Instant Poetry

In a perfect start for National Poetry Day, a cool new Gap Filler initiative kicked off this morning. Poetica: The Christchurch Urban poetry project launched Instant Poetry: On the wall of 614 Colombo Street Christchurch (Old Beggs music store) you can write your own instant poem or an existing poem on the Instant Poetry blackboard in the language of your choice.

Then take a picture of you and your poem (with translation if needed) and post it on the Poetica Facebook site. The poem that is “liked” the most will be painted permanently on this wall at the end of the first project.

This morning’s launch saw a crew of poets and supporters drinking tea and eating fruit toast and sharing poems. They were such a nice bunch of people I was inspired to get up and give it a go myself (read Robin Hyde’s Neon Lights).

Some read their own poems, others chose a favourite piece (we had James K. Baxter and Walt Whitman).

Here are some pics of poetry in action:

Reading poemsReading poemsReading poemsReading poemsPoeticaReading poems

One thought on “Instant Poetry

  1. michaelbaitken 27 July 2012 / 3:47 pm

    Tree let your arms fall:
    raise them not sharply in supplication
    to the bright enhaloed cloud.
    Let your arms lack toughness and
    resilience for this is no mere axe
    to blunt nor fire to smother.
    Your sap shall not rise again
    to the moon’s pull.
    No more incline a deferential head
    to the wind’s talk, or stir
    to the tickle of coursing rain.
    Your former shagginess shall not be
    wreathed with the delightful flight
    of birds nor shield
    nor cool the ardour of unheeding
    lovers from the monstrous sun.
    Tree let your naked arms fall
    nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball.
    This is no gallant monsoon’s flash,
    no dashing trade wind’s blast.
    The fading green of your magic
    emanations shall not make pure again
    these polluted skies . . . for this
    is no ordinary sun.
    O tree
    in the shadowless mountains
    the white plains and
    the drab sea floor
    your end at last is written.

    Hone Tuwhare
    1922 – 2008

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