Whale Psalm

The whale, says Jonah, is the black night filled with terrible screams.
The whale is missiles that winnow the grain from the wheatfields.
The whale is the city with bombed-out basements and burning high-rises.
The whale is the country, bogged down in booby-traps and wreckage of tanks.
The whale shoulders the load, a tower of coffins.
The whale is village-fiddlers tuning up a death march.
The whale is soldiers shouting their poems in the ruins.
The whale is a prayer on the lips of children.
The whale is liberty pecked at by birds of prey.
The whale is the enemy, with its taboos, its vanity and its ignorance.
The whale is life incarnate and a desperation to survive.
The whale is the weight of creation stranded on the tipping point.
The whale is always further away than first thought, but inescapable.
The whale wants to save us.
The whale wants to win the war.
The whale turns the spotlight on the whale-hunters and the war-generals.
The whale has climbed the diving board above the dried-up sacred fountain.
The whale must dive into the circus barrel, and there is no way out.

— David Eggleton

Mostly Black

Before, as it was, it was mostly black,
dark beaks, polished talons, feathers, a black
regime drenched in the melancholy black
of rains that took tides further towards black.
From hinges of sunlight hung blocks of black,
and risen humps of islands were matt black.
Cinders sailed from bush burn-offs, carbon black.
Beads on antimacassars gleamed jet black.
Through pine's silent groves possum eyes shone black.
Above tar-seal a melted rainbow turned black.
At disintegration of monolith black,
green, all that blue can be, then back to black.
Green of pounamu lost under lake's black.
Blackout's lickerish taste, blood-pudding black,
and midnight mushrooms gathered from deep black.
Tattoos drawn with bent nib and homemade black.
Batman's mask, a dull sheen of cue ball black.
The primeval redacted, placed in black
trash bags, or else turned out as burnt bone black.
Pull on the wool singlet of shearer's black,
for blacker than black is New Zealand black,
null and void black, ocean black, all black.
In Te Pō's night realm, from Te Kore's black,
under the stars spreads the splendour of black.

— David Eggleton

Te-Ara-a-Parāoa, Path of the Sperm Whale

Aotearoa's white peaks spyhop above waves,
seeking albatross worlds of mislaid moons.
Screeching kākā skim fast through tree-tops.
Parāoa breaches in a frost-smoke chrysalis.
Iwi on the shore perform haka of welcome.
Drizzle dances on the head of the whale.
Hoisted up out of water, blowing a guffaw,
blunt headlands slap and wallow in their turn.
A living wall slides past, gentle-eyed, vast.
Luminous planktons glow in dark ocean;
neon flying squid flash through salty air.
Silvery-bubbled, ripple-driven, Parāoa
tilts her tail-flukes, keels and plunges:
guiding her calf down Kaikōura Canyon.
Bob of a fur seal pup snouts through
seaweed wrack, in the surf's long swell.
A breeze licks over spun gobbets of foam.
A green tendril climbs sunwards in a spiral

— David Eggleton


Matariki's eyes are fiery in the night.
Feather-shawled mountains gleam their beaks.
Great trunks, sawn through, tumble and tilt.
Bold carvings, auctioned in whispers,
echo as prophecies, sung by wind-swept trees.
The hangi smokes great boars, basted in juices.
Plagued by caterpillars, slithered by eels,
a patchwork quilt of farm unravels.
In lightning and hail, each snail snivels;
learned visitors take shelter with skinks,
under rocks from nesting angry falcons.
Ghosts hoard waka in marshes, under silt.
An arcade is roofed with engraved glass;
a pedestal is bound by polished brass;
faces are wound tighter than a watchspring.
Wigs become a sheep flock gathering.
There's daughter of the kauri, Amber Reeves,
sailing for London from the Antipodes.
Through cavern gloom, suspended by ooze,
many worms glow as the matrix broods.

