These poems have taken many years to complete; I have re-edited many times. This is a selection of the better ones. Some of my favourite poets are Basho, and the Japanese Haiku tradition. Although I don't write in that style, I am influenced by ideas of succinct visualisation.

Another poet of note is Robert Hayden, an American poet who is well worth a look. For a good book on his life and work try reading 'The Auroral Darkness', By: John Hatcher.

Hone Tuwhare is another great poet from New Zealand, I met him when I was in my teens, I was living on a small New Zealand island called Waiheke. I exchanged an early drawing of mine for a signed copy of one of his collections of poetry, 'No Ordinary Sun (1964)'. At the time I didn't appreciate his worth as a poet, but contact with him and the encouragement of my English teacher were an influence in my continued interest in writing.

If you are interested in prose, see my novel A Shade Near White, which is currently under development.

Flora fauna, spinning top blue, children play, grainy old films, in the attic. Human children play with toys, objects got in, how get out. Twist of a black and white finger, twirl set this motion world going round the furnace winding fair wheel, swirling brisk milk sweet fairy sugar floss.

Blue dark pinholes white.
Calm sojourn there somewhere in gravity's pull.
Staring out within, from gently clashing spears, black needles night.

Squinting lid cerebral spheres seeing liquid fuzz,
Eyeball under dust motes large great sea shell mountain lake,
Source that imagined bright wild child mind.
That tall grass pricked the sky,
Aeons weeping out, light like sands in the Ganges.

Buddha's stone wearing, enlightenment.
Bodhisattva's rag tongue worn to a stump,
Can't tell the story, lost the ancient path.
Gagged and gagging, inner truth helpless witness in the back alley. The starving in the main street watch the pageant of the pompous roll by off the end of the flat earth.
All the irony of the ink surface, a one-buck pamphlet and the word Baha.
The white powdered boney road, the egos of the weak, damned, and starving
Crushed into fine dust under foot; a road where nothing is brought,
Everything left behind.

In the night,
Her naked body
Plunged silently into a mirror of stars.
In the day,
After the ripples
Had found the waters edge,
He could not tell that she had been that way.

Red water soaked clay,
The clotted blood of lovers.
Earth on the potters hands,
Congeal to hold disparate particles.
Lay down sleep, flow, liquid wind,
Over harsh stony bed hearts.
River of martyr's,
Until like dust and mud,
Baked hard into submission.
A vessel for clear water,
For the potters use.

Hidden beneath the brightest smile,
Behind every beaming eye,
The essence of the sweetest touch,
The marriage of wisdom and suffering is consummated.
And what person would be without their smile,
Without their compassionate light.

In rarefied air,
A leaf falls landing lightly
On the glassy surface,
An invisible hand reaches out to touch it.
And I wonder
In what direction will the wind blow.

To some a clandestine message.
To others Faith.
Authority in the Author,
The stage had been pre-set
At the dawn of earths unveiling.
Each actor had their part,
But none knew it.

A dew bead spy's a convex sky,
Seated on petal array,
Amidst fragrant mist.
Rise up light water globe,
Make haste to a cyclic sun
Before the earth spins again.


Copyright ©  Dimitri Tishler                                                                       top

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