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Bob Nimmo
New Zealand

Kitchen - Charles Olsen
Having graduated in Arts and Law at Canterbury University, he completed his post-graduate Teaching Diploma and some years later gained the T.E.F.L. qualification.
Bob has taught languages in Berlin, England, Singapore and New Zealand across all age groups to a number of nationalities and has lectured on English Literature.
Bob has performed, written and directed for the theatre and acted as a drama critic.
A member of the New Zealand Society of Authors, he is a full-time writer and is at present working on a new novel set in pre and post-war Singapore.
Deep Buried


Stretching out beyond, bland, lathering and livery. Unruffled
by the vagaries and sudden slights of weather, delivery

a timeless regularity, impassive of tapu treasures buried
deep which the curious dive and scrabble to disturb

and reap oblivious of a sleep unearned. Ribs of weathered
waka heady hours of fine-wrought art and wily wayfarers'

adventuring are lost in shell-encrusted grottos. Bleached
Mingatui might embraces porous pumice tossed irreverently

and saddled now o'er ridges where shafts of beaten boldness
lie and stringy wefts of kelp craft a new domain. Jubbles

of jelly jostle deadly 'mongst tiny arms and feet. Above the face
fierce-twisted in the molten moods that wreck the pearling teal

remains a veil for all that might enthral, appal or call the present
back to distant halls of heritage and man's forever journeying.


The wrinkling mass upended in a towering blast of molten madness
hurls its once mean'dring lines of daily drift upon a shore surprised

and soporific. Thund'ring tons of swirling soup sweep up the dopes
beyond the dunes, embrace the tremblers who have no place

to run, mangling men who caught in Mammon's fatal grip neglect
the ancient rites of homage and respect. Sluggish cars, gutted

palms, drunken signs and stuttering neon join the bruised and beaten
swishing round the cauldron. And then with night's cadenza the

curling human smoke betrays the penalty and price. In puddled streets
the stoic bow to Buddha and light another joss then

softly raise the canvas to go on with living as before
while courteously the tumult rumbles preparing to withdraw.


It sets a musical line
and seamlessly weaving
like one of Salome's veils,
carrying an effortless thrill
which soars with the horizon,
meeting the colours of morning
and retreating
into the mellow measures of night.

Out of Africa

I came upon a child in Africa
while on my way to climb.

So smooth and young and thin,
across his face a sad yet honest grin
etched on cheeks and brows leathered, torn
eyes with depths which buried sights well worn
and weathered deep into a raw, receptive soul,
sights such as only seasoned men
have any right to know.

His teeth were chiselled flints sun-clipped
to match that dangling from his ear.
Where once free laughter danced, a scar
turned most attempts at glee into a sneer.

He’d never seen the patterning of autumn leaves
because in his domain there were no trees.
No fresh-flowered fragrances had ever stung
nor rap songs clattered off that tender tongue.
His eyes won’t catch the light of starry skies
they flash with pride as one more feeling dies.

An AK47, sleek-oiled, back-strapped,
fingered skywards fiercely
in accusation over childhood stolen.
Fatigues hung tattered cov’ring boots too big
for feet best saved for plying soccer’s touch,
and yet I saw him kick a ball with friends
and hoped a moment’s innocence until I saw
it was a human head, grotesque and swollen.

We wander ruthless roads in doing good,
“Suffer little children to come unto me.”
And how the children suffer in the struggle to be free,
Where we look on as others separate the child from hood.

I’ve climbed, traversed wide swards of green and grey
across a dozen continents I’ve learned a hundred wisdoms;
why then when challenged thus, have I so little left to say?

Lost Light Grieving

I lie amongst the stars, beyond the touch of hurt
no longer do I feel neglect, abuse or dirt.
I do not twinkle though one day I might
when I become a sleeping part of night.

Now I am dead, five days ago I lived.

Below the wrangling and the hate go on
as friends and kin seek answers
they are terrified to find.
They didn't feel, they didn't see, they didn't hear.
How could such promise and such love be blind?

I only spent three months within their care;
ninety days of heartache and despair;
they thought I wasn't but I was aware.

Now I am dead, five days ago I lived.

They placed me in a baby's coffin sweet,
white and gold with scented roses wreathed.
Why did they waste themselves?
They should have brought me roses when I breathed.

Now they seek forgiveness, troubled souls;
I still love them though they deserted me.
But sorrow for a chance that's come and gone
drowns deep in tears of frail futility.

Now I am dead, five days ago I lived.