— David Eggleton

Key to the Hermit Kingdom

Once far to the back, now far out in front,
to bear the brunt and wear the shame,
the minister for health arrives by stealth;
children have assembled for the last bull-run.
The basis of life in these islands is sun.
Random offence takes knee-jerk exception
to a nation's internet solipsism.
They want to topple Cook's statues, wave through
freedom protestors, tweeters who invite you
to burn replicas of J.K.Rowling at the stake,
or shout cancel in Putin's graffitied face,
then pose on Instagram to game the blame.
As yesterday's cassette static unspools,
white noise buzzes across the tells
of a whole world in bruise-coloured blue,
globe mortified by heat-wave distortion,
though too we might die of rabid exposure,
our tarpaulins snatched away by storm-cells,
Our gathered thoughts await their closure;
while all look on, thanks to their lit devices;
and beware the naked blade that flashes
in dearer chainstore supermarket aisles;
beware pop pop pop of police gunshots,
attempts to liberate property from capital.
When asked, step away from those unmasked;
accept the chill vaccine that burns the arm.
Everything depends on the arrival
of red wheelbarrows from China for big box stores,
before global supply links break again:
ever-remoter quotas of autumn's dry spell
frozen, like jagged truths of rock pools drained,
those barren rocks where marooned sailors listen
for the lure of mermaids and police sirens.
Winter's stew of anonymised outrage
lasts lockdown season in the Hermit Kingdom.
Then jet-set Spring arrives, tanned and smiling,
in a jeep towing Summer's caravan,
which brings an all-weather finish to year's end.

— David Eggleton

Poet Laureate Award call for nominations

Kia hiwa ra!
Kia hiwa ra!

The National Library of New Zealand Te Puna Mātauranga o Aotearoa is seeking nominations for the New Zealand Poet Laureate Award.

Poetry is a quintessential part of New Zealand art and culture, and through the New Zealand Poet Laureate Award the government acknowledges the value that New Zealanders place on poetry.

The National Librarian Te Pouhuaki will appoint the New Zealand Poet Laureate after reviewing nominations and seeking advice from the New Zealand Poet Laureate Advisory Group.

Nominees must have made an outstanding contribution to New Zealand poetry, and be an accomplished and highly regarded poet who continues to publish new work. They must also be a strong advocate for poetry and be able to fulfil the public role required of a Poet Laureate. The role includes engaging with a wide range of people and inspiring New Zealanders to read and write poetry.

Candidates are expected to reside in New Zealand during their tenure as Laureate.

The term of appointment for the next Poet Laureate will run until August 2024.

Nominations close on Friday, 29 July 2022 at 5pm.

Please email your nomination to lily.reid@dia.govt.nz

Email is preferred, but you can also mail your nomination to:

New Zealand Poet Laureate Award
National Library of New Zealand
PO Box 1467

Attention: Lily Reid

Enquiries about the New Zealand Poet Laureate Award can be directed to Peter.Ireland@dia.govt.nz

The End of History, and Warhead

The End of History

1989, when the fall of Berlin's wall
chiselled away loose masonry,
brought promise for humanity,
as tank man stood tall in Tiananmen Square.
Dignity seemed worth more
at the end of the Cold War than ever before.
Lovers kissed for cameras, which made
every photograph special, like a bouquet,
while wires that held the whole shebang
upright were hidden well away.
They placed white carnations in rifle muzzles.
They dumped Klashnikovs for bumpers of champagne.
They waved banners and the snare drum beat.
They climbed to the top of decline and fall.
The fix was in, nothing for it but to swim.
1989, when the world-wide-web's pipedream lit up;
telexes hiccupped, telephones tittered, faxes coughed,
though so many were soon to return
in coffins from whatever war was next.
Some had paintstripper to remove the pain;
some smooshed their wonted ancient grain.
Sir Galahad rode in with leather apron on,
making light of the massacre, the heavy weather,
the forked lightning, the stacks of stooks
in summer stubble, scorched for yonks.
Choppers prepared for evacuation.
Citizens rejoiced in satellites, holding hands,
blindly high on their own resolution,
across the ocean and down in the deeps,
whose dungeons opened and released the Fates,
in bubbles of oxygen that seemed herculean.
Yesterday's progress ended and was rebooted.
Deplorables became renewable; edibles became incredible.
Assemblies clanked through flung-open gates.
And you will know us by our toppled hopes,
the flogged scars and stripes that bless the bloody flag.
We were going forward, the damned, on our five-year plan,
in spirit of prayer to stardust of paradise,
with lassoed monuments and new statues raised;
but hope is the thing that scatters,
through tarred and feathered streets,
as tear-gas arrives and water cannon swings.
There were human pyramids and plagues
of new missiles; jogging shoes hung from gallows.
The blow-up globe was punctured and hissed
with escaping breath as another dream
began to count down to lift-off;
and then we were stuck in the 1990s,
with a long night coming on,
and very few left to sing revolution's song.

