blackmail press 16
Natasha Leafberg
new zealand
Bio: I was an avid reader from a very young age and constantly immersed myself in
literature. While I loved reading novels and short stories, I soon realised
that writing poetry was my true passion.  Somehow the words just seemed to
appear on the page like they were already there in invisible ink. The words
seemed to have a mind of their own and would spill out in all directions
almost out of control. However, on closer inspection this myriad of words
somehow made sense. They were alive and fighting to be seen, for they were
tired of hiding.

The inspiration for many of my works can be attributed to my profession. I
am a secondary school English teacher now based at Edgewater College.  My
poem "South Auckland Styles" is one of my favourites because it emphasises
the richness of South Auckland culture which I experienced from living and
teaching in both Manurewa and Papakura. My earlier poems are based on
specific films which triggered deep and sometimes painful emotions within
me.

"Poetry is my counselling for the soul. It is my lifeline; it is the
rhythmic beating of my heart"


A NEW BEGINNING


Like an unfurling frond

it began

this misadventure into never never land.


Gold glitter scattering the dust of my ashes

moon dust

on a scratched surface.


Could have been a recipe for disaster

a pollution of the earth

gold rimmed, grimy mud.


Yes a recipe for disaster

a mixture of pollutants

gold encrusted, petrol based.


But.


Diamonds shone from the layer of gold

Jewels were uncovered from encrusted earth


And.


a  gold glitter scattered the dust of my ashes.





REALISATION


Beneath the glittering façade

Something strange stretches

Hungry.

It dances lightly beneath the surface

It's there

Waiting.

Slowly it expands

Stretching its wings preening

Its desire palpable

It consumes itself while it waits

Light feathers dance across its cheeks

Spreading traces of glittering gold

Its innocence depraved

Seemingly striking

It waits

For its next exorcism.




SOUTH AUCKLAND STYLES

I fit into this culture

South Auckland styles

South Auckland smiles

On me.

It shines in a different light from East, West, Central city

It has a different flavour

It tastes nice

Flavoursome

It doesn't taste bitter or sour

It doesn't taste of lemon

That acrid flavour

It tastes of bananas.

It smells different too

It doesn't smell of fumes or diesel

It smells like petals with a hint of herb.

The people and kids seem different too

Almost from another world

Less uptight, more accepting

Their smiles aren't laced with lemon

Their smiles are laced with life

Fear, poverty, violence

Laughter, whanau, celebration

The Tangata Whenua, Rangitira

Aotearoa

Original inhabitants of the land

Once theirs

Given back piece by piece

As if to appease.

I feel their anger

Every day

I live in it

Like them

I am to blame.

I fit into this culture

It feels nice

Carved out for me

By the tongue of my ancestors

The wairua rests

In my heart





THE PIANO

Amongst the glistening tide,
Spreads angels' wings',
Where angel's fear to tread,             
Yet thrill to spy,
Always the wandering eye,
Of one already dead.

                                                
Drunken state of lonliness
Control of fear, the lion's lair,
PREYING ( praying),
Sweet smells of musical air,
Refreshingly bitter,
The tone of lulling
                 seeps
                 creeps
                deepens your despair,


                                                       
The sorrow to disappear,
Self annihilation precipitates the fall,
To self realisation.  

                              
  The Piano is.         





PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK

I disappear
Behind the rock
It knows my fate
A ticking clock.

STOP!!!

Transgressions
Deferred rewards
The afterlife of flashing swords

Bruised and battered
It spits me out
Time forgot
A roundabout

Of spinning thoughts and broken time
12.00
A paradigm

It leaves me wounded with mocking scorn
Alleviate
My soul so torn.

Digesting those, they broke the mould
One daffodil, the other gold
A Botticelli angel cursed
To know the sleek, long, travelling hearse.

To the grave the laughter cries
Once alive, now buried
DIES.





THE CREEPING WOMAN

( inspired by Charlotte Perkins Gilmans short story called "The yellow Wallpaper" )



I creep in open spaces

with hollowed out crevices.

My shoulders mould to walls.

I lie and wait

For night.

Approaching captivity

all consuming passivity.

Fear encroaches

John approaches.

The rope lies still

Swinging

Side to side it sways.

The law of motion obeys

The swinging rope it stays

With passion it sways

Stay

in one place

Fray

Afraid not

A frayed knot

It mocks

" not ill, take a pill"

Lack of will obeys

John,

Vehicle of mockery

Laughs "as sick as she pleases"

Pleases to be sick

"Dick"

Why?

Wallpaper torn away,

The layers of scorn

          RIPPED

Fragmented the self

Embodied in the room

Its gloom.

John,

The key is at the door.

I want to astonish him
             admonish him

             abandon him

Abandoned me!

The key is at the door

It's not

Under the plaintain leaf.

Retrieval

Upheaval

Survival

Suicidal

Homicidal

The rope's still swinging

The doors locked

"the key is under the plaintain leaf John"

The door opens

The body broken

The knot frayed

The body splayed

The creeping woman laughs

Creeping over its path

Death

The smell has gone
John.





DESPERATE REMEDIES

Red, whip into submission,
The narnia queen of ice,
Thrice the card is dealt,
Its score repression.

Ravishing, longing, ensconce myself,
Your embrace intrigues, consumes,
In your desire,
To possess.

Sexual energy consummate to grief,
Scenes, erotic masculinity,
Debased, abused.

Red scandal
Rape of sisterhood,
Longing to touch the wound which fed it,
Bloodthirsty for its suck.

You handle and ravage the gaping wound,
As I resist your attack,
I turn and fly to the shores of safety,

I look back.

Standing there,
You shine in a different light,
One which does not intrigue

And I retreat on a sailing ship,
To
   A
      World
               Of
                    Make
                             Believe.


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