Live Encounters Aotearoa New Zealand Poets & Writers March 2026
Interlude, poems by Barbs Peterson.
Interlude
I don’t know what to say.
So I hold the illusion of a hand
and I tell you about the weather,
that it’s going to rain hard
so you can assure me you’ll drive safely.
I know I won’t get the hints you’ll send me
in the shape of a winking star
or the gilded contours of the moon.
I stroke your ghost-face,
pale as paper,
soft as a feather.
I remind you to eat.
I remind you of the days
we swung our legs fast and careless
over the rotting plank bridge
because just for one second
we felt immortal;
the rushing water below
an eternity waiting to engulf us,
the future, dust-mites carrying important secrets
between the warped pages of old books.
I squeeze your phantom fingers;
hold them to my fears.
I show you pictures
reminding you of a happier world,
a place that wanted you to live forever.
I don’t know what to say.
My heart fluttering like a bird
my lips touch your listening ear
breathing words through translucent skin
Goodbye;
floating out the window now, into thin air;
I’ll see you tomorrow.
There Is No Cure For Feeling Too Much
Somewhere, in an attic
you can hear a baby crying
but they’re telling you don’t listen,
just sleep.
As if the cries wouldn’t haunt your dreams.
As if you wouldn’t sleepwalk, searching
following the wailing
like a starving waif
hypnotised by the scent of food.
The warning light on your dashboard
is the problem, they tell you.
Take these pills and it will stop.
Put this blindfold on.
The baby cries on and on,
and you’ll keep searching, searching
through cluttered rooms
ignoring a radio voice that tells you
to keep calm and carry on.
You can feel her
sucking on her fist,
you can see the blister form
on your own delicate skin
and they’re blocking the attic stairs now;
as the screams get louder,
they’re telling you the problem
is having eyes and ears, and a soul.
You Say The Utopia Will Never Come
Meet the new year
same as the old year.
We can’t go a day without
bleeding, somehow;
the bright new lambs wool
already stained
with loss and chaos and alarm.
How do we still gaze at a star
with hope, when it is somehow,
centuries old, has seen
so much, has died,
and still (and STILL)
carries on shining?
This fresh, hot cup of coffee
sat forgotten, neglected, went cold.
Still wringing out the storms from summer
we hang the latest tragedy out to dry.
The utopia may never come
but morning will, again and again
meeting the sorrows of yesterday
with a firm, faithful handshake.
© Barbs Peterson
Barbs Peterson lives in the suburb of Māngere Bridge, on the cusp of South Auckland, where much of her writing is inspired by the village community and scenic surroundings. She has been published in several Auckland Writers anthologies as well as “Ramble On: A celebration of walking in New Zealand” by Z.R. Southcombe, and is a regular face at Poetry Live nights. Her writing aims to encompass an introspective journey through the experiences of loss, love, heartbreak, joy, bleakness, magic and hope.