All week this week we present new verse, to celebrate Phantom Billstickers National Poetry Day on Friday. Today’s poet: Sam Hunt of Kaipara. The further you look ‘The further you look the less you see’ she said as she smiled & went down on me. She talked of her marriage a contract … Read more
New verse by Kaipara poet Sam Hunt. Mum and Mary In the dream my mother is chatting with her friend, Mary, mother of Jesus – Mum and Mary sharing a joint. Mary tends to rabbit on about the cost of living, of everything ‘going up’; husband, Joseph, coming in lately … Read more
New verse by Kaipara writer Sam Hunt. My eldest brother the Atheist died Waitangi Day. No word from him no sign in vision or dream. He’s gone and gone for good like he said he would. My other brother, Jonathan, may he finds what he lives for a Catholic hereafter … Read more
New verse by Kaipara poet Sam Hunt. Reminding me I call my mother thirteen years dead the phone says there’s nobody home. The phone is right. My mother hung it up thirteen years ago, then died… But none of that stuff stops our night time chats, my mother telling … Read more
New verse by Kaipara poet Sam Hunt. Pissed by 11 Neither pop-inner or house-guest, I prefer an early-opener, patrons pissed by 11: the rest of the day the blur it always is. . . Some people say “Come and stay” or others, “I thought I’d just pop in” . … Read more
New verse by Kaipara poet Sam Hunt. So I don’t rightly know it’s even you – but being on the edge of what was like a lake I know which could only be seen when there was no sun, no moon, and that water so deep you’d know (if … Read more
New verse by Kaipara poet Sam Hunt. My father’s waistcoats My father’s waistcoats never had pockets. It was years later someone explained a good lawyer in court didn’t need notes… I never went with the law like my father would have liked. But I got to swing juries – … Read more
Voznesensky Voznesensky meeting his girlfriend in the rain is taking place tonight. There’s the same telephone box, late fifties, Voznesensky & girlfriend rooting like rattlesnakes. The whole world is shaking. Voznesensky himself is shaking. It must be love, he thought. Or a bad night. Or good … Read more
Death called by (I.M. Glenn Jowitt) Death called by the other day – no one was home at the time. A note, ‘Sorry I missed you’, stuck under the front door mat. I’m sorry I missed him too. I would have asked him on in, told him to kick off his boots … Read more