— David Eggleton


Say no to the Mad Emperor of the Russians,
in thrall to his own truth-flubbing trolls,
and his judo-player skills and his steroid flushes.
An unholy fool, dancing like a very angry bear
on the hot coals of burning Ukrainian cities.
Let him be deposed and shunted to a far-off gulag,
drowned like Rasputin, stopped like Trotsky with a pick-axe.
Let him not die in his bed like the monster Stalin,
for he is one of those tyrannical jerks,
photo-shopped all ripped veins and vascular,
as bigged-up as Josef Stalin's Collected Works.
What Pootin doesn't know isn't knowledge,
because Pootin went to KGB Spy College.
He's a rabid mole who has swallowed a wasp;
a death guru with a cobra's cross-eyed stare,
who flicks his forked tongue out to test the air.
A total mass murderer as Mister Anonymous,
a radioactive creature from a toxic lagoon.
Sputnik space-case they should have sent to the moon;
makes like he's in a North Korean restaurant: dog eat dog.
Expressionless face of a long-term drunk,
he's a breezeblock Brezhnev, a pisspot Lenin;
he's in a rusted suit made of the Iron Curtain;
he's the skull and crossbones on a bottle of poison.
Everything he touches turns to smashed-up melamine;
he wears a fake tan like his pal Trumpentine.
He's an old-shoe Communist, placed as People's Tzar,
in an oligarchical Formula One racing car:
leads the pack with World Domination blah blah blah.
Pootin be like the psycho comrade in wolf's clothing,
he's the very dead soul of serfdom resurrected,
another well-known germophobe, always well-protected.
A barren rock, a cement mixer mixing a dunce's lies;
a minuscule human blob with rage-filled eyes;
a villainous Marvel figurine: Incandescent Vlad Puteen.

— David Eggleton

For Tom

Words and aroha for Tom Mulligan

In terms of a place to stand, for New Zealand’s Poets Laureate, there is no warmer invitation for them to feel at home than at Matahiwi marae near Clive in Hawkes Bay. It’s onto this marae that they have been welcomed since 2007 by kaumātua Tom Mulligan. And it is to Tom that Marty Smith addresses her fond acknowledgement in this recent essay.

Marty Smith, teacher, and poet has played a key role in shaping the special weekends where the Laureate, their family and friends, National Library staff, John and Wendy Buck of Te Mātā Estate Winery, artist Jacob Scott, students from local schools and others are welcomed onto Matahiwi. The weekend during which the Laureate receives their own tokotoko created by Jacob.

For Tom weaves threads of just such a weekend with a ‘party’ given to acknowledge Tom’s role in the Laureate story. For this, Marty wrote a poem for Tom, had it printed and housed. To say more will give the show away. The marvellous photographs of Matahiwi and Tom are by Florence Charvin. Words and aroha by Marty Smith.

Writing on behalf of the National Library, it is a special pleasure to share Marty’s story with you.

— Peter Ireland

For Tom

Part I — Tom

There’s a cold wind cutting in from the South, and Tom’s got his woolly Magpies hat down over his ears, jacket collar up. The urupa in behind him, he turns and pays respect to the dead, turns back to the living, raises his arm, and sweeps it out wide to Te Mata, then up to Maui Pōtiki, high and proud on top of the tekoteko, braced against Te Ika, straining on the rope that holds heaven to earth.

John’s jacket is zipped right up, he’s tucked in beside Jacob, listening, soaking everything in. On Jacob’s knees, the tokotoko is waiting, wrapped in cloth, and everyone glances away and back at it, trying to make out the shape. (What is it? Hone’s one was a wine thief). Peter’s sitting by John, head gravely tilted, listening to Tom. His team from Wellington are over with the manuhiri, in the wind a little. Beside them, the student performers are staunch, sitting up straight, trying not to shiver in thin shirts and blazers. The poets on the paepae are directly out of the southerly, warmly enfolded.

