tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83003214744286825672024-03-14T07:08:48.621+13:00The New Zealand Poet Laureate blogNational Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.comBlogger437125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-2266324546196009752023-08-25T09:47:00.003+12:002023-08-25T09:59:33.777+12:00Half-time<p>It was a scorching day in Washington DC in late July, but rather than seeking shelter from the heat and humidity in one of the city’s many air-conditioned museums, I found myself in a school gymnasium thrumming with the laughter of 40 kids and adults chasing a soccer ball across the polished floor. The kids were ‘poet-athletes’ taking part in a summer camp programme with DC SCORES, a not-for-profit organisation that uses soccer and poetry to ‘give kids the confidence and skills to succeed on the playing field, in the classroom, and in life’. My indoor soccer days were far behind me, so I was there in my capacity as Aotearoa’s Poet Laureate.</p>
<p>I was in Washington DC as a member of Slow Currents, a cohort of Asian diaspora writers from Aotearoa and Australia. In 2022, we participated in online workshops with Asian American writers, including Pulitzer Prize winners Viet Thanh Nguyen and Hua Hsu, and acclaimed Palestinian American poet George Abraham. The main purpose of our trip to DC was a two-week residency to work on our individual projects and to meet with key people in the Asian American writing community to share knowledge and ideas about how we can empower and create opportunities for our own communities. We also lined up some last-minute events while we were in town, including performances at the famous Busboys & Poets, and the first-ever open mic at the Kennedy Centre. (The Asian American Literature Festival, which we were due to participate in, was abruptly cancelled in the week leading up to us arriving in the States. To date, the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center has failed to give organisers and participants a transparent reason for the cancellation. There’s murmurs that the programme’s trans and non-binary content spooked the Sminthsonian’s conservative stakeholders.)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcaoTSnIynBTGKLLo4dOl6x8vsG4TFgXvcietlyfrPYdOwtVORWM_PATiwzPwtNSrXbF3P5C8K82bm1NbFmwhsfXJvLrKbv8uvPAzzeSOz_ECYma2tyACdSMGpQT2kBsuNYGhe1ZR7dJXZV2mpVEH6-gJXpazDSn91IX0bjlrBhl8KijisaoEVwd9kBE/s930/you-want-a-poem-half-time.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Exhibition with lots of coloured boxes and screens and the title "You want a poem"." border="0" data-original-height="930" data-original-width="744" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcaoTSnIynBTGKLLo4dOl6x8vsG4TFgXvcietlyfrPYdOwtVORWM_PATiwzPwtNSrXbF3P5C8K82bm1NbFmwhsfXJvLrKbv8uvPAzzeSOz_ECYma2tyACdSMGpQT2kBsuNYGhe1ZR7dJXZV2mpVEH6-gJXpazDSn91IX0bjlrBhl8KijisaoEVwd9kBE/w512-h640/you-want-a-poem-half-time.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The culture galleries at the National Museum of African<br /> American History & Culture, Washington D.C. Photo by Chris Tse. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Before leaving a typical Wellington winter for summer in Washington DC, I reached out to the New Zealand Embassy to see whether there might be opportunities for me to partner with them for an event while I was in DC. The timing couldn’t have been better—the Embassy had been working with DC SCORES to plan a day to celebrate the FIFA Women’s World Cup being hosted in Aoteaora and Australia.</p>
<p>Despite my initial scepticism about soccer and poetry being natural bedfellows, I was instantly won over by the kids’ enthusiasm for both. After sharing some of my poems, I fielded some creative and incisive questions from the kids. What I love about moments like this is that it strengthens my own relationship to poetry, and reminds me how powerful it can be to connect with others through the power of storytelling and poetry. As much as the laureateship has been about raising my own profile as a poet and promoting poetry in general, it’s also taught me a lot about myself and how the role of Poet Laureate can act as an intermediary — something like a poetry matchmaker, if you will.</p>
<p>Today is National Poetry Day, which means I’m now halfway through my two-year term. Over the past year, I’ve met and spoken with thousands of people of all ages and backgrounds, from running writing workshops in schools to meeting with a public sector organisation’s pan-Asian staff network. Each of these engagements has been a chance to share my love of poetry and gauge people’s feelings about what is often considered an impenetrable and inaccessible art form.</p>
<p>I know some have had bad experiences with poetry because of how it was taught at school, but my appeal to them is to let that go — start afresh and embrace poetry that speaks to them and their interests. As an artform, poetry is as varied as music or film—there truly is something out there for everyone, from Chaucer to spoken word. I’m heartened when teenagers tell me they’re reading contemporary New Zealand poets (by choice!) or when a retired grandmother makes their debut at an open mic. All of this reinforces to me that poetry can be for everyone — it’s about finding a way into it that resonates with them.</p>
<p>I’d be lying if I said the past year hasn’t been hectic — my entire life has shifted to put poetry front and centre. It’s been chaotic in the best way and surprising too (for starters, I never imagined I’d see my face plastered on the backs of buses). Invitations to speak and perform have come from as far as Invercargill and Leeds in the U.K., which is where I’ll be next month for a festival. As I told the kids at DC SCORES, I knew I’d never represent Aotearoa in sport, but I’m immensely proud to represent our country and its phenomenal poets on a global stage.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnaFSKNXhK5EKqbhbo0HYGxnxe0OJzIPrLUjDxSNYvSXInepOCLdwiZfW_h0KleuO08EDEWPicick5gZC23eunN33DK6glSvUxY3C9F7BHstHYif6tNE59hIYAFOSPpl1mRQBW5ZWl_RuLILQRCu5gT5UBzDu1DFUksl1bYMpesjzTsSfgC_Hj7LBIkg/s762/you-want-a-poem-half-time-01.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Man reading from a book to a group of children," border="0" data-original-height="762" data-original-width="744" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnaFSKNXhK5EKqbhbo0HYGxnxe0OJzIPrLUjDxSNYvSXInepOCLdwiZfW_h0KleuO08EDEWPicick5gZC23eunN33DK6glSvUxY3C9F7BHstHYif6tNE59hIYAFOSPpl1mRQBW5ZWl_RuLILQRCu5gT5UBzDu1DFUksl1bYMpesjzTsSfgC_Hj7LBIkg/w624-h640/you-want-a-poem-half-time-01.jpg" width="624" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">Chris
Tse reads to poet-athletes at DC SCORE's</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> summer school programme in Washington
D.C., July 2023.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p>If there’s one thing I want to achieve before my term is over, it’s to shift perceptions about poetry being ‘difficult’ to help people find new ways into enjoying it. We’re surrounded by poetry, from the way shadows scatter themselves on the pavement to someone being moved to speak out about injustice.</p>
<p>I’ve no doubt that I have another busy year filled with poetry ahead of me, and I can’t wait to share it with Aotearoa and the world. </p>
<p><strong>Chris would like to thank the New Zealand Embassy in Washington DC for arranging his visit to DC SCORES, and Creative New Zealand for its support of the Slow Currents residency.</strong></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-19651813211750162202023-05-05T10:58:00.005+12:002023-05-05T12:55:04.660+12:00Number 13 — Inauguration weekend poem<p>I’m trying to get into the habit of writing new poems to read at each event I participate in as the Poet Laureate, and I knew that for my inauguration weekend, I wanted to read something that acknowledged the Poets Laureate who have come before me.</p><p>I decided to write an acrostic using the surnames of the 12 previous Laureates. I’ve found that the acrostic form has forced me to write more linearly than I usually do. Thus each line revealed itself one by one over a couple of months as I chipped away at the poem. The final result is part homage and part manifesto, a testament to the power of poetry to change hearts and minds. </p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Number 13</span></h2>
<p>Must be the way a poem kickstarts a world into being that</p>
<p>alters how time leans into itself. The rise and fall of oceans</p>
<p>never felt so slow or sticky on your skin, salt crusting between</p>
<p>heartbeats. The delicious moon—all-seeing and all-knowing—</p>
<p>inches across the night sky while sad songs crackle on the</p>
<p>radio. Must be fire and flood swooping in to play their part when</p>
<p>everything is bent beyond recognition. Pray for the good old days.</p>
<p>The before times. The once and once more. We have a habit of</p>
<p>U-Turning when faced with not liking where we’re heading. Oh</p>
<p>wicked, stubborn fate—who’s to say that we can outpace the</p>
<p>hardest of truths? That we are fallible. That we are fools for</p>
<p>attempting to chart our own lives. Poets will ensure that these</p>
<p>revelations are broken to us in the kindest way, like a parent</p>
<p>easing their child into a bedtime ritual. The mind wanders,</p>
<p>skips over crucial details when recalling a memory</p>
