2 Poem #2 - Tsunami Sonnet - Michael O'Leary

Tsunami Sonnet

Such devastation on such an enormous scale
Is almost too difficult to comprehend: almost

But we have seen it all before. The piles of corpses
The twisted, gnarled limbs reaching heavenward

Hands and feet and half rotted heads, eyes bulging
In the tropical-paradiso sunshine, the light

And the heat makes even disaster sparkle
And shine across the Asian playgrounds

My friend, whose name is the sea, sits crying at
Television images bursting through the safety of the lounge

While I sit unanimated and stony-faced, stunned
And stunted before the spectre of human tragedy

But, whether by the random acts of nature, or
Premeditated human deeds, we have seen it all before

2 Poem #1 On the tip of my tongue - Michael O'Leary

On the tip of my tongue

Another attempt at love
Has left me far away
Away from her
And away from myself
The melancholy of failure
Lies like an aftertaste . . .

Just beyond the reaches
Of my taste buds and tongue
The smell of peaches
Bursting open in the sun

The surge and scent so strong
Beginning as a ripple
The milk and honey song
Springing from her nipple

The hope and then the loss
Ideal then reality
Love is like a cross
To carry for eternity

On that crucifix is offered
The false water of life
For that which is proffered
Is like a liquid knife

Which rather than quenching
The thirst of the dying person
Only succeeds in wrenching
Moisture from the mouth and worsen

The craving . . . Oh well, what the fuck!
Next time it will be better . . .

‘She’s funny
Wants my money
Calls me honey
Her name is . . .’ – the rhyme, its on the tip of my tongue, and
She laughs when I sing that song to her with a sparkle in my eye . . .

Poem #50 - Literary Warfare - Michael O'Leary

Literary Warfare
(a reply to a letter)

. . . the monolithic insult
of unintelligible language
mis-spelt, and misunderstanding
the situation and the people
as completely
as is humanly possible . . .

I am an artist!

. . . not a pigeon
for you to stick
the appropriate
digital
message
in its hole . . .

I am a writer!

. . . not a pig
whose fat drips
the nearer the flames
from the cold fire
of the soul-less, udder-less
corporate sow gets . . .

I am of the people!

. . . and if
you think you can
buy us off with
nothing
then look behind you
every step you take . . .

Poem #49 'Dedikation to Graeme Collins' - Michael O'Leary

Dedikation to Graeme Collins – a man of our times

Seeing you there, lying in the bed of a hospice
Each breath struggling to become your last
The bones of your body sticking through your skin
You looked like one of those terrible survivors
From Auschwitz or Belsen, condemned to living
Death, by your own internal cancer-nazi killer

So full of life, knowledge and aroha were you
Only a few short months ago. Your life had
Spanned and eclipsed all our lives – you were at
The forefront, leading and living your life through
Philosophy and ideas embodied in the Chinese
Word for music, which translates as enthusiasm

Riding into town from suburban obscurity
Long before Upper Hutt Posse had been heard of
Or were even born! That photo of you holding
The first brought Beatles ticket in Wellington
Later you were the first, with the cleaning lady,
To hear the Sergeant Pepper’s album in New Zealand

Dedikation was the name of the band you played in
It was also the word you lived your life by
Whatever you believed in became your passion
Whether it was saving the Clutha or the Coromandel
With your Irish-rebel sounding name and demeanour
Living on the edge, and open drug-doors of perception

Such a life is often not easy to live with, either
By the one who lives it, or those who share it
But even those lovers who left still loved you deeply
Never stopped caring for you, nor you for them
The true artist you were in many manifestations
Was always infused by love, as true art always is

The opera we worked on together remains unfinished
Hinemoa and Tütänekai frozen, like Keat’s urn, in time
At least in our interpretation, but as with all love stories
The words and music we were writing will be continued
By the next generation riding into town from the suburban
Wilds, inspired by the underdogs and outlaws of their art

Brother, Graeme Collins, in a mixture of our understanding and indignation
Your death, like your life, echoes the high times and tides of our generation

Poem #48 - Waiheke Ferry - Michael O'Leary

6.15 Waiheke Ferry to Auckland, Wednesday 20 July, 1983

The line of the low hill undulates
As I keep my head still
And let the boat do all the . . .
movement

Darkness shrouds my journey but
There is light
In the sky the stars and the moon shine like pearls
Waves break along the bow
White foam almost frozen by the cold
I am in tune with the natural melancholy
I move like an iceberg from shore to shore

For me this is the end of journey and beginning
Dressed in black, I resign
For years I have traveled in pursuit
You made sure I was always one step behind
Covered your trail whenever I got close

From the safety and calm of the bay
The ferry now sails into open waters

Rangitoto reminds me of you
Looks the same from any angle
Except close-up
But the sky is not on fire tonight
And, if I am alight it is with the fire of ice

Two lovers come on deck
They feel the chill in the night air
When they turn and see me, dark and still
Perhaps they feel another chill . . .
they leave for the cabin
This evening takes on a rare quality
This boat could be anywhere
if it weren’t so cold
We might be travelling from
one Greek Isle to another
And I might be anyone
instead of thinking of you
I could be in the warm arms of a lover . . .
But I wouldn’t have it any other way
Austerity has a beauty all its own

I try to imagine from which position
North Head was named
Why not South Head etc
You are fading from me
I am being engulfed by the lights
and distractions of the city
I try to think of why I love you
But things are moving too fast
the boat is making up lost time
the boat is making up lost time
With Auckland upon us people emerge from inside
I find I am talking to someone
he has been chopping trees at his section

My friend who waits for me on the wharf
Greets me with a jovial “Hello sailor!”
Immediately I get ashore we go to a pub
Where I down a double whiskey to break the ice

Poem #47 - Michael O'Leary

Okahu Bay

Dark night, wind off the harbour

Once you approach the sand

The pohutukawa trees surround you

The moon, cut in half and half-hidden by clouds

Provides the only natural light

Each wave that laps at your feet

Has reached you from eternity

The darkness of self - of unremembered soul

The night within embraces my vision

The sadness of each memory

Is like each wave of water

Together they make a flood of tears

Which drown the cries of the heart

This evening you were the moon to me

The only pure light in a life of shadows

Like the moon you too hid behind a veil

Showing light enough for life, but not for love

After a time we left for Okahu Bay

Broke through the line of pohutukawa

I let you walk ahead so you would not see me

Kneel, then kiss the ground,

The ground of my childhood, the ground of my life

Okahu

(as translated by Jean Wikiriwhi)

Kua pouri, ka pupuhi te hau

Mai i te moana,

Hurihuri nga pohutukawa,

Te Marama hangere, kua ahua ngaro i te kapua

Ko tenei anake te maramatanga,

Ke ata papakihia mai e nga ngaru a wae

Ka te pouri au, kua wareware te ngakau,

Ko te po kei te awhi i taku kitenga,

Te aroha ki tena ki tena,

Pera ki ia ngaru o te wai,

Hui katoa, ka heke te manawa,

I tenei ahiahi ko koe

Te marama ki ahau

Ko kou te maramatanga, i tenei ao pouri,

Pera i te marama kahuna kou i

Ko te maramatanga hei oranga, kaore mo te aroha

A, ka wehe mai i Okahu

Ka mahue nga pohutukawa,

Ko koe i mua, kia kore koe e kite i ahau

Ka tuturi, ka kihi i te one,

Ko te one o taku tamarikitanga,

                        to one o taku oranga ...

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