Post by David GeorgeA poem...
I did not want to write
and nobody wanted to read...
thanks...
DAVID
The last resort of the desperate-
to be the only reader of ones own poetry...
I like that idea, as poets do-
the falling tree in a forest
sort of thang.
But as time
swings over the hill once more
I try to push the line
up down and into
something unknown.
Picked four tonnes of apricots today
finished a book- "One Thousand Roads"
dug some spuds
laughed and joked with some pickers
sat, as most days where I stopped
and ate my lunch...
cold potato fritters cooked that morning
fuel for the ol' tinana [body]
and stoked a bit of fuel into the
'inengaro [mind] an'
te waitahi tapu [spirit of all].
All this claptrap
will have lost me my last
solitary reader-
a kind of ruse,
,perhaps?
But no.
A way of leading you to
this space
this enclosure
tickling a kind of edginess
which creates no conclusions
yields few if any insights
but prompts
a kinda yearning
wishfulness
wistfulness
a welcome
to the end
of a conver-
sation
hovering
yielding
begrudging the future
for a moment
then tossing
a sheaf of light
a rustle of dry essence
a mixture of wind and
an outdoorsy smell
softly.