Diva of the Night Kiosk

Eh - ya wanna feeda mussels?
Later Mrs Hera.
What eva.
Mrs Hera is the diva of the night Kiosk
tapping her feet, jumping from tune to tune:
'... roots rock reggae...dis a reggae music...'

She tugs at her frangipani bloom tucked behind her ear,
checks her tanks of shell fish and buckets of watercress
turns into a quick-time pirouette,
staccato of clanging pots and steamy tea urns
a swift counter-point movement
she flicks her tea-towel
jumps to another tune:
' ...ain't misbe-havin... savin' my love for you...'

The diva peers through the curtain of steam
night revellers spill into the market square
like colourful parakeets, huddling and chortling to each other,
a few spin off into heated little flurries,
But, Mrs Hera sorts them out:
Didn't I tell ya? Shoulda listened to me. Eh, was that chilli on them mussels?'

Chorus of night dance fa'afafine with names like,
Desire, Mist, Musk and Rhapsody strut in a percussion of stilettos,
clicking a two-four beat into the rhythm of the square,
the ladies step out in a sashay of swaying hibiscus hips.
Busy night?
Eh - ya wanna feeda mussels?
Later Mrs Hera
What eva.

back to top

Manukau Morning Rush

Cicadas awake, rubbing their legs to an early morning drone
Screeching red-eyed gulls swoop in from the mangrove forests
rows of pastel houses open doors
school students spill out onto the streets
Manukau Morning rush.

Kids, bikes, squealing cars
rastas, technos, rappers, grundge heads - eclectic blare,
savvy cyborg students attached to mobile phones and iPod implants
brushing back matted dreadlocks and retro-spike punk-hair.

School shirts hanging out, scuffed shoes with baggy pants and lava-lavas
bulging school buses passing
hibiscus blues, yellows, purples, reds, splashing on washing lines
scrolled school-gates open into gaping mouths
swallowing up the ceaseless stream of students.
You're late!

back to top

Noon

I see you everyday at noon, sandalwood and spiced,
butter skinned, with gazing crimson eye,
sari splashed with sapphire-blue
and strutting gold peacocks.

You rush to meet me everyday at noon
smiling, potent
glittering berry-brown eyes
from behind the lolly-laden counter
of your little shop, that is never shut
except on Krishna's day.

Red Coca-Cola signs, gold cigarettes,
little elephant tins of Madras curry on special,
crinkled mother-in-law
peeps, sneaks
from behind the apple stand.

You shake your coal-blue mane of hair
giggling
embroidered bracelets tinkling
No...No, sorry no curried dhal today.

I long for the burn,
lingering,
taste,
of you
forever
and forever
at Noon.

back to top