Handsome Grandsons

Wellington Arts Zine

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Jacket – Fiona Clark

Posted by handsomegrandsons on August 8, 2008

Jacket

I smoke a cigarette in front of our house,
in the old hunting jacket.

I read Whitman in the kitchen
……….. (to myself)
make cups of tea for both of us.

I haven’t done laundry in days, I say.
You say words like evangelical,
mime the hysterical pumping
of your heart behind its ribs.

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Two Poems – Thomas P. Mgrath

Posted by handsomegrandsons on August 7, 2008

Christmas Came In Autumn

Santa Claus,
My hero,
Delivered me a rake this year
All the way from the north-pole.
Mum said he climbed down the chimney,
Gulped the beer,
Gave the carrot to the reindeer,
And left ‘that note’.

My friend laughed when he heard I got
A rake.
He got a game system,
A real go-er.

Come Autumn,
The leaves came down by the sack-full.
Dad paid me to rake them all up
And burn them.
And he told me that
Santa is very clever for giving me
Such a useful gift.

.

.

Either Either

The Early Bird gets the Worm,
But the Early Worm gets eaten
By the Bird.

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Rocket – Fiona Clark

Posted by handsomegrandsons on August 1, 2008

Rocket

My scarf on the wall is like a rocket taking off,
pointed at the top where it’s corners fold in, badly hung.
We are in a silent war of mouth shutting.
Where we’re taking off to is neither moon
nor new solar system of the promised land,
not the bench at the south wharf where I put adjectives to you,
put splendid to your hair, sound to your hips,
good as feathers to your neck and wrists,
curvaceous to the bones of your hands, to your eyelids,
described you into a vice. Dear, this rollicking
lousy rocket scarf of mine is on the rack.
I like your sickness and anxious back. I like you sound and glum.
The physics of move and lift without sum,
without weight. And no destination, none.

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Conversation – Cameron Hockly

Posted by handsomegrandsons on July 28, 2008

Conversation

Our talk was scripture perfect,
our mumblings ushered in new dawns,
our pauses swept the whitecaps from the ocean
. no fish would come to the surface,
. none would eat.
Our gestures were simple and profound,
like wiping the table with a cloth of fire.
When we both turned and looked out the window
we saw that the birds had all crowded in and fallen silent.
The garden was full,
it seemed a good time to start again.

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The Trowel – Cameron Hockly

Posted by handsomegrandsons on July 21, 2008

The Trowel

The man who drove the hearse
later stood at the grave side.
He held a box of dirt and a trowel.
I wanted the trowel to be heavy
when I lifted it out of the box, heavy with dirt
as if it was the last possible thought of you
which I was picking up, casting onto your casket.
The thud ringing like no thought
I ever have had of you while alive.

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Explanation for a) – Daniel Cape

Posted by handsomegrandsons on July 17, 2008

Explanation for a)

See,
melted men feel
that rapid plunge when
the gravid pendulum
of old but unsnuffed love falls
to this coiled sump of useless
lust and other stuff where romance goes
to compost with the other ghosts. The best
detritus gives single kisses. The worst
in us is there: livid, worn longing,
fanned to favour the thronging lost.
You drank alone and liquored,
griefbound, you wound through crowds
and found these hands. These
few hours have won
me.

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