|
 Gary Langford lives in Melbourne
and Christchurch. He is the author of 25
books, including 12 works of fiction and 9 books of poetry, his
latest
being, Rainwoman and Snake, Steele Roberts, 2008. Presently he
is the
coordinator of the project, NZ Poets, The Poetry Archives
(
www.poetryarchives.org ) England. 45 of the poems
from his books were recorded earlier this year to come out
shortly
on this website.
Moving
The more you own, the less you move,
often gilded by age and the urge to retreat.
deep inside your bunker.
Moving encourages muscle spasms,
more activity than you've had for years,
gathering memories you have forgotten.
Press-ups meant something else then.
When your children left home,
bedrooms became a colony of paper.
I'll never age, you state,
refusing to accept decay.
Goods have to be put out late at night,
dressed and hidden underneath rubbish,
such indifferent cousins.
The bin's pregnant, you say,
determined to show breakfast wit,
migrating to the bin by the gate,
reminding your partner of formality,
love, honour and search.
Commitment has also changed.
You picture the cell.
Shock treatment is attractive,
uncertain who is in the chair.
One of you becomes a revolutionary,
the other a devotee of rubbish.
Divorce on the grounds of moving.
Plagiarism
Once this was called Found Poetry,
lines of other thinkers.
Call yours a found essay or card.
Others might call it inspiration.
Definitions are the arrows of discontent.
How much of anything is yours?
Where is the boundary?
The best cheaters have passwords.
They bribe well.
Each sale is a stolen succulent.
Each accolade is vanity.
Of the broken and reborn.
Of each sound that is yours,
swearing to believe.
Cut. All is lost and alone.
Teeth
We are born in gums and milk.
We die in gnarls and grimness.
Between is the law of teeth,
chipping and whipping us.
Thieves are seldom prosecuted.
We blame them for decay,
sometimes refusing to open our mouths,
sexually excited with closed lips.
We speak in mumbles,
staring thoughtfully into space,
hoping we look wise,
even if we are thinking,
teeth, teeth, bloody teeth.
Dentists have a sense of comedy,
smiling as they dig into the cave,
finding old figures staring back.
They are prepared to shovel,
with or without painkillers.
Needles are suggested
to contain aphrodisiacs, and hope.
We agreed, passing out. and relieved,
dreaming of born again mouths,
grinning, grinning without comedy.
We are born toothless and innocent.
We die toothless and grumpy.
Optimistic Writing
There is a moment
when you believe your work will be in the hands
of the kindly tongued, of the gentle hearted.
Here you wish to write forever.
You will not accept
the I hate my own work day.
The writing report preaches
that tomorrow will be like any other day.
How can it be?
You are in the cemetery of writers,
uncertain how you got here?
You cannot get out.
Don't give up.
The sun still rises and literature flies overhead.
You have the bone crutch to go with you.
You hope you will leave your grand work.
Inside the dream it grows.
Whether the room is small,
it is yours and purely smiles. |
