Live Encounters Poetry & Writing 16th Anniversary Volume Three
November- December 2025
We Can Only Go Straight Ahead
(tanka sequences) by Richard von Sturmer.
We Can Only Go Straight Ahead
(tanka sequences)
1.
Three matches left
in the matchbox
their red heads touching.
Icicles form
on the eaves outside.
Released from prison
with only lint
in his coat pockets.
He measures his steps
from lamppost to lamppost.
The road snakes its way
down to the canal.
While waves lap
against the embankment
rats explore a rubbish heap.
2.
The Web has been infested
with “link rot”;
you click on a link
and all you get
is a Not Found message.
That sought-after article
has ceased to exist
like a precious dwelling
torn down with nothing left
but empty space.
“Nothing will come of nothing”,
grumbled King Lear.
And yet, with another click,
everything is present
in a strange and unsettling form.
3.
When walking the streets of Paris
Baudelaire was afraid of making
sudden movements
in case he tore
his threadbare clothes.
He told his mother
that he had become an expert
in covering the holes in his shoes
with layers of paper
(a discarded poem perhaps?).
At least ink was less expensive
than tubes of paint.
After a heavy shower of rain
numerous puddles reflected
the acid yellow of an evening sky.
4.
Today I moved among hieroglyphs:
a seagull standing on a stone wall,
a young woman with a shopping trolly,
an articulated bus turning a corner.
I felt compelled to write each one down.
And the manikins in a shop window
had grey skin as if
they had emerged from a mud bath.
Only the palms of their hands,
turned outward, were salmon-pink.
Did they decorate a cave
in Southern France?
Did an accordion unfold itself
on an operating table?
No, not even in a dream.
5.
Dream ̶ Traum in German
which makes me think of
traumatized or “dream-beaten”
as when you wake up to find yourself
covered in bruises.
Baudelaire lay on his deathbed.
In the courtyard outside
logs were being unloaded.
Winter was approaching and he wrote,
“Trembling, I listen to each log that falls.”
What will we hear
when the curtain comes down?
Better, if we can, to flee to the wings
run down the dark passageway
and push open the exit door.
6.
Oh, the shuffling crowd,
the shuffling crowd.
I lost my face
in the shuffling crowd.
Will no one recognize me?
We were on the crest of a hill.
An angel stood before us
with a flaming sword – the final
piece of artwork on the island.
Our guide told us to turn around.
It was better than the wine tour.
I could find no gods
among the endless rows
of grape vines.
Not even an insect.
7.
Around the harbour
large rocks absorb the sunlight.
There are ancient stories
of rocks opening themselves
to shelter the persecuted.
Perhaps a time will come
(sooner rather than later?)
when I’ll need the protection of rocks.
So, I send them my best thoughts
as I sit on this bench by the ocean.
All day long the rain beat down
on a young man
with cold, blue eyes
who walked to Marseille
and boarded a steamer for Africa.
8.
The ship could be
an AI construction
with the sailors
carrying on board
their sack of algorithms.
Ah, a season in hell began
when he opened his laptop
and asked ChatGPT
to write a poem
in the style of Rimbaud.
“A swarm of black bees
bursts from the hollow heart of god.”
I know, it just pulls things
from the infinite sea of data.
But what does the pulling?
9.
In bright sunlight
a woman steps out of her car
and casts the shadow of a cat.
I’m not the only one to see this―
all the sparrows take flight.
Another hieroglyph―
their wings
pressed into stone.
I lost my face
in the shuffling crowd.
The architecture above us
was folding in on itself.
“What can we do now?”
You asked me.
“We can only go straight ahead.”
© Richard von Sturmer
Richard von Sturmer is an Auckland-based writer. His latest book, Slender Volumes (Spoor Books), was shortlisted for the Mary and Peter Biggs Award for Poetry at the 2025 Ockham Book Awards.