poetry magazine                              vol 1




          "Doing The Tennessee Wigwalk…"

          Grandmother had crushed ankles,
          empty wooden bowls,
          walked with a "wiggle and a waddle".

          Grandfather hit her with a stick,
          caused the damage.

          Women had a place,
          had to be quick
          not to walk
          with a "wiggle and a waddle,"
          thirty years later.

          Tom Kelly



          Some Saint’s Life

          The ceiling’s high as I can imagine
          except when I fly, but that’s different.

          I see the headmaster, his hair precise,
          suit, shoes, neat.
          The small log cane
          hits my hands
          they scream, go cold, pulse,
          I sit on them,
          listen to the teacher
          tell us of some saint’s life.

          Tom Kelly



          Tom Kelly writes plays, musicals and poetry. His most recent
          poetry collections are DREAMERS IN A COLD CLIMATE, pub-
          lished by Red Squirrel, and THE WRONG JARROW, from
          Smokestack. The above poems will feature in Tom Kelly's
          next collection, LOVE LINES, which is due from Red Squirrel
          early in 2009.




          Writing a Poem

          First stroke.
          Hand poised:
          a heron's beak.
          And suddenly
          the page explodes
          into something I can
          hang my attention on.

          Then the tension
          in the solar plexus.
          Writing a poem about nothing
          is difficult.
          I can't get a bearing on it.

          My fingers tighten
          on the brush.
          The loaded bristles stab again
          and incorruptible reality
          is neatly tailored
          to my artificial scheme.

          Leaning on my arm,
          I glance behind me
          at the trail of devastation
          inching down the page.
          There is no turning back now,
          no second chance.

          My brush no longer
          mediates between
          intention and accomplishment.
          It races on ahead of me,
          guided by the incidental
          pattern of its progress.

          Independent of endeavor,
          indifferent to what I am
          or what I hoped to be,
          it brushes my design aside
          and draws its own conclusions.

          Alan Ireland



          Summer, 1914

          The path confesses
          to a fleeting indecision,
          pauses by the pond
          then splits,

          one arm exploring
          in the shrubbery,
          the other luring older visitors
          towards the compost heap.

          Against the garage wall,
          the trellis plays its game
          of noughts and crosses
          with a clematis,

          imposes gridlock
          on chaotic life —
          entwining stems
          so profligate with flowers.

          Distant clinks of cup on saucer
          promise the precision
          of a 4pm refreshment.
          On the patio, perhaps.

          Afterwards, we'll stroll
          along the Promenade,
          admire the red geraniums.
          Our certainties are indestructible.

          Alan Ireland



          Alan Ireland was born in England in 1940. He now lives in
          Palmerston North, New Zealand, where he works in the
          advertising features department of the Manawatu Standard.





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