Tuesday poem: Downpour by Briar Rose Davies

It was as if the biggest bucket
from the fountain
had finally been tipped
over the edge by that last
drop and was spilling
all over the city that day.

It’s raining men
he said leaning across
to stick my coffee receipt
to my jacket,
using the collected water
droplets as adhesive.

Looking down, I noticed
that on the receipt he had sketched
a tiny man with a mini
matching moustache.

This poem won the Whitireia Eat Your Words poetry competition. It has been published, along with other competition poems in Eat Your Words: Wellington Cafe Poems. Email cafepoetrycomp@whitireia.ac.nz  for your copy.

Used with the permission of Whitireia Publishing and Briar Rose Davies (pictured below).

This poem has been posted as part of the Tuesday Poem scheme.

Tuesday poem: (untitled) by Lynn Jenner

Dear Sweet Harry

Thank you for being so tantalising
that when you died, a man made a list
of everything in your house; all your tools,
every needle and every kernel of corn.

Secrets and vices notwithstanding,
you will always have a spot on my
mental mantelpiece. Not wedged in
amongst this year’s crowd. And not
near the end, where you might fall off.

I will imagine you in a short sleeved shirt
looking for the history of magic
in second hand bookshops.
The show coming soon enough.

From Dear Sweet Harry (page 56) by Lynn Jenner
Published by Auckland University Press
Used with the permission of Auckland University Press

This poem has been posted as part of the Tuesday Poem scheme

Tuesday poem: Castlepoint by Jenny Bornholdt

Boys hurtle down
the dunes.

There’s lemon cake
and a recipe for
pineapple.

*

Night-long
nor-wester.

The lighthouse watches
with its great glass eye.

Sand fills the roof.
Wind, the ear.

From The Hill of Wool (page 12) by Jenny Bornholdt
Published by Victoria University Press
Used with the permission of Victoria University Press

This poem has been posted as part of the Tuesday Poem scheme

Tuesday poem: 8 by Dinah Hawken

Everyone is connected with everyone
else. Phoebe came with a yellow bucket
to damp proof the walls and then Dave
came back to back-fill with sand.
Mastic, glue, mortar, screws, wire,
trusses, zed nails and cyclone ties.
Everything is connected to everything else.
Timber is attached to concrete blocks
with Dyna bolts and a home is attached
to the land. Dyna Bolt Hawken, quips Barry,
whose surname is Binding. Bolt,
I thought, wouldn’t be a bad name –
I could be both securely here
and very quickly away.

by Dinah Hawken
from The Leaf-Ride (page 49)
Published by Victoria University Press
Used with the permission of Victoria University Press

This poem is part of the Tuesday Poem Scheme

Tuesday poem: At the coming of Autumn by Kate Camp

I seal up all the windows and doors
plug holes, and smoke out the mice.

I prepare the surface of things for coming snow;
the apple I shine to a dangerous gloss
and in my room arm spiders with tiny forks
that this winter they may eat in a civilized fashion.

To the neighbors I say, silence your machines,
wash your children, kiss goodbye your failings
we enter this death together
without those rusted anchors.

by Kate Camp
from The Mirror of Simple Annihilated Souls (page 56)
Published by Victoria University Press
Used with the permission of Victoria University Press

This poem is part of the Tuesday Poem Scheme

Tuesday poem: The Fairy Child by Margaret Mahy

The very hour that I was born
I rode upon the unicorn.
When boys put tadpoles in their jars
I overflowed my tin with stars.
Because I sing to see the sun
The little children point and run.
Because I set the caged birds free
The people close their doors to me.
Goodbye, goodbye, you world of men –
I shall not visit you again.

By Margaret Mahy
From The Word Witch: The Magical Verse of Margaret Mahy (page 81)
Published by HarperCollins
ISBN 9781869507077

This poem is part of the Tuesday Poem Scheme

Tuesday poem: Three old women raking leaves by Rob Hack

Their dresses are bright.
They rake leaves from graves in a front yard
talking of friends buried, here and in New Zealand.
Their eyes shine like a church roof
like the gold earrings from a daughter in Gisborne.
One gives me her Watchtower here
waves the heat from her face with a fan
used to her many years in New Zealand
but, here now for good, for ever.
The others smile.

I lift my camera, they shuffle together
then laugh, doan forget to send one to here!

Lots of my Niue photos lie in boxes under the bed.
Not this one.
Three old women in bright dresses, raking leaves, laughing.

by  Rob Hack
from 4th Floor Literary Journal 2011
Published by Whitireia New Zealand Writing Programme
Used with the permission of  Whitireia New Zealand Writing Programme

This poem is part of the Tuesday Poem Scheme