It’s always like this (except for it’s mostly sunny, and sometimes boiling) when we turn out to manaaki the new Poet Laureate at Matahiwi. John and Tom, right in the centre. Jacob, who can call him Uncle Tom, shapes every tokotoko true to the nature of its poet; each is famous in its own right. These days, Peter Ireland and the National Library run the events, and I help, and God help us if we programme anything when a Magpies game is on. Once, our night-time celebration was a real corker, jazz singers sang in a low light in front of autumn-gold grapevines draped over wineboxes from Te Mata Estate, people sipped John’s first-class wines and sighed at lines from our finest poets; John and Tom went to the rugby.

Tom needs his stick to walk now, and he tells Peter he’s going to step back. I think of Tom and John, settled in their seats, listening to the poets on the paepae, everything they’ve worked for coming alive. It’s like Maui himself above them, hauling up the patterns of words.
And I think, I’ll make Tom a poem of his own.
A picture comes of Peter and me with Tom in his office, making plans, peaceful in the space where he turns ideas. We’re quiet and patient, and wait, and the silence turns into leaves stirring in the gentle breeze. Jacob says Tom makes space for others to let their ideas unfold; space that stretches so they can build pictures like building blocks on top of their idea. He says Tom’s especially good at underpinning foundations.

Tom Mulligan and Marty Smith. Marty is reading Tom this story. They are laughing at the line about John and Tom going to the rugby. Photo Florence Charvin.

Part II — Hairy process

So, the poem has chosen itself.  The words that spring into shape are all single syllables with short stops, just as I think: Tom’s poem should be hand printed.

Neville did say to me once that I could come and use his press. Neville’s a sort of cousin, he’s a Smith, and we have the same great-grandparents. He has a collection of printing presses, loves them: trays of print, blocks, the works. He learned to set type and he printed with hand presses when he started in the trade, and he never gave up loving it. After he retired from Brebner Print, he moved some of his printing gear into a lock-up, along with his collection of art deco cars, which he polishes to a high shine and parks precisely. There are shelves and shelves of old valve radios in a small room to the side.
Neville says he’ll help me make Tom’s poem, he’s glad to. He knows Tom through the Magpies and Hawkes Bay Rugby Union.

It’s a hairy process. You have to pick the letters out from the print tray one at a time and put them into the composing stick back to front and upside down. They have a nick in the front, and if all the nicks line up, they’re right. The trouble is you can’t find them in the print tray by looking at them: very little looks like what it is. The ‘p’s look like ’b’s, and they’re right beside each other in the tray, and that’s just the start of it. You have to follow a chart to pick the right one out and some of them are bastard ones – crooked, or italics, or with a worn bit. Neville throws them straight on the floor. I’m cack-handed and he gets impatient with me for not remembering to keep the pressure on the letters with my thumb, because if they fall out, it’s a disaster. The letters are tiny and hard to read and only an expert – Neville – could put them back, and it would take ages. And he’s wanting to go back to working on the car he’s fixing. When he’s (fairly) sure I’m not going to drop them, he goes off to glue something inside it. I’m nosing around in his trays and trays of letters, and he comes to show me the printer’s blocks. Pictures. Now we’re talking. He patiently pulls out one drawer after another, and in the Sports drawer, he finds a silver fern. Yes, for the Magpies. So, I hunt through the trays, sliding them in and out. Some of them are Victorian. He finds me the rugby block, and I find a tūī in ‘Birds’. I want a tūī, my gardening tūī walks on the ground beside me.

I get right down to the second to the last line and then I run into the amateur’s mistake: there are too many letters in my line to fit into the composing stick. It only has twenty-four spaces. I have to change the line. And change it quickly because Neville is waiting to put it into the chase and lock it in safely (before I drop it and lose the morning’s work and create an afternoon’s work for him) and get off to his afternoon.

And I’m panic rearranging the lines in my head while I’m arranging the letters and hoping for the best.

        ‘You won’t change anything, will you? Because that’s it, it’s all done.’
         ‘No,’ I say, ‘I won’t.’
Then later that night I have a cold horror because I forgot to put my name on it.

Part III — Plate glass photos

And all this is happening the weekend after the Christchurch Mosque shootings, after I’d been to Blenheim to see Mum, about to shift out of her home and into a ‘home’. We’d sorted through dozens of Aunty’s plate glass photos from the early 1900s. We’d held them to the light to see her grandfather and father, each on the handle of a cross-saw, heads only half as high as the trunk of the tree beside them. Silver collodion plates of bullock trains and packhorses; lilies in glass bottles; eleven cats on a ladder, all sitting still.
Mum’s the only person left alive who saw them moving, who knows what their voices sound like. She never heard her grandmother speak Māori in the house.  She got a hiding for it at school, Mum says, and only spoke with her brother in the garden, when he came down from Taranaki to visit. Her garden was all flax, no flowers. Mum used to hide in the flax bushes and listen. Miriam Ellen, her fierce cheekbones in silver light against the flowered wallpaper, frozen in glass by her daughter.
I like to think they helped me make that last line.

Part IV — Last say to the home side

I run my poem by Hinemoana Baker, who lives in Berlin now. We’ve been writing together for twenty years, and she knows Tom. She came to Matahiwi as one of Ian Wedde’s poets, and sang a waiata to Ian, and to Maui, who is of the sea, as she is. Hinemoana says it’s right that the last word should be Tom, because on most marae, the home side have the last say.

I’m listening to the memorial service on the car radio the next morning, then I go back to the print shop, and I’m thinking, I just straight up have to say to Neville that I’m sorry, but the name really has to be on there, for Tom. He doesn’t turn a hair, and he lets me change two more words around, too.
           ‘Are you sure?’, he asks, looking at me hard.
He screws it back into the chase, and then he puts it in its place in the press. It’s an electric press and it’s only a small job, so he has to paint the ink on by hand.
           ‘Can I have two colours?’
           ‘Are you sure?’
I say I want the text to be green for the marae, and the tūī and the fern to be black.
He just looks at me. He doesn’t say that it will take him another two hours, he
just patiently picks out the tūī and the fern and screws the case back, puts it in its place in the press, and paints the green ink onto the roller.
           ‘Stand back,’ he says, ‘You don’t want to get hit by moving parts.’
Then he pushes the industrial button and the printer whirrs into a mass of moving parts and makes some printing noises and a poem flies out. It says, birds burst out pells and whistles.
Humming, he puts the chase back on the bench, and picks out the p with his printer’s tweezers and I hurry to the tray to get a b, like a nurse getting things for the surgeon.
He picks out a bastard o that doesn’t make a complete circle and drops it on the floor. I scurry to the tray for a round o. When he’s satisfied, he prints the green. He washes every speck of green off the roller and wipes it clean. He unscrews the chase again and puts back the tūī and the fern. He paints the roller with black ink, and then he prints the black. Then he washes off the roller and wipes it down.
          ‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘You put the letters away.’
And I undo my poem, letter by letter. I carry each individual letter back to the tray and check each one against the chart and the other letters in the tray before I put it in. I’m deadly serious. I’m thrilled by the ephemeral nature of printing. There are the copies for Tom, and that’s it. No going back.

Neville’s gluing carpet inside the car when I go to find him. He’s pleased. He keeps a copy for the Printers Association.
           ‘Tom’s a good guy,’ he says.

Part V — Little whare

So, I have my beautiful poems, and now I want a box for them. I mean to paint it the colour of Matahiwi but I can’t find my stash of boxes after the Christmas clear up, and I can’t buy one small enough. I don’t want the poems slopping around. I think of my friend, Andy Macfarlane, who makes exquisite things with wood: delicate and full of grace. He’s an artist whose art is private and prolific. I take him a rough print of the poem for size.
           ‘What do you think of my new head?’ he says, gesturing towards a massive standing head, staring out into the rain as if out to sea at Easter Island. It’s made all out of small pieces of off-cut wood so that it looks also like one of the giant president heads, cut from granite, staring out over America. The head has his characteristic punk earring, made from bolts and rings. All Andy’s heads have a grave bearing, with comic dashes of levity. This one’s staring at the back porch, the summer table with the canvas chairs covered with wood of all lengths, a vice, saws and clamps and all manner of tools; containers of small pieces of wood of various thicknesses. I look at these and think about sides and edges for what I think of as the arms.
          ‘What are you thinking of doing?’
I show him the poem so he can see the size.
          ‘I want it to hold all the poems. I want it to be able to stand up so you can read the poem, and take them out easily, if he wants to give one away, and for them not to fall out. I’d like it to look like a little whare, and have arms, and the little part at the top for the head. I can’t remember the names.’
          ‘Like a pataka?’ he says. And he rolls a smoke, while he considers it. ‘What about like that little shrine at Fernhill?’
I think about that blue and white Madonna behind the plate glass and the pure pitch of the roof pointing to the blue sky.
          ‘That would be the right feel, but it still has to look like a whare, eh? And I want to paint it green.’

We start picking through the wood. He takes some fine small flat pieces and says, ‘What about this for the sides?’
          ‘Do you want them upright like this? Thick here? How wide would you like the bottom?’
          ‘Only wide enough to hold them in.’
He squints through his smoke, head back, while he considers the bits of wood.
          ‘We could make a little lip, and put a little wedge at the back, so they’re tilted. Then they won’t fall out.’
We wander along the table, picking up bits of wood. He has a small container of fine pieces, just like the bits which slide between each letter-print line to hold it in place and create the white space between lines. He starts pulling pieces out.
          ‘Which parts would you like coloured?’
          ‘The arms, definitely. And maybe somewhere inside, do you reckon?’
          ‘What do you think of this colour?’
He has a steely-grey green.
          ‘I need it to be the green of Matahiwi,’ I say.

Intricate green carvings on the edges of the roof of a marae.
Matahiwi marae Te Matau-a-Māui. Photo Florence Charvin.

Part VI — Green of Matahiwi

I’ve studied the colour in photos and in the background of the video of Selina’s celebration, (so colourful, it’s changing the green). I go looking in my test pots — I have about twenty different greens — and mix the colour. I mix the colour in my deep memory of all the times I’ve gazed at Maui, listening to Tom. I have to cover the colour with clingfilm to take to Andy, it dries at least two shades lighter.
          ‘It’s this green.’
          ‘Put it on here,’ he says, and gives me a brush. He has an upturned white bucket.
          ‘On there,’ he says, ‘You can see the colour.’
I do a bit of a smear and it looks too emerald, too vivid on top of pure white. He mixes a bit of the grey-green in. It’s close, but I mix a bit more of my green in, and then make a proper mix. I reckon I’ve got it near enough, and I don’t want to dull it.
          ‘Do you want me to paint it?’
          ‘No, I’m going to put it together with little pegs to see how it looks, and get it fitted together, then I’ll paint it and glue it. I’ll give you a ring when it’s done.’

About a week later, he puts a note in my letter box to tell me it’s done. Andy eschews cell phones and we don’t have a land line any more.

I know it will be great. I’m thinking of the eerie, delicate, funny crown he made for Oberon in the school play. Wire bent delicately as twigs, nuts and berries (literally nuts and bolts) hanging like delicate charms. I’m thinking of his pop-art paintings of the queen, a gold sun like a halo behind, both mocking and elevating her beautiful coronation self. I’m thinking of the time something sad happened to Henry at school, and Andy made him a tiny perfect grand piano out of balsa wood to take with him when he left home to go to med school, that he still takes from house to house with him.

And when I see it, I really don’t know what to say.  It makes me feel like crying. The little whare sits delicate and calm, the poem sitting inside, looking out. The walls, with the layers of slightly different woods, like a real home. There are always surprises – I’m not expecting the fingers at the end of the maihi to be there, or those perfect circular shapes. Later he tells me he made them by holding them down with a board while he drilled half holes through.
          ‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say, ‘Tom will love it.’

Tom Mulligan even in his quiet office when Tom speaks under the earth, the roots stir to listen.   Water shush-shushes  trees shine like sugar and tui sings birds burst out bells toots & whistles to keep time with Tom.   by Marty Smith
Poem Tom Mulligan by Marty Smith. Photo Marty Smith.

Part VII — So much aroha

Peter organises a special occasion for Tom, and it’s not only the kaikaranga, bending down to shake leaves, who wear black. Maui’s eye glows white under the knot of his hair, the wind wisps streaks across a very blue sky.

We’re in the wharekai, under the murals Jacob made years ago with his art students. They tell the story of work, rows and rows of stone-fruit trees for Watties; long lines of fat chops for the works at Whakatū, closed-down for years. The site is just across the creek from where Tom is seated, to the side of the honour roll of soldiers who died in the war; some, four or five sons are on the end wall, alive and glowing as he fights the fish. The line of his frown and the perfect curves of the waves make me think, Jacob did that himself.

