I like dinner music.
I like water in a clay jug.
I like it when the water rains on me.
I was just a tourist in those mountains. I drove wildly down steep
slopes through gorges and cascades. After the brutal descent, I
arrived at a belvedere with a breath-taking view.
I will tell you something: In 1897, three fragments of broken jug
were discovered in Egypt. They were 3000 years old. Poems were
painted on the fragments. One of them is
the poet smells his lover’s shirt . . .
In 1951, French Egyptologists found twenty-eight more pieces of
the same jug and the rest of the poem was restored
that sniff of sweetness instantly
transports him to the South Seas
O Rio dos Poetas
I met a sage in a state of bliss
who subsisted on a glass of milk each day.
Below him stretched a great emptiness
carved out of existence, the head-waters
of the Mondego River.
A short distance away was
the birthplace of the ‘discoverer’ of Brazil.
My father died in December.
With my brothers I carried him
to the low house reserved
for dead soldiers.
When it was my turn to speak
I recalled driving though green paddocks
in his Chevrolet,
the road driving into my eyes.
It was the first day of the holidays.
We got lost in the traffic
and separated from the cortege
so we stopped for sandwiches and beer
and played billiards in a club.
A band was set up to play
but after a dispute with the management
they took their gear away.
I hope I never
I hope I never
see that part of Auckland again.
Language is my neighbourhood.
I live in Alphabet City.
The people who live here open their hearts to the sun.
Today was the birthday of Louis Braille, the inventor of a reading
system for the blind,
the day the sputnik fell back to Earth.
My horoscope says:
‘Writing frequently will help you sustain a relationship with
someone at a distance.’
At night I watch the moon and imagine exciting places
over the horizon. Only a fool does not see that the vast
industrial economies are temporary. I say too much. My
throat is infected with words. At the country hospital, I am
treated by a beautiful doctor. That evening we drink wine
from the valley on the balcony of the hotel. Look, she says,
the moon is moving into the distance, three centimetres
each year, which is the speed at which fingernails grow!
We sing revolutionary songs until all hours, drinking to
friendship between our two countries. In her language, the
word for ‘Sunday’ is ‘resurrection’. I leave the following
This existence is not original.
Like love itself,
the universe is mostly smoke and mirrors,
I am I,
the beginning of illusion.
You are you,
the centre of confusion.
I write to you alone at night,
speaking into the silence.
LISTEN to ‘Movie’ by Alan Brunton
Alan Brunton was born in Christchurch in 1946 and died suddenly in Amsterdam on June 27, 2002. He sent Best New Zealand Poems the following biographical note on March 28th:
“Alan Brunton has published nine books of poetry including: Ecstasy, as well as compact disk: 33 perfumes of pleasure (Free Word Band, 1997). Co-editor with Murray Edmond and Michele Leggott of Big Smoke: New Zealand Poems 1960-1975 (Auckland UP, 2000). Co-founder with Sally Rodwell of the experimental theatre troupe Red Mole (ongoing since 1974) based in Wellington since 1988 and previously in New York, New Mexico, London and Amsterdam. Most recent theatre script: Comrade Savage (Bumper, 2000); most recent video production: Crazy Voyage (Red Mole, 2001). Has recently appeared at international festivals in Colombia (2000), Denmark (2001) and Norway (2002) but not yet in his own country.”
Brunton comments: “‘Movie’ is a death-trip; following the cortege away from his father’s funeral, a man gets lost, the journey fades into an earlier one through the mountains of Portugal. Everything falls apart, the man is left at his table with fragments of poems, talking to someone who is not there. This poem provides part of the text for the poem-video Heaven’s Cloudy Smile and appears also in Ecstasy (both available from Bumper Books, PO Box 7356, Wellington South).”