Ron Riddell

New Zealand

Ron Riddell is a writer and peace-worker. In recent years, he has been travelling and working in Latin America. Riddell has performed in a number of countries, including Chile and Colombia, where his latest books, El Milagro de Medellin y otros poemas and Spirit Songs were published in bi-lingual editions (English and Spanish). He has also been involved in a number of peace and cultural initiatives in Colombia, Chile, U.S.A. and New Zealand. In Auckland Riddell established a haven for poets with the Live Poets’ Café which adjoined the Dead Poets Bookshop in Karangahape Road. He has published 14 collections of verse. At present, he lives in Wellington, where with his wife Saray Torres, he directs The Wellington International Poetry Festival.

BMP12

nzpoetsonline

BMP12

nzpoetsonline

Prayer Flag

for John & Bianca

The day gives up

a nameless flag

fluttering over

the roof-tops

I stand, a moment

in voiceless wonder

I kneel and give

an unseen bow

I stand and still

at break of day

I stand and still

the wind at play

A Tribute to Sylvia Plath & Ted Hughes

(after watching the film, Sylvia)

You hurt me so much

I cannot begin to say

where it hurts, how it hurts

nor why it is this way.

Who are you, really?

And what do you want of me?

These are questions I would

like one day to quit.

I’ll take off my mask

you take off your gown;

your hawk-eye and wolfish hood

boar’s tooth and shaman’s frown.

You hurt me so much

you cannot begin to know.

Instead you declare,

how much you care

and cannot bear to see me go.

Strange, that today you leave

your shadow behind and dance

with me naked, like the first time.

Dressing You

for Saray

I would dress you in flowers.

I would dress you in kisses.

I would dress you in kindness

I would dress you in dreams.

I would cover you from head to toe

in cream-white linen,

scented by sea-salt, river stones

from the Caribbean.

I would dress you in rainbows,

feather-down and shells.

I would have a hundred butterflies

Bring you sacred spells.

I would have a hundred larks

come sing at your door.

I would undress you, to address you

and never want for more.

Short Ode to a Kiwifruit

O kiwifruit, kiwiberry

green fruit of the vine

gold fruit of my line

you belong to my iwi!

O furry hemisphere of seed

and succulent juices

fed by fat raindrops

and ripened by the sea

you are the perfect topping

to any baked occasion

to puddings, pavlovas

cream-caked & mocha-chocolatéd

you are the after-dinner

crème-du-menthe supreme

serving up the winning

golden kiwi dream

O pacific paragon

I cut you to the quick

I savour your kernel

and thrust it to my lips

I drink your green milk

your rivers running free

your earth, my earth

my sun and my sea.