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Susanne Morning is a New Zealander currently working in Asia as a university lecturer. She has been published in several International journals and anthologies and is currently working on a collection of her own. Her poetry book can be seen/bought on www.IndianBayPress.com or www.cervenabarvapress.com. She is currently looking for a publisher for her second book "Faith Hope and Handbags."
TALK
She watches his eyes
a page difficult to turn
and wonders if he's
reached the plot.
No tip on this iceberg.
Her sonar scans for depth.
Camouflaged eyes.
5000 years of occupation
seep into the moment,
Mung beans balance
on her chopsticks.
His yogi legs embrace
the kitchen chair.
Lidless blender, eating open plan
he pauses and says,
"I'm still thinking."
INTERNATIONAL CALL
"I'm going to tell you I love you," he says,
her ears straining for tomorrow.
Kitchen clatters
twelve hours per day,
sushi and squid.
Calling card bleeps
telephone cord rings her empty finger
caressing the pauses.
One minute left
mind ajar, heart open.
Mountains of rice to scale
and tongues to cross.
She rolls a six
and moves forward.
BLESSING FOR BI- RACIAL UNION
Strengthen the ankles that walk
the strewn map to foreign love.
Mend her love with your broken English
catch his vision in your cupped heart.
Clothe strangers with your courage.
Wear his thoughts too large or small
upon your naked trust.
Press her crumpled patience smooth.
A gentle cycle waiting
for the final rinse.
OPIUM IN TURTLE SOUP
Longevity and luck
served in liquid green.
Eyes black as wild rice
promise I'll return
Dragons promenade the walls
fire down my throat,
enlightenment in my belly.
Floral seeds that
sprout a charmed contentment.
CHOPSTICKS
Hands nursed by the sun
pluck at her roots.
He beams,
a corridor of smiling,
ushers *kimchi to her
virgin palate
She grows
into a blood red rose.
Chopsticks peck
at bulging petals.
He wonders if
she¡¯ll go to seed.
She hopes the wind
will change direction.
*kimchi-fermented cabbage, soaked in chili garlic sauce.
HEARTBEAT
Chinese lentils on a gilt-edged plate
she chases organic sentiments
that elude her grasp,
watches them slip to the ground
and sprout in solitude.
A truth unearthed
it seems only fitting
to take this pulse
and bury it
on foreign soil. TRUDA
She prefers dusk to the zenith.
A lot of coffee in her cream.
She's popped olives from Israel,
smooched Golden Peaches from Chile
nibbled Brazilian nuts
and dined out on yellow dates in Thailand .
Today the repairman is adjusting the icebox.
Time for a fix and defrost.
Cleaning up he sprays Mr Magic
on the grimy door.
His eyes, pressed violets on an open page.
He strokes the clean surface and looks up at her.
"Quite something," he says.
She agrees.
She hasn't been this excited about
whiteware in a long time.
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International de Poésie, accesit (Paris, 2003).
…………………………………………………………………………………….
THAT BROTHER POISONING RIVERS
That brother poisoning rivers
opens a wide breach
dividing his life.
The hand that kills the fish eggs,
the finger commanding the world's roots to dry,
the fruit to rot before reaching his mouth,
the birds' wings to pass away in the air,
and silence to freeze the landscape of his own death,
this brother asking fungi
to appear amidst the yellow wheat,
the night to open in the heart of a high noon.
This brother who forces time
to go back until its abortion,
invoking skulls
in the middle of the feast of his own flesh,
does not know he is suiciding in the falling bird,
he does not know he is dying
where the stalk declines
its joyful green pilaster,
where all of the fields
becomes nothing.
This brother poisoning rivers
does not know he also envenoms the red river
deep inside him,
draining in his children's blood,
he who now fills it with petroleum in his infinite error.
The hand that raised the command
to fell the future
wrecked every hour of that day, tomorrow,
where there were gestures and faces
which looked after
that mistaken brother poisoning rivers.
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Beatlick Joe gives his own lecture at Thomas Branigan Library here in Las Cruces.
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Joe Speer and Pamela Hirst will be setting up camp in Big Bend area in the coming months. Check out the Terlingua Chili Cookoff for more information about Terlingua, the Beatlicks' new base camp in Texas.
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What wasps are for
By Robin Sturgess, UK
You shooed me out of the door once more
I heard you turn the key
Unkind until the end
Your subtle well-timed gestures
With my back to you I can feel the warmth
But not exuded from your affection
Just the air that's escaped forced into the cold
A moment of reflection You wore yellow and black most of the time
Which firmly reflected your nature
I always danced around your physical sweetness
But you have always been only half beautiful
When I stop making you paper nests
You'll wake and see much more
Put your teleology to one side
And you'll discover what wasps are for
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