The space around Tom is warm; peaceful and full. He listens carefully to John telling the story of their past. Peter speaks, and John leans back in his chair, absorbed, hand against his cheek. Jacob stands, clears his throat, and walks ceremonially to the table, bearing back something wrapped. (What is it?) Everyone cranes forward. The tokotoko comes clear: a simple spiral, rich in colour like rimu, and smooth, and solid. It’s grounded by a round knob on top, to fit into Tom’s hand. Tom is overcome, and Jacob, speaking, is close to tears.

I’m completely undone when I read Tom his poem, and he seems stunned. I talk about Neville, and Andy, and the wood, and the Aunties murmur, ‘So much aroha’. When I kiss Tom, his whānau stands and sings, and everyone joins till the room fills and swells and I’m not the only one crying.  

Man sitting at a table in his house. There are pictures on the wall above him.
Tom Mulligan. Photo Florence Charvin.

 Marty Smith biography 

Marty Smith’s Horse with hat was a finalist in the Poetry Award in the 2014 NZ Post Book Awards, and won the Jesse Mackay award for Best First Book of Poetry. She is writing about the people on the Hastings racecourse with the help of an arts grant from Creative New Zealand.

Marty helps Tom and the community of Matahiwi as MC for the poetry readings and performances at the inauguration of the Poet Laureate. She helps Peter and the National Library as MC for Poets Night Out, the evening celebration. Big shout out to her mate, Carla Crosbie, and the team at HB Readers and Writers, who run a beautiful event, every time.

A Poem for Waitangi Day


From the Void, Te Kore, seven kinds of light:
first, glowworm glimmer; then pale gleams;
next, a dim aura; the stars grow fainter
as Papatūānuku separates from Ranginui;
pale beams follow; before summer's
bright clarity emerges;
and down in the gully we walk out into the sun,
crossing the creek as if time has just begun.


We wave charms and amulets,
horoscopes and horticultural guides
to best brands to buy
for Generation XY,
Generation Alibi.
All in this waka together,
bombarded by small pieces of pumice and scoria;
so emotionally invested
in Kiwiland's avatar —
where we the people, we the sheeple.
we the peeps, we the perps,
we the fraudsters, we the Treaty-honouring,
dwell and dwell
on a happening turned into an awakening.

Can't hongi with the poets, just elbow-bump
at a hangi for the Queen;
lower masks, rub noses, and tipple a snifter
of Bailey's Irish Cream.
Bring home ashes in a trim hessian bag:
those lately gone to the realm of Hine-nui-te-pō.
The manes of white-haired New Zealanders
nod sagely like toe-toe plumes in the breeze.
The CEO's a paladin who just lost his rag:
a prince of millionaires
with a Herne Bay heli-pad.
Plenty of bottom end to go around the bend;
a magistrate's gravelly speech,
throws the rule-book in a straight line,
as southern rātā and pōhutakawa
paint the whenua red.


Place-names vanish, to be replaced
by brand-new ancient dreams,
when the motu turns over in its sleep
and rumbles and steams.
Root vegetables bake delish in a dish;
I speak of the potato and the kūmara.
Commended souls do eye-rolls.
The festive season has its reasons.
The dire-wolf bares its teeth
to express grief;
puddles exclaim with pelting rain;
myriad tones of voice let rip
to the muffled hills as one song,
through the car window's quarter-light.
The rubble of jaded intellects is landslip.
If this be Doomsday, it is not in jest.
Isolation with the hard borders of lockdown
declares the importance of being earnest.


Here come the clouds; how vapid they are,
as if texting each other with sun emojis,
or pursuing futile chases that dissolve
into future expanses of climate change.
The lazy wind gives a farewell wave and dies;
a tsunami rolls and rolls,
far-out as a January day,
foamy as a car-wash.
Beneath the calm surface of bland
quivers a passive-aggressive possessive
that whips out like a lizard's tongue
to drag home its target like a wrapped-up fly.
Silly old fossil fuels flow from Noah's flood;
there's reverence and sublimation in hydro-electric structures.
Will the weather never get green?
It's going to be a fly-by of better loyalty cards
through blue skies from now on,
and a free Sweetwaters concert in every rest-home.

