and I now have the pleasure of posting them here.
If anyone else would still like to submit any of their work, please feel aboslutely free to do so, the more the merrier.
And with that, on with the show.
(apologies for any formating changes, a consequence of the limits of this site)
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Paper
Oh my dear paper
Were you not the
one who qualified
me as a master of arts ?
Were you not the one
who was picked on the street
by the street urchin ?
Why do you play
too many roles
to place yourself
in this mundane world?
Can I fly like you
quite free in the air
as the leaf in the Ode
to win the West Wind ?
None needs you
these modern days
of mobile phones
no more tree-felling
no more tree slaughter
Oh my dear paper
You do do me
Every single day
Either as a degree
From the varsity
or as a letter
to work somewhere…a great favour
~ Lakshman S
……………………………………………….
‘Notebook’
Unwilling murderer of trees
my mood holder
you are filled with me
my humid night-time thoughts
and crisp morning ideas
and still you gift me space
consistent escaper of monotony
my still silent traveller
one day
you’ll own all you can of me
(no more will you be my alternative refuge
where I pour myself out with tea and a blanket,
or my sticky, thirsty self, on the balcony)
and we’ll let go
you’ll live on my desk
~ Laura Hadfield
……………………………………..
Swipe Card
My staff swipe card lives
and gives
a roof over my head,
smoked salmon in our sushi,
bruises from falling off BMX’s,
only from this.
Only
it is not self-aware
or I am not aware
of it.
If it could see itself;
a cord, sapphire blue, pilled,
it’s centre bound to be,
bound to me,
plastic.
~ Aysha Vitapa-Aspinall
…………………………………………..
THE CLIMB
It fits my knife like a glove, this hand scarred by so many slashes and scrapes,
the accidents just waiting to happen to a boy years ago
who has nevertheless survived until
now. Just now
I found in my pocket again
this dear old friend
my knife. My life
plays back to me as I open the blades
one by one
flashing in the sun
each scratch and nick
in the stainless teeth
recalls one hack, one chip of my axe
on the long climb up the ice
dark north face of this winter mountain
whose top sways dangerously close now through the cloud
so when I look back
down
into the sparkling green
of my childhood valley
2000 metres
and 46 years below
I don’t know
whether to fall or fly
to grin or to cry.
~ Charles Hadfield
……………………………………………………..
Lake Tekapo
Do the souls see
every big sky cold mountain day
from the milky water grave
that took them?
No postmortems just
inquest rulings of accidental deaths.
Yet no stories of hauntings
or monsters from the deep;
no gossip trade of phantoms, ghosts,
or the lake that keeps her dead?
There is a pulse in the landscape that
cradles this lake, that echoes
in every stone that is stumbled over,
every gushing sweet salmon filled river,
each bunch of wind thrashed tussock grass,
on the mountains where snow falls, settles and melts;
and above it all is a sky so big
that clouds must ask permission to enter.
Yes.
Under this big sky bright star night
A God is close.
~ Rosemary Ayers
………………………………………………
Wings
We are bare and
you just hang. Overcast,
starry-eyed, us little people
under your weight, sky.
Dan plays a little
on the crap guitar
and I write some words.
I am heat,
prickly of wool
and what we make
and lets go,
lets just go,
lets just dissolve,
let go.
And before sun-up,
some time within,
my paper arctic and dank
and its lines
and your sounds
carry in seagulls
wings.
~ Aysha Vitapa-Aspinall
……………………………………………………
.
They’ve gone again, all four pairs.
for Rosy.
I’ve searched by the sink, on my desk,
at my bedside, in my handbag
where I find your gift, this case,
red tapestry with elephants
two shades of blue, smelling
of mints and off duty,
neglecting to protect and have
my glasses at the ready.
Yes, you know this is not the first
time I find myself half-blind
and will not be the last
so for tactile visibility
you chose red and elephants
because they never forget.
~ Bernadette Kenny
…………………………………………………
Sky
Sky is the limit
Was the first sentence
I heard as a boy
of four years old
from my grand old dad
who has left me alone
to find the real truth
“Sky is the limit”
I looked at the sky
with the bare blank heart
first it was blue
then it turned grey
and then it got ochre
with the day’s sun set
reflecting the thought
blue meant peace
grey meant anger
ochre sacrifice
of a Hindu saint
whatever the color
the sky remains same
as a Wordworthian in me
thought of a thought
that this good old sky
links cosmos
where I may see
my departed dad
who lives with my mum
who bid a farewell
five years ere
sky is the limt
yes sky is the limit.
~ Lakshman S
……………………………………………………
Full Metal Jacket
The Lipstick is her ammunition
A golden bullet that she
fingers with affection;
rubs it’s ridges
with genie-lamp hope.
The casing is tarnished
except for the
pretty, shiny
ring at the
stopper; she wishes
someone had put one
like that on her finger.
Without it’s cap
it’s a spent shell.
She twists out
the last application
of her favourite shade
‘Wine with Everything’
then purses her lips a little.
She bleeds.
~ Rosemary Ayers
…………………………………………
(inspired by an item from the handbag- cheque book)
The Consumer
Currency…
Coated in every hue
morphs basic brown to radiant blue to
shiny golden hues
enticing addicted appetites.
Teased by mutant mouths, frantic fingers tap
seeking satisfaction locked in gratifying walls of stone
The M and M’s of money world
escape spewing down a drain
wide awake and waiting.
~ Raewyn Gregory
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Please feel free to leave any comments.
We would really like to hear back about which ones you have really enjoyed