<p>made at our most vulnerable to scarring. Are those made</p>
<p>in usual circumstances worth holding in the eternal vault?</p>
<p>Take dreams as an example: there is nothing unusual or</p>
<p>humbling about sleep. Most dreams aren’t memories worth</p>
<p>entertaining. And yet, I have a recurring dream in which</p>
<p>RuPaul asks, ‘What would you say to 10-year-old Christopher?’.</p>
<p>This is the trope I hate the most: tricking my inner child to</p>
<p>unpack intergenerational trauma or make peace with what</p>
<p>returns to sting me when I let down my guard. If I only had</p>
<p>nerve to excoriate the judges for this scripted farce, but I can’t</p>
<p>escape expectation. I’ve been thinking about legacy and</p>
<p>royalty—arrangements designed to make us feel like we</p>
<p>belong to some powerful chain. Link by link we forge</p>
<p>ornamental pathways backwards and forwards, left and</p>
<p>right—words whistling in every direction in search of</p>
<p>new ears to fall upon. A poem is a key, is a map, is a</p>
<p>hidden place filled with the answers to questions you</p>
<p>only ever ask yourself when you’re alone. There’s nothing</p>
<p>lost between a poem and its reader—an open mind and</p>
<p>derring-do will take you far if you hand yourself over to</p>
<p>the invisible strings of each melodious line. If gravity were to</p>
<p>loosen its grip you might find yourself melting into the</p>
<p>eventide, echoes of other worlds ushering you onwards,</p>
<p>grief-stricken by what has been, or empowered by what is</p>
<p>granted a spotlight in your fantasies. I still long for utopia</p>
<p>or at the very least a future where we no longer need to</p>
<p>teach children how to hide from mass shooters stalking</p>
<p>their school corridors. I have excavated and polished all</p>
<p>my fears and frustrations to display in the world’s most</p>
<p>complicated museum exhibition. No amount of hurt can</p>
<p>quieten my overachiever Asian gene or deny my status as an</p>
<p>unreasonable artist with many obsessions to nurture until</p>
<p>everything is about race or gender or queerness. I want an</p>
<p>easy life too—hands free to caress the world in its velvets,</p>
<p>not to obsess or fret about the sharp edges that catch my</p>
<p>wild tongue. A pattern must be broken. A heavy heart needs</p>
<p>emptying to make room for courage. So I listen to Robyn’s</p>
<p>‘Dancing On My Own’ for the thousandth time to feel something</p>
<p>deeply—to unearth a memory loaded with the most powerful</p>
<p>emotion that will transform my simple words into a paean to</p>
<p>our shared joy. In the future, our desires will be soundtracked by</p>
<p>sadbangers—we will cry and let our cathartic tears crystallise</p>
<p>under our feet as we dance ourselves towards the blinding</p>
<p>light of better days. We will sing; we will lift our arms and</p>
<p>levitate, enraptured by the possibility that poetry holds.</p>
<p>If this is the path, if this is the way forward, let all our</p>
<p>voices be bold. Hear me: I am the Poet Laureate and I</p>
<p>approve this message! Now is the time for poetry to</p>
<p>nurse our crushes until we all die of embarrassment. I’ll</p>
<p>stand tall, facing the past, and instruct everyone to keep</p>
<p>tipping the scales in our favour. Assume the position—</p>
<p>ease our bodies against the tide that roars at us, “No</p>
<p>Admission”. I believe in our strength; I believe in self-</p>
<p>deprecation and letting poetry ruin every party it crashes.</p>
<p>Must be the page turning or the world tipping on its</p>
<p>axis, tradition glazed with the woozy afterglow of poets</p>
<p>reciting verse to manifest rebirth, a murmuration of</p>
<p>starlings filling the vast attics of our futures. If there’s</p>
<p>harmony there must be a chorus, voices matched and</p>
<p>etched into the walls we are learning to scale with ease.</p>
<p>Give me neither poverty nor riches; give me myself again.</p>
<p>Give me love and give me hope; give me myself again.</p>
<p>Line by line and brick by brick, build something that will</p>
<p>equip us to change the world. I am sentimental for a </p>
<p>time that does not yet exist but that I know is somewhere</p>
<p>out there—a half-beginning, a half-sense of something</p>
<p>not entirely out of reach. Must be the way a poem can</p>
<p>tell you where to stand to see every crack or where to</p>
<p>start a fire to light the way for others. Describe what you</p>
<p>expect to see on the other side. Tell us how you want to feel.</p><p>— Chris Tse</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUki2CJRp2Y44wof67ti4TmdyctIEqXGDFgXjOzruJYpFVV2TahtgIv8LXMq6wHcWFjDU6aJp6xJ-UIYOErPMyJ3mdNQFjAAakYTw4FLB8CqITEAQtTrfGTZzS89V3coDMOyZdanmxPVOