Collaborate2011

Author Archive

Goodnight poem poem, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming on July 31, 2011 at 6:45 am

GOODNIGHT POEM POEM

Goodnight berry
Goodnight blue
Goodnight rhyme
and rhythm glue

Goodnight meter
Goodnight verse
Goodnight doctor
Goodnight nurse

Goodnight seaweed
Goodnight rice
Goodnight language
so concise

Goodnight paper
Goodnight pen
Hope that we
will meet again

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Three images from a butoh slow-walk, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 30, 2011 at 3:27 am

THREE IMAGES FROM A BUTOH SLOW-WALK

First of all,
there are farmers
working
on the fields
of your calves.
If you can’t feel them,
you are not walking
slowly enough.
Do not disturb them.
They have been working
all their lives.

Secondly, in your belly
is a dark swamp, murky
and full of secrets.
You have buried
many bodies there.
Can’t you hear them
singing? Are you
listening at all?

Thirdly, there are flowers
growing up and out
of your chest.
They are beautiful,
like all flowers are.
They bloom into
your face, their fragrance
rushes in your bloodstream.
These are the flowers
you will die
to feed the soil of.

With every step,
you breathe them in.

Poem written by three people in a bar, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 29, 2011 at 3:10 am

POEM WRITTEN BY THREE PEOPLE IN A BAR

Just in case,
she leaves
tomorrow’s bread
outside for
unwelcome guests
to nibble
through the
crust. “Don’t
be so
ungenerous that
even vagrants
can’t have
a little
more night
than you
usually dream
of giving
away,” she
says. Little
figurines are
opening their
eyes in
the garden.

Three beautiful lines, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 28, 2011 at 4:49 am

Evening strange & gorgeous as an exclamation telephone.

Welter of children, all down the avenue, their hands full of no such money.

And all the difficult bells, ringing out, like canals on fire.

Three things I rescued yesterday from my old home, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 27, 2011 at 5:14 am

THREE THINGS I RESCUED YESTERDAY FROM MY OLD HOME

A radiator with wings
you can use

to dry your clothes on.
A knife I didn’t know I had.

It is a good knife
but it needs to be sharpened.

And a blanket
that smells like a cupboard now,

which is the same as the smell
inside old suitcases.

I’ve moved so much
but I still don’t know what to keep

and what to throw away.
I am like the inside

of a cupboard.
I want to hold everything

and never look at the latches.

Three ways to die, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 26, 2011 at 5:57 am

THREE WAYS TO DIE

The first way is the quiet way. They hardly even notice. At the kitchen table, during a pause in a conversation about the weather, they think they hear something shift against the house. Wind, maybe.

The second way is the usual. Many voices, many sobs. Black collars, heavy hymns, dahlias made of silk.

The third way is the best. It leaves behind a trail of electric causes that crackle on the driveway, like summer sparklers, lighting up the myrtle, the buxus, the box hedge.

Three steps towards no, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 25, 2011 at 5:45 am

THREE STEPS TOWARDS NO

It is so
cold
outside
and there
you are,
on the carpet,
snapping the
matches
one
at a time
snap
snap
snap
I love you
I love you
I love you
and now
I am sadder
than before
but less
confused,
clearer
clearer
clearer

Come on now
just look
at all that
broken
wood

Poem of a third sunday, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 24, 2011 at 4:43 pm

POEM OF A THIRD SUNDAY

One, a willow tree

Two, a cello

Three, a basket of plums.

They are not ripe,
not yet,
but
they will be.

The cello
makes the air
afraid
of pretty
things.

Come
over here,
you young girls.

Show us your necks,
and the insides
of your
wrists.

Poem about three sounds that are really one sound, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 22, 2011 at 12:15 am

POEM ABOUT THREE SOUNDS THAT ARE REALLY ONE SOUND

The stitching is coming
undone

on the suitcase. The girl
has the travelling itch.

The boy is watching her
touching her things.

His name is Mitch.
A grasshopper

hitches when they drive
to the beaches.

On the cliff, the girl
sees some witches.

The boy only watches.
He is wishing he could take

some pictures.

Three colours in a Wellington morning, Joan Fleming

In Joan Fleming, poetry on July 21, 2011 at 6:45 am

THREE COLOURS IN A WELLINGTON MORNING

Black-faced cat
and blue, oh you, sky

Black coffee and a blue
open eye

Bless that black
like a brand-new
thumb tack

Green valley
and the happy
coming back