There's a convenient convenience store,
but no public convenience to be seen.
There's abject poverty up there on the screen,
but it's quickly covered by a request
to recycle your plastic dreams
of pre-packaged lunch deals and bank loan schemes.
Shoegazers on tv denounce single-use.
Low tolerance levels are expected to increase.
Seals flip and glide and swim in-shore.

The sacred nacre of pāua, spit of oyster spat,
a smelt blaze and the tag of string flutter;
starred wire fences cut across contours;
the falling folds of the bush-line
are petticoats of green crinoline.
Musculature of rugged ranges,
coloratura of operatic tūī,
chaffing of chaffinches,
beady wax-eyes that cluster in view,
a rumour of rosellas, a squabble of sparrows.
Flipped vortex of a spinning top;
lawn rolled up like carpet and flung on a truck.

There's pounamu that dwells in a tapu pool
to be prised and appraised anew,
as a stoned head bends and lends an ear,
while marl rebuffs the translucent inanga.
Brisk claw and scrape of a twig by a kākā;
kererū going for it — the reddish berry,
with bunt and swoosh, sough and shush.


A supply chain strains around the massive
neck of a kauri tree, and talismans are token
in this one hundred per cent pure Arcady,
the Lord knows where, between shade and azure.
It is, in semblance, a looking-glass land,
solid gold golf ball whacked into the gulf;
moth-land, moon-land, shear-land, gland-land,
whose North Island might checkmate South Island,
and take as pawns Stewart Island, the Poor
Knights, the Great and Little Barrier
bishops in a game of Crown and Anchor.
And let the glacial attitudes of the Pākehā
melt like snow creatures, or ice crystals,
in the eerie green faery mist
of patupaiarehe, amid chants of atua;
then bring out the chart of Te Tiriti o Waitangi,
document stained with blood and squid-ink.
A flying canoe ghostly in the sky paddles
over the whole fished-up archipelago,
guided by Kupe, whose pointing finger
shines with shark oil as the stars rise.

Kia kaha, kia maia, kia manawanui.

— David Eggleton

Pohutakawa, Barrier Island. Photo David Eggleton

Time of the Icebergs

Here is a link to a poem video, released in early December, which has been created by myself and Richard Wallis for my poem Time of the Icebergs. The poem is about the icebergs sailing past Dunedin in 2006, and climate change. It also features a lot of the old Dunedin townscape which is fast changing.

 The poem Time of the Icebergs also features in a new poetry anthology forthcoming from Auckland University Press and launched in May 2022 entitled, No Other Place to Stand, a book of climate change poetry from Aotearoa and the Pacific.

Watch Time of Icebergs

Time of the Icebergs

In the time of the icebergs —
big black baby buggies pushed by women
in hoodies, denim and eff-off boots.
Crop circles on Google Earth say NO to Monsanto.
Boxy four-wheel-drives plane through the wet —
semi-amphibious barges, growling up and down,
piloted by yummy mummies, or tattooed property
developers in cargo shorts, their tee-shirts
emblazoned with Crowded House logos,
their capitalist warrior chariots splashing kerbs.
Buses pull out wheezing, and puffing exhaust,
loaded to the gunnels with glaze-eyed tourists —
destination, Bliss or Damnation.

Glossolalia of the Undie 500 clown cars;
smashed glass of the student quarter glimmery as jewels;
detritus of bonfires blown hither and yon,
the shouty mouthy denizens of bouncy Castle Street
wandering in fellowship of the sofa burns
to the great forcing apparatus university,
glowing with self-declared enlightenment;
and death by chocolate beckons,
from Cadbury’s vast lakes of cocoa butter,
to vulgarians who flog heritage buildings for parking.
Bringing frost, a flotilla of white blocks;
winter bloom of blue muffin-tops over low-slung jeans,
and gales in the face which smack like wet fish;
chill fingerbones that touch you from far away,
in the time of the icebergs.

The city at night one vast monastery
under holy hush of snow;
and bent beneath their hoods they go,
like capuchin monks praying in cloisters,
Ngati Cappuccino or Ngati Bogan,
eye-sockets deep pits in snoods:
glaze-eyed jaded ones,
monkish, cowling the head for respect,
or to recapture the rapture;
and a hooded phantom runs,
breathing out steam,
a warrior monk who travels light.
Closer, you see her face,
ethereal as that of a novice nun,
beneath her hoodie,
in the time of the icebergs.

David Eggleton