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Photography: Sarah Reed
Jenny Clay

Jenny Clay is a graduate of the Whitireia Writing course. In 2000 Learning Media published her text for a children’s picture book ‘The Smile in the Moon’. She has had poetry published in Takahe and in New Zealand Poetry Society anthologies.
In 2003 she organised a poetry and art exhibition ‘Reflections’ and performance at the Community Gallery of Lopdell House. Recently she began reading at Poetry Live in Auckland, and ‘car camping trips’ is included in Volume 8 of ‘Tongue in Your Ear’. She was invited to participate as one of the ‘Divine Muses’, nine women reading their poetry in celebration of Montana Poetry Day 2005.

great barrier                                                           

eyes of koura
above waterway

watches shoreline
from fence post

banded rails
go off

at the beach
bartailed godwits
a variable

baby kina
washed up

a dried puffer fish
hung on a branch
Halloween mask
with swollen
Mick Jagger lips.

the tattooed baby

has dragons twisting
on his body
they climb around
his back
there are snakes on
his neck

on his forehead
a butterfly is forming
from a chrysalis
he brings his fingers
to his forehead
and into my palm

the butterfly sits
its wings


Previously Published inTakahe 2004

in the classifieds
(part found poem)     

Union of perfect harmony.
Consider a test drive.

One large heart,
beating, not beaten.

Iron John seeks woman who runs with poodles,
creative cooking, no vampires.
Enjoys jungle walks,
vine swinging and elephant rides.

Affectionate vegetarian
into total honesty
and deep communication
yearns for slimish soulmate.

car camping trips

“Settle down
              in the back.
No more
              horse play”

but there were
               never horses
apart from
the white ones
we looked for
   after the black dog

and kept
      our fingers
      in between

Leaping Chant

Bring the old socks out
and burn them.
Don’t give them a second chance.
Don’t wash them in milk
or perfume.
Take the oils you’ve hidden
from the shelf
and rub them over your skin,
until the aroma floats sideways.
Take the seeds they say
are overdue
and plant them.
Take the blossoms
from the back of the garden
and put them in the centre
of the table.
Take the dream
from the back of the wardrobe
and put it in the centre
   of the table,
put it into the centre
   of your life,
weave it into the oil
on your skin,
  and leap off
with all fibres

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