new zealand electronic poetry centre

Alan Brunton



Watching Eileen at a poet's wake  
remembering Alan Brunton


So still she sits — 
contained as a Buddha, 
vase, caress,

as her mother did
at Mass —

her crammed coloured kete 
teeteringly poised
almost spilling to the floor 

forgotten things-to-do
books to read, crayons, pencils 
but she’s too neat to knock it 

is attentive only
to his words friends read
his life continuous.

Does she realise
his romantic broil
his Übermensch on the swagger

his vermilion eye & mind & lip 
his mask his raunchy rhetoric
his plethora of register

need her 
as an actor needs
a stage, this audience.


Jan Kemp  
Auckland, 26 August 2002


Last updated 06 December, 2002