Pete Spence

Poem: Beginning With a Line By Norma Pearse.

a pig from a message machine
sitting out in a foreground of bustle
where a lot of hay seems to be made
it isn't the sun burning the soup

        a lot of unclaimed dust
        the day is taking a powder!
        sheer strips of light piled up
        something to lean upon
        in a lean upon afternoon
        it just sort of says justly 
        how it is while on its way
        so many perfect leans

mosaics from the message machine
setting out a formal bustle there is 
nothing here that hasn't been missed
it isn't the sun burning the soup



Hints of early spring

misty scene    wintered through    though hints
of an early spring    morning hastens    i take
my time    things interestingly out of sync    the
day unfolds    i like the creases    clouds bundle
up against the air    the air is bent!    growing
nice shadows to lope across    across my shadow 
stretched forever    a first coffee     & then another     
buy paper    watch T.V.    make lunch    sit quietly?     
nothing doing!    a vast atmosphere idles by    the
clouds get seriously cirrus    no wind to fray    a
monument of tones unfold    the horizon darkens
the afternoon gone in a minute    somewhere
evening waits     the prints of darkness in
the wings    great to be variously alive!



C'est la Bleu

why so blue Rita? blue is the colour of your dress
blues ain't oranges! it's 3:08 Glen Innes time
time to open a Sapporo Premium Beer    now i'm
not so blue! i'm not a blue peter! the weather is blue
turning grey    the Groneman Bros. aren't blue but
positively late Baroque! green men flutes    skol!
columns of sound    a blue angle takes hover in
the smokey detritus    o iconic kitchen! kinetic!
a blue mystery    that red & blue cow has yellow
wings    Pam says Ken says poets are always
making a blue! at the 3rd step the clock turns blue
it's minus 1 in Glen Innes    is the 'phone blue
Hannah? blues ain't lozenges    Herr blau herring
you are perfect disguised as a blue kelpie



Adjustment.

a fair size of presence lobs into view
chips the air then piles up a lot of old gravel
as it hits some local space having hung about
this place far too long takes it all in nicely surprised
while some birds mutter off to another hill
was there a valley there yesterday now a hill
with the stuttering feet of birds well that's bird life
for today and maybe for tomorrow too as months 
go by in a flash a litter of feathers pile up
no one gets a feather in their cap the adjustment
keeps time even without the piano part

Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, editor, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit.

A collection of visual poetry, 5 X Y, was recently published by Red Fox Press as part of the C'est Mon Dada series.
 
 
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