Trevor Landers
country : New Zealand 
Trevor Landers, b.1972,  is a Lecturer in Communication at The Open Polytechnic of New Zealand, having previously held teaching positions in English and History at the Universitatei de Vest in Timisoara, Romania and Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand.  He was a foundation member of the World Postgraduate Association and a prominent postgraduate activist in his native New Zealand.  Trevor has been widely published, most recently this month in Never Bury Poetry, Poetic Hours, Pierian Springs, Trout, Indite Circle and Sendecki. He is also the Managing Editor of the The Zealot Press.


 Why young men grieve for those lost

Avid for tenderness and for disasters
    swinging between supreme audacity and frightful anguishes
        there is a hallowed ordinariness
   as unimaginable to real beings as life itself
      she tore herself on brambles, surrounded herself in thorns
   becoming a wound, never allowing herself to be enclosed
     by anything, or anyone, and therein lies the great love we
         have of the those lost unto light, these are the tortured
              love affairs of my generation

Under your spell

And you, whose words are so
   deceptively bold
  hostage under your spell
there was no true somersault
of passion, only a face hidden
under the duvet
nibbling your ear....and then
  tomorrow it was gone, just another lover
    we only get one night these days.

The year of grace

Sun kisses on leaves and fog embraces bridges
play of children in the dusk, defrosting, frozen love
gnawing on their cheeks
my love raining cares on their mothers
a pity for the flowers
and for that melody I sing to you
every night
(Joe Dassin, my love, "L'ete indienne")
and every twilight
new perspectives of death cry out in my harassed pacing

the singularity of love

 ah, the singularity of love
    different as every wind-blown Pohutukawa tree
studding the walkway along esplanade at Rona Bay,
      each lover as gnarled and gorgeous
  as those misshapen limbs and rubescent flowers
     that make summer the season ripe for walking.

The Economics of Love

their love is uneconomic
   it will not pay the rent
        or keep the accountants from maladjusting currencies
  --usurers know nothing of the ways and value of rich loves--
    yet they ebb, have a similar volatility, have an index of sorts
        but Romanian interest rates attract attention,
    discourage investment; forclosing the small mortgages of love
    and yes, they have flush accounts for kisses, hugs, embraces
      and it is there and in their imagination, economics is undone.

 The same desperate falling

The same desperate falling that I have
known all my life appear again. It is true. For days
now I haven't found a new way of loving you, a new
system for avoiding doubts. Perhaps coming home did
that, the feeling of being again out of all time.
Perhaps I am really as immature as you yourself think
I am. A child. Not fit to stay alone, not able to make
decisions, not experienced enough to live, for God's
sake,  a prisoner of the same desperate falling.

Study, from life

the arc of dark penis
like a question mark,
and me, fixed on it, questioning.
As if it could spill his secrets
easily as seed,  tumescent, it surprises me,
this is all we have to think of nowadays

Running down Oroua Street, midnight hours

      crept out last night, didn't want to wake you,
 gorgeously in dreamworld, sorry if you were disturbed
      the pitch of the night was extraordinarily beautiful &
beauty's murderer, ran from the crime, handing myself
      in a sthe Police Station on Murutai Road as the
              dawn of benediction rose about you.
        I have only good thoughts of you.

Notes on Reading the Poet

Do thou serenadeth me with sonnets
              of the hum of bumble bee
          on cucumber-coloured lawns
       under smiling suns
   and not know, that I am well-read
            and I have heard it, love,
                  maybe a trillion times, mostly unsaid

 Locul controlului si emergenta zvonurilor

there is a place
  when the evening sun is greeted
     by chorus of birdsong, the trams are a distant din
        and the patients mope around in dressing gowns
   trying to forget about themselves
       and this is the locus of control, and in the
            blackened rooms of the the hopital psychiatrica
   this, is when rumours emerge.