My Aotearoa

(circa.2002)

I travel in turmoil through Otago
during a crisp cool autumn,
trapped in my daze.

Music in my ears, cows, rolling hills,
and the sky all around.
The white stripes on the road
slide under the bus in a blur
then shoot out behind.
I press my forehead against glass
as my mind slides itself down repetitive,
angry trails of thought.
But the world is beautiful.
Itís the loud, fiery season of
colour Ė wither Ė decay.

Poplar pillars of vibrant yellow
like sunlight, against
dark water, and slopes ablaze
with glorious orange and reds.
And crunchy carpets
of shrivelling colour
swirling in willy-willies
up and down and round oneís feet.

On a southern beach
I walk across the fine pale sand
and the wind whips up.

And the sea haze
obscuring the headland
blurs the dusky golds and greys
of the sky, and the sea thatís breaking
itís waves on the rocks.

And paua: polished, shimmering fragments
of rainbow
are washed up across the sand

and the wind is cold,
and the beach is desolate,
and in the far
I see the horizon line where the sea
meets the endlessness.

In my evenings
the dark is still and soft,
the wind is warm and gusty,
also soft,
and the stars are bright
in the low hanging velvet
of sky.
Inside spices are being ground,
roti cooked, the news watched,
and I am restless.

Cars crawl their way along the street
and the people in these mobile metal cocoon's
never look up, never see me there
in the window
and never see my stretch my fingers out
just to be close to the soft, endless dark

willing it to swallow me.

In my mornings I find myself
walking
and I feel as though the air is swimming with
an insubstantial breathable form.
I breathe ice.

And there is ice on the paths,
a film of white frost
coating the street, the roofs,
the tops of the hedges.
And the sky is dark grey.

The surreal yellow street-light
only just bathes the street,
only just keeps deep grey
from swallowing sight.

The frost glitters underfoot
sparkly dots of light
bouncing off the slippery sheer surface.

Tread careful
walking across the white.




Poetry by Maija Liepins
Read 63 times
Written on 2017-01-11 at 19:01

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Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Well painted Artist.
2017-01-27


Eli The PoetBay support member heart!
I love this.
2017-01-17


Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Wonderful imagery.
2017-01-16


Ivan R
The pictures come one after the other, many, coming, passing and new come ahead; still, the tone is the same, laconic, almost waiting for something to happen that never does ... this is a wonderful poem, beautiful, strong and bleak at the same time ...

A great read, a great write, a remarkable scenery that goes on and on and i never want to stop seeing.
2017-01-13


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Otago is starkly beautiful. I loved. Oamaru.
2017-01-11