A POEM: Apology


The world is saying sorry today.

Sorry for the things she can’t control.


Like Earthquakes.

And Volcanic eruptions.

And over-population.


The first two are functions of geology.

While the last is the fault of humanity.


Yet we blame Her and ignore her warning signs

Like self-obsessed teenagers with back

Pocket-flip mirrors and candy-flavoured lip gloss.


The Earth’s apology is so beautiful though.

It is so genuine.

Even if we don’t recognise it for what it is.


Her peace lily skies

(they are that pale, that sensuous)

Lick the face of the world

And with a heart full of flower buds and

Glitter-penned letters we watch her glow

Into being.


Today she just wants to be looked after,

To be cared for,

She just wants to be loved.

The State of The World has been on my mind what with the Climate Talks in Poland occurring at present. As the talks are extended I am both filled with Hope that Change will be sparked and also a belly-ache-dread that The Signs will be missed and we will continue to hurtle towards climate catastrophe…

So to process these feelings I wrote a poem. Because writing is how I process everything… Words are how I make sense of My World and The World.

This poem, titled Apology, personifies The World as a Gaia type figure, a romanticized heroine who is saying sorry for the fevers and the fires she creates in gestures of rebellion against the hurt being done to her. Humanity is the mean teenage girlfriend who is more interested in how she looks than listening to the words of Earth.



A Poem: Consummation

I want to wrap my mouth around the globe

As if it were a stripy sweet and me,

A hungry child.

I want to eat the trees. The cars. The cities.

To sip the oceans like a drowning woman, desperately,

Trying to grab a gasp

Of air.


But i’m, bad at drowning

( I love life too much!)

So I cough water, like a tubercular mother, trying

To hide the blood.

And from my choke-hold-of-a-breath comes The Things of Dreams

Racy-red-satin-dresses and Hawaiin-black-pearl-necklaces

Peace lily corsages, Diana diamond tiaras, lace lingerie.

The sort of clothes and jewels goddesses should wear

On the days they help make worlds.


My World Made New

Has kowhai’s slapping the world yellow,

Sugar cookies dusted with glitter in the shapes of tiny silver stars

And women, naked, as at the end of a strip show.

But this is not dirty entertainment.

This birth.

This is life.


In My World snakes are curled like medusa wigs around the bald skulls

Of the chemotherapy women with cut-off breasts.

Eden is the name of a perfume brand by a silver-lashed celebrity.

And apples are collected to be cut and stewed

For The Winter

When even the heart of The World

Grows cold.

This is a poem I wrote about what it means to me to be a woman desperately trying to find things that hold her steady and safe feeling inside herself in a Crazy World.

It uses imagery from fairy tales and folklore (The Drowning Woman, Blood as a transformative substance, words of Goddesses and the The Symbol of The Apple where it signifies love as well as danger.)  

It is what I term in my personal lexicon as a ‘Release and Wretch’ poem. One I wrote quickly with few edits and where it served as a record of a train of thought  as I tried to get a feeling of un-comfortability free from  inside myself. 

The title ‘Consummation’ refers to the completion of a ritual mind frame and the end of one way of seeing yourself in The World and the ushering in of another. 


A POEM: An Arthritic Love Affair

Pain makes the world real.

Things like misspelt last names

And wrong receipts, pale,

like a shocked at nudity face, because who knew

you could feel this much.

It’s like if you could see your nerve endings they would pulse

Like quickening lovers hearts because there is a world out there

Of cute student boys who talk, awkwardly, about air vent systems and turn

their faces towards you with crinkles in their smiles.

These papered grins speak of textbook evenings and numbered nights,

Countdowns (you, hope) to a date on a Friday 13th because

That means cheap pizza from a place called Hell and dancing

In a black silk dress at a club with roses festooning the clapboard sign because

it’s rock star night and what is metal without romance?


But you only have a smile and a fading memory of a face.

So your nerves are raw

more like the sparklers that burn-to-blacken kids fingers

Close to the quick.


A POEM: The New Woman

She is switch-blades cut


Vintage satin ball gowns with hacked-to-short-hems

She is Quant on Ecstasy.


She is a rose in an old time movie.

Black to the Heart.

Not evil, as such, but full

Of complicated emotions like lust

And envy.


She is a Turn of the Century Designer

Introducing mourning garb to Day Wear.

She is not giving a fuck

Smoking like a train

Sleeping with Russian aristocrats


But after, lying in the silk of the night

She wonders

About The Lost Princess

And whether she is still alive.


A POEM: The 60’s


We’re in mini dresses cut

Like boxes. Peace-throated

We worship Quant and want to go to London.

Be part of The Scene.

You know.

Lennon is the man of our dreams

In his eyeglasses and black trousers.

George has the looks.

But Lennon has the attitude.

We want to be his muse

In nothing but flowers.

A cigarette rose.

Burning to the heart.


A POEM: Suffrage

The Quay.

It is bound like an adolescent’s mouth by metal towers.

It sits on reclaimed land.

And don’t forget the crowds of black

As they stride the Friday lunch hours with eco-death

coffee cups and their round-moons of sushi.


The law school is on the left.

Wooden library building        beautiful

With its twirls and trod-to-velvet-carpets.

Then there’s Old Government House,

also wooden.


Behind The Hive with its buzzes

and its whirs.


I was a skinny flower stemmed girl in teal.

Yellow crested.

I ran the corners of a square field

And rebelled in my non-regulation red raincoat.

Head bent

To the books I learned of history and literature

Writing papers on Mansfield and her Doll’s House and

Grace with her tales of collecting pipi from the

Suck of sand.


And on my walks across The City to the Cuba Quarter;

(The place where I’ve always felt more at home

Amongst the tatts and

the vegan coffee shops)

I first crossed the streets with Kate the Revolutionary

Saying ‘Yes! Safe to Go’ her face noted

On green-lipped currency

While up the other end of town

there’s Carmen glowing         red

as we in our quickly-changed-into-fake-Doc-boots and

denim-rhinestone-studded-minis step forward


across the painted lines of the streets.


Soldier – A Poem

The Territorials

Are training between the library

And the Florists.


Khaki braided women and tall

Broad shouldered men running

And ducking, circuit training with

Lick-of-spit-black-shine-boots kicking


from the stones.


There is history on one side in the manuscripts and

leather bound tomes
Death and marriage to the other in ribbon and stamen,

In the fleshy fist of petal.


These soldiers in training lift


As if they were flowers.



Love (from an Architect)

The houses are tall people knock-kneed with

Nervousness because

Of the dinner dates they long to go on.

They carry roses in their thick arms.

Wear red tiled hats. And

Stand very still

Hoping that the world will

Stop noticing them.


The only sort of notice they want is

The sort that comes handwritten,

And signed with an



The sort that come posted straight through the numbered grill

Of a hesitant and pounding heart.