We Can But Hope...

The most encouraging sign of [unclear: ary] activity this year would seem to be the decision to hold a poetry [unclear: readin] the magnitude indicated below.

The VUW Literary Society and [unclear: d] Harcourt (who is so largely responsible) are to be congratulated. I [unclear: be] be most surprised if this endeavour is anything less than a magnificent [unclear: ess]. The Music Society has made careful preparations and the Students' [unclear: sciation] has seen fit to grant a reasonable sum for the production of "Argot", [unclear: s] seems to auger well for the future.. And so, to prayers . . .

Ward Six

In five minutes time my fingers are going to explode
time enough to rake under the dead nails of memory
and perhaps inspire
crystalline yet fibrous
metaphysical warts
to spring up in my cuticles
how we performed in those days
myself and my ferret-eared prick,
what exorcisms
with bell and
pornographic book
and anal candle
in four minutes time my fingers are going to explode
and the rings which I've made from fag ends
will shower ward six
with radioactive
seminal
dust.

Russell Haley

Sam Hunt

Lone Thing Mind Play

Here is a deserted garden
2 blackbirds live in a bush
o keep it that way
keep it simple
outside the fence wait
phalanxes of glittering chessmen
they stride about looking serious
outside the fence wait
Louis Philippe Napoleon Bonapart Nietzsche
construct them a three-cornered conversation
outside the fence wait
squads of athletes
trainers
lawnmowers
stop
time
tapemeasures
judges
watches
keepers
finders losers weepers
lone spectator
cheers from the stands he
rushes chanting down long rows
collecting stray balls javelins
bear with it
bear with it and
share it
here is a deserted garden
2 blackbirds live in a bush.

Photograph Of Robin In War-Paint

Those big eyes, they are like black
stones emerging through the snow.
Spring has made the mountains cry,
the whites of your wide eyes thaw . . .
Come on, no tears now!
I have seen you often, mouth
puckered and your hair undone.
Even war-paint on your face
won't frighten me dear Indian:
I've so often watched you
painting it all on, so know
the cheeky girl who tries to
startle the adults with a show . . .
But they are not interested.
They've already decided
long-haired cowboys should be scalped
and pretty Indians shot dead . . .
So come on, let's go to bed.

The Word And Its Being

Anthrax Spores are Still Alive and Lethal on The Abandoned Scottish Coastal Island of Gruinard More Than Two Decades After The Biolocical Warfare Experiments That Took Place There During World War Two.

take the sentence for instance at the end of its tether, a privy and you its augmenter. evil is to urge your mind with the clutter of the literal verb. but think on cinematography: where there is a logical persistance of the image beyond recognition except in bitten chambers of the brain where contusion in the prospect of the subjunctive rages long awhile. its beauty as the intuition is breached by its implications then does the language shift into the infinite.

the sentence is an imposition. that grammar is a pencilwound in the shadow of a verb, what is necessary is morphology of the Word itself is a symbolic form.

A Chemical-Tipped Rocket Could Punctuate The AtmosPhere's Ozone Shield And Thereto An Avalanche Of Ultraviolate Rays Would Shrive All Exposed Life Below.

it is the century's condition that the lingua should be offioered by the meek, the estates of the brain are synonymous with the estates of the kulaks. an age between these estates and so the potential to suicide the personality. we are all of adepts of madness. a psychosis of violence is done the Word.

vietnams staged in the individual at every perception. divorce between the intuitive experience and the imposed response. in this way and forever it seems we needle ourselves with a voilence beyond measure. our curiosity is what is destroyed by this process of subtraction, we are all implements of the invading Them and we are paranoid because Them has no identity, the word is mad.

Plague Anthrax EncephaloMyelitis Brucellosis And ParRot Fever.

A Poetry reading will be held in LB1 tonight, commencing at 7.30 p.m. and featuring the work of some young New Zealand poets. The Music Society will also provide two items, one of which has been composed for this occasion. The admission charge will be 20 cents.

Programme

• Baroque music performed by members of the Music Society.

• Poetry readings by Derek Melser, Jim Horgan, Dennis List and Sam Hunt.

• First performance of a composition by a contemporary New Zealand composer, Lyell Cresswell, performed by members of the V.U.W. Music Society.

• Interval.

• Poetry readings by Russell Haley, Ian Wedde and Alan Brunton.

• Jazz and blues, performed by an Auckland group.

• Russell Haley's play, 'The Adoration of Za'oud".

The [unclear: etse ets]

Sam Hunt: Born [unclear: Casto], 1946. Lives on an estuary north of [unclear: Wellon].

Jim Horgan: Born [unclear: ir] [unclear: t]

Dennis List: Bom [unclear: 194] [unclear: res] in a house near a road.

Derek Melser: Bora [unclear: edin] 1945. Lives in Wellington.

Ian Wedde: Born [unclear: Bl] him, 1946. Lives in Auckland.

Alan Brunton and [unclear: Ell] Haley: no details other than [unclear: th] than they live in Auckland.

[unclear: Compser]

Lyell Cresswell: [unclear: B] about 1946. B.Mus. (Hons.) (Vic.) Lives [unclear: ellington.]

Alan Brunton [unclear: sell] [unclear: Haley].

Ian Wedde

From Out Of The Cosmos

From out of the
cosmos and the spherical harmony
of children's
dreams
deep
in love the
same sounds come, and they are
soothing as
sleep;
stride
of the monad
and slide of children's hearts
arace in
warmth
are
one in their
care-covering of gulfs beyond
leap. Cry of
child
and light of
the world are twin screams of a
consciousness
bom
of
the same blind
hub shaped in a wheel of winds,
ribs of new
suns.
my
child Adam
is strapped in a wild-wrought rim
spinning in
space,
yet
of twinship
with the Divine he knows nothing
but that he
loves.

Jim Horgan

Jim Horgan

The Tesseract

How many coincidences
have I forborn to arrange?
How many cryptic messages
haven't I scattered through history,
or scribbled in books, on fences,
or the path outside my gate,
before you pretended not to know me?

Asterias

If I were to tell you
of the red and white rainbow;
I had found it at last;
Would you still go hunting glowworms on the coast?

The Reflections Of Franklin As He Hid With A Fox On A Hilltop, WatchIng The Valley Of Foreboding

As I trudged across the empty savannah
I kept passing signposts, inscribed:
Still 9 Miles To Foreboding
(but 9 miles back where I'd come from).
At last I knew: there were two Forebodings,
each marked by a signpost to the other
and fools trudged to and fro between them,
across the empty savannah.
As I headed for a haven,
a high place from which foxes watch,
I chanced to read a paper hat
made from an old newspaper, headed:
Franklin Again

Portrait Of A Girl

The placid moongilt harbour is
the mask beneath which, slowly
writhing like a leg in ecstacy,
a poor eel dying on a set line
shares her lonely last
with the gang of lice inside her
carving up her guts.

Derek Melser

Derek Melser

On the sand, sunbathing
in my new togs, reading,
and having a few from my flask,
I must have flaked—I woke
to water hissing, cursing at my feet
and hurriedly got up (collecting my towel).
The beach was deserted;
the sun, behind the skyline,
blushing faintly ....