Poems
The thing is with poetry is that despite what you may try to do about it; how well you try and contrive it; how unconventional you may think you are, somebody else always does something you would like to have done first. I reached a point where I thought, sod it, this is how I write and left it at that. I listen to the young poets and my first reaction is to question their work and forget to accept it for what it is, their voice and not mine.
I believe poetry should be read aloud to an audience.
In the tradition of the Old English orators I also believe that a poem, like a favourite song, must be spoken often.
I believe also that the poet does not always know what the meaning of his or her poem is and they should never try to interpret it for the listener.
Lunch Guests
on the beach where
the sea constantly washes
the sand, fifty sparrows squabble
for crumbs and perch on my fingers
or madly scramble in the breeze
denying each other the rights
to my favours, quickly diving, flying:
brown and grey,
dun coloured breasts preening,
slim feet dancing double yous’
in the sand –
or are there more – in my garden
where cats stalk unsuccessful;
and blackbirds guest themselves
at table – while the fantail
and the tui
beg for scraps.
Lunch Guests was written after I sat on the sandy beach in Takapuna on Auckland’s North Shore eating a lunch of salad filled rolls. The sparrows were so curious and tame that they perched on my fingers for the proffered morsels.
I am fond of sparrows and I am sad that they are declared on the red alert by the RSPB in the UK. In New Zealand they are prolific and tend to take over at the expense of the native birds.