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This Paradox That Is Life
Of Ink Spots & Printed Lines
An Assortment of Poems 
eLJei addict
The following are an assortment of poems I wrote during a creative writing paper I took during the summer. As such, all of them are inspired by in-class exercises (as was part of our final assignment). Nothing too spectacular.

Old Man Reaching

He reaches upward, praying
His rotted skin peeling
Revealing bone and hurts
To a sky never reached.

Dark children hide, quietly
Beneath their leafy canopy,
Odd white toes peeking
Still the old man reaches.

All-seeing eyes look on, unflinching
Tall and proud, unblinking
Casting light on a concrete beach,
Still the old man reaches.

God in his glory, standing
High above hands reaching.
Cold and hard, sickly grey
Still the old man prays.

(This poem written from ideas inspired by the simile practice exercise between Central Library and Registry.)

Faraway On Home Shore

Two majestic sisters stood side-by-side,
Looking upon the ocean and the world.
They saw their futures with promise and pride,
But in 1912 it all unfurled.

In came April with its iceberg-filled seas
The youngest, going too fast, hit the ice.
Her starboard badly gashed, her insides seized,
And for that she paid the ultimate price.

Panic filled the air that night, screams, shouts, cries
Trampling, snapping, groaning as her aft rose.
Deep within, little sister slowly dies
An almighty snap – a roar! – down she goes.

All were one – the ship, the rich and the poor.
In the Atlantic, the dead, the frozen
Swimming naked on the cold ocean floor
While above waited the living, the broken.

Their lives before them seemed all but veiled,
And back on home shore a sister wailed.

(Sonnet inspired by the photo of the White Star Line sister-ships, RMS Olympic and RMS Titanic.)

The Life of Heart

The heart beat begins the tune,
To lives it brings a life a new.
Of love it brings and gives, a boon.
It beats strong in some and none in few.

The heart spies gold, an ugly thing,
It twists the heart, makes it yearn for greed.
A life of opulence and living like a king
What once a want is now a need.

The heart turns black, an inescapable void,
Seeing nothing joyful takes its toll.
Darkness consumes, engulfs, swallows heart whole,
Heart rebels against the head and soul.

The heart feels an icy grip around it
Winter doesn’t last forever
But where black is hate, white is death
The heart beat’s tune now never.

The heart joins the stars at night
To wish upon, to weep over, to hope
That bright one there is the heart
Loved, consumed, rebelled and dead.

(This poem written from ideas inspired by the senses exercise, using three words to describe certain things (heart, gold, black, winter, stars).)

St Patrick’s

Tall, white and majestic,
It towers above all.
Standing out like a jewel
On the crown of Her Majesty.
Like a white gothic thumb,
That sticks out sore and pale.
Bare trees and dead street,
Bow and kneel before
The cathedral in its splendour.
Looking cold, imposing, too big,
While wooden house shrinks,
Like a pauper,
In a rich man’s shadow.

(Poem inspired by photograph of St Patrick’s Cathedral, in Palmerston North.)

Domestic Goddess

Bring forth the morning hour,
In which she stomps along her way.
Mumbling, rumbling, grunting things most sour,
You can hear her from streets away.

She’s the queen of the streets,
A horrid domestic goddess.
All offerings left kerbside she eats,
With a hunger that makes to impress.

She looks like shit and smells like it too,
Her girth is huge with tonnes to match.
Dressed in her robes of grey and dirty blue,
And black rubber shoes with many a scratch.

When the sun sets in the west,
She’ll stomp along her way.
Mumbling, rumbling, stumbling home to rest,
She will be back on Friday.

(Poem written from ideas garnered from personification exercise)

Flying Deaf Zombie

I wish that I had a fish,
That swam around its bowl.
But I have seven dogs, a frog
And nine black cats I stole.

I wish I could sing in tune,
Without breaking windows, now
But I am deaf, you know,
So I simply don’t see how.

I wish that I were slightly taller,
To boost my height five nine.
But when I fly around the sky,
Being short is mighty fine.

I wish that I was fit,
So that I could run a mile.
But cardio is not for me,
I simply bring forth bile.

I wish I were more social,
To talk, to joke, to mingle.
But I am a zealous zombie,
Human flesh makes me tingle.

But now I’m very sorry,
I wish I had not told you.
For these wishes of mine,
They likely won’t come true.

(This poem written from ideas inspired by the ten lies and wishes exercise, from Kenneth Koch’s Wishes, Dreams and Lies.)


White blooms in the shade
Surrounded by green and grey,
Sun does not touch it


Branch reaching outward
Toward the grey it touches,
But never reaching.


Metal beside wood
Attempt at blending failed,
Comes alive at night.


Big green blocks the sun
Those beneath succumb to shade,
Light between the gaps.


Dead leaf wound around
A metal thing uncaring,
Sun watches fading.

(All haikus written outside, between the North Lecture Theatres block and Central Library.)

Incessant Weight

I’m the one they all love, admire
The cool guy they want to be like.
But they don’t know what I hide,
A dark weight they will hate.
My friends, they notice a change,
“It’s nothing, don’t worry,”
I say.
Fake smile plastered on my face.

I live the motions of my life,
While the secret gnaws at me.
Slowly consuming, begging release,
Buzzing louder each day and night.
So heavy, this secret I bear,
It weighs me down and annoys me,
The pain it brings, I scream inside.
And still its buzz’s grow louder.

Then one day I cave…

Heavily, I walk into the house,
Calming deep breaths as I do,
A piercing buzzing ringing my ears.
English commentators greet me
“Come watch the game,”
They say.
With nails digging into clenched fist,
I oblige and follow chatter down the hall.

I stumble onto mid-conversation,
Dad talking at my little brother,
Who doesn’t listen, fully watching
Eleven on eleven, grinning.
“You don’t take the world seriously,”
Dad says.
My brother laughs and casts a glance,
I slip a grin, I love him dearly.

“Life’s too short to worry, Dad,”
I say.
He glances my way, I look away,
Towards my brother, who’s watching the game.
Dad replies but to me he buzzes.
Familiarity ripped, a coldness creeps,
Heaviness settles. I look at Dad and say,
“I’m gay.”

It’s finally out, the secret free,
The weight of it gone, light I feel,
The buzzing stops, cue still silence,
The English commentators laugh,
“What a shot!”
They say.
A heartbeat thud, I wait for words,
And when none come I run.

The wind picks up a shivering breeze,
I hunch upon myself for warmth.
My head is quiet, waiting, fearful.
A noise, I turn and there stands Dad,
“Come home, son,”
He says.
A hint of something in his voice,
A tiny smile, hand stretched out.
“Nothing has to change.”

(Poem inspired from persona exercise.)
Apr.15.11 (UTC)
For some reason, I can’t see all of this content, stuff keeps hiding? Are you taking advantage of java?

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