Name: Trevor Landers
country : New Zealand

Trevor Landers
Trevor Landers is an Advisor for the Tertiary Education Commission, having formerly been a  lecturer at tertiary insitutions in New Zealand, Romania and Finland.   His poetry has been published in New Zealand, but the majority of it has been published overseas.  A noted departure from this publishing trajectory can be seen in BMP6. Trevor is also the Managing Editor of The Zealot Press, and is presently editing a collection of 'Taranaki poems' for publication in December 2003.

Gossiping at the lady from next door's funeral

  The funeral was straightfoward
  but afterward
I heard that
   sometimes, she drank
too many dry
         martinis at
cocktail parties  and would dance
the cha-cha-cha
   like a senorita  and unbutton
to halfway
    her blouse.

The Other Manaia

I wandered down Tauranga-a-Ika last night
    the pale moon gleaming
        down on
  the sleepwalkers of history
     snuggled safe in their blankets
        the old waiata pouriri whistling in the wind
              rattling the corrugated irons of the past
        they are missing landmarks, these Pakeha fellas
             their crimped eyes slit
                  in this other town, right here.


Lucy, mildly hung over

   picture of truth unaffected
             lies languidly
  strewn across a sofa
       she, mildly hung over
               limbs lethargically loose in clothes
     eyes doused, but  morning embers there
         burn brightly, glow
  the t.v, a square of grey clouds
       a shutter clunks, negatives a roll of film
  harsh truth of the camera's eye
            there, telling tall tales again.

A House at 2747 Carrington Road

An unpainted house sits,
       up, on a mountain, sleeping
         inside, a gallery in a kitchen: Picasso, Lautrec
     domestic ornaments, and the drying laundry.

   the stars blinking
      amethyst-chain horizons
  stretched before lighthouses, are fingers of light
     a gleaming oil derrick guides us: once constellations would
         here though, eyes shut: man is small.
         there  is little birdsong
  to charm the rough-hewn rimu walls
it is a return, a reminder
   the marching song of  the mountain.

Beachcomber, Tongaporutu

your shoes, talking imprints in the sand
   walk out outside
        stride for stride
  across the spume, in the waves
     pebbles underfoot, black sand beneath
and the black ,building sky
         crowning your hair,
  alone on the beach,
        this is where we will be,
photographing beauty.


the art of writing at the beach: Ohawe

        unrolling long looks
  and pausing with blank
  for personal partition
     as she listens and lingers
       on the sound of brush-stroking

            book marked
                  by book marked page...
opening up in her name, then
          pressed tight to shut,
  a vault, the art of writing of the beach:
    (no sand between the pages, just love). 


Ronald Hugh Morrieson's writing room

the walls whisper the tales of small town intrigue
   the paper falling away from the perpendicular
           like sheafs in a new story
  disclosing dypsomanic secrets & unwritten literature

    on the verandah
the tang of malevolence and whiskey
     wafts down Regent Street