Type what you see

Beat Street Sessions: Open Mic Poetry & Guests

2011-11-11T18:43:00.000+13:00

Beat Street Sessions: Open Mic PoeTry
& Special Guests

Every Third Thursday/ next one: 17th November

6 pm Music and Open Mic sign up
7pm Poetry Kicks Off

@ Beat Street Cafe/ Cnr Barbadoes and Armagh/ Chch
Door charge $5 if you can

Fbk: https://www.facebook.com/BeatStSessions

Here it comes

2011-09-13T21:00:00.002+12:00

We hear the hooves striking in the dark

under our quiet bodies. We hear it making mistakes

in the kitchen, eggs fall down. We feel it running

in our abdomens as it leans the house towards

us. Towards us. We run like caterpillars

under the table and nothing can be done. We feel

the large animals feeding under us. We hear the titling

rocks on Observation Point as they roll

& roll over a patch of moss towards Gran’s hill. We hear nothing

for three days. Your mother blooms blood.

A monarch orange crane tries

to rescue her. Huge liquefaction floods us

creeps dirty under our doorways. We move

mountains. We bear it. We sit by our petrified

dog and nothing can be done to quiet her.

At night you clutch at my hand

in the doorway as the hooves strike

and strike under the dark granite of our city

as it falls down.

'Here it comes' is my entry in the 2011 mix and mash Literature Remix Category. It was created using three works that are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 NZ License; they are: Hinemoana Baker's Self-portrait at fifteen, Cheryl Bernstein's This is about earthquakes, and Lynn Jenner's She used to ask me, what is it like up there? (click on the titles to read these pieces). This poem is also licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 New Zealand License.

Being the poem

2010-10-19T11:37:00.007+13:00

Re-examine all you have been told in school or church or any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body.

~Walt Whitman in his preface to Leaves of Grass

2010-06-14T21:34:00.001+12:00