new zealand electronic poetry centre


Graham Lindsay

online works


Thrust of the jet
as it leaps at the runway
like a dragster in a standing quarter.

You give yourself up, afraid

the tail might
scrape the tarmac.


The sea's rivers striae
in its crumpled

wax-like skin. A coast
Edward Shortland took weeks to walk

we fly in minutes
safety-belts fastened all the way.

Below on the fish-eyed globe
the fourth leg of the Whitbread

an army tent
over a hole in a beach.


Angels susurrate backup vocals
in the muzak muffled by

pressure of descent.
Out the porthole

behind the juddering wing, the beautiful

East Coast expatriate


At ground level we're prescribed
alternative routes of the A
to B variety across
the Quatenary seabed, formerly

red land pterodactyls scanned.
And we're home, or at least

where home was. The sea is blithe
neither visionary nor even clear

but holiday, forgetful, flaccid.
Feet feel sand dragged back

as ocean inhales, leaving us
stranded on tiny mesas.


Graham Lindsay

Last updated 15 July, 2004