FRED BUIJN

 

A Father to a Daughter

 
I can’t decide, 
what she resembles most. 
A free range chicken, 
or a circus clown. 
Raven, 
dressed in a scarlet woolen chook 
beanie, 
with chicken legs 
for ear warmers, 
and black ‘trackies’. 
The epitome, 
of tween fashion 
chic. 
 
I panel beat my smile, 
straight. 
As her blue eyes 
lock in, 
‘and you know’ 
(in that again voice) 
‘they don’t go’ 
(the used toilet rolls) 
‘in the hand basin’. 
Then hands me the roll, 
and leaves. 
The executioner of small things. 
 
Then later, 
on the drive home, 
slouched in the passenger’s seat 
and feet on the dash. 
Her earphones almost invisible, 
as the wind catches 
her hair. 
Her ipod, 
held like a second steering wheel, 
as she navigates, 
like some musical astronaut, 
other skies, 
other worlds. 
 
And as we round 
McGreggor’s bend, 
and the Honda 
gears up for the hill. 
I steal another glance at her, 
then crash the old girl into second, 
thump the accelerator hard, 
with the engine screaming – 
‘You go girl, 
Raven, 
You go.’ 
 

The Estuary

 
Your love turns me again. 
My stream quickens to your measured quiet. 
My mouth bites, 
at the salt of you. 
 
My stream quickens to your measured quiet. 
The sea grass bends to you, tide. 
At the salt of you. 
The silver tongue of ebb and flow. 
 
The sea grass bends to you, tide. 
At the touch of your reed-smooth guile. 
The silver tongue of ebb and flow. 
The mullet begin to bite. 
 
At the touch of your reed-smooth guile. 
The yellow-bellied eel and kahawai run fat. 
The mullet begin to bite. 
The flax unravels and spins. 
 
The yellow-bellied eel and kahawai run fat. 
My green heart is in flood. 
The flax unravels and spins, 
for you. 
 
My green heart is in flood. 
My mouth bites, 
at the skin of you. 
Your love turns me again. 
 

The Steel of your Bleeding

 
If you are the Circus thrower’s knife, 
I am the steel of your bleeding. 
 
If you are the knocking of the drunk at the door, 
I am the silence of your breathing. 
 
If you are the spring of the kowhai’s green, 
I am the yellow of your hunger. 
 
If you are the tongue of love’s honeyed breath, 
I am the gulled-eyes of the drowning. 
 
If you are the turn of the Russian’s gun, 
I am the click of the barrel. 
 
If you are the dead gull’s spinning flight, 
I am the wired wind at your door. 
 
If you are the roll of the gambler’s dice, 
I am the severed head at your fall. 
 
If you are the hangman’s sweat at noon. 
I am the swinging rope of your healing. 
 
If you are the rust of the harpooner’s blade, 
I am the steel of your bleeding. 
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Fritz is a writer from Tauranga in the Bay of Plenty. Although writing since a teenager, he’s taken it more seriously in recent years. He is currently in his second year of the online creative writing programme at Whitireia Polytechnic. His poems have been published by the New Zealand Poetry Society, and are appearing in forthcoming publications from 4th Floor, Blackmail Press and UK and New Zealand online poetry journals.

Fritz says, “I can assure you the poems have been written with 97% hard work and some inspiration somewhere along the way…”.

 

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