Poems by Terry Moyle


Cominghomeland is an enjoyable collection of poetry written by Terry Moyle, and published in 2011. Some of the work was originally posted on an internet forum before being edited and rewritten. This was an intentionally long process lasting eight months. The combination of these approaches was to produce writing that is both accessible and intellectually engaging.



Beyond the retaining wall and
the incomprehensible tags,

the freshly-mown esplanade,
green as a pregnant schoolgirl.

That bright paradigm of water
as the city tolls with consumption,

the towers of managers will all
be singing late tonight.

The evening flattens into bitter
shapes and gold rectangles,

the tide in approximate retreat
from mud in taupe pockets.

A heron stiffly opens and closes
flying through Jurassic matter,

over the orange Te Atatu motorway,
the alarms and rotten politicians.


Cominghomeland is published by Ducks on the Wall Publishing and edited by Judith Harford Heap, 74 pages with 44 poems, ISBN 978-0-473-17749-2.
Copies are available from the University Bookshop, Dunedin. Parsons Books or from the author for $32.00 NZ.



“Everyone is waiting for the reader to flick through the book so he can keep the story short and avoid explaining irrelevant parts of the illustrations.

Bedtime Story

The Garden of Why? explores poetry with the graphic aspects of modern vector type font and vector illustration. The results can be manifested as digital, printed, 3D desk sculpture and fine art.

Apartment Patio

The three chairs of the vacant table tip forward
as if a poker game had fired their derringers at once, and a ponytail palm decapitated in a ceramic pot
with Chinese characters.

Six stories below that vertigo of grey cars hustling fast and a toilet flushing with several sharp hisses of aerosol.

We accidentally said some words at the same time followed by some distillation and with two sugars, thanks, you can never be sweet enough.
Black or White?
You decide.
I am still trying to recall the moment I ceased being human and became a catalyst.

Looking through the glass there is the tasteless print of an
Appaloosa horse stampeding under a sky of stale club sandwich.
Although at least it is not a tiger.

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