Bob van Beek
fell sudden from a purer plain
so rarely finds an ample seed
before it turns to gas again.
Resisting every pencil stroke —
the narrow path of mind to line —
emotions, gists, are stretched and poked,
distorted into tawdry rhymes.
[A mathematician firebombs
and picks at bones among debris.
The postman breaks out into song
and gives out letters randomly.
Phantoms stalk through slanted grass.
Silver dims to duller grey.
Life is a shambolic farce
if words have nothing true to say.]
The sea reflects an inky eye,
shimmering with the surface.
It sees itself, the deep, the sky,
with lucid, balanced purpose.
It rests there in foreverness,
a mirror of its world:
eluding navigationists,
dripping glittered pearls.
Potential vessels, obscure seeds
are dotted all around our sphere.
Those that catch don’t gape and feed,
but sip, exist, sit quiet, stare.
Bob van Beek reads incessantly and sometimes writes his own things too. He recently graduated from Victoria University of Wellington with a BA in English Literature and Psychology, and currently resides nestlike in the peaceful, valleyed bosom of Upper Hutt.
*To best experience its intended formatting, ‘Creation’ is best viewed on a computer or tablet.
*To best experience its intended formatting, ‘Creation’ is best viewed on a computer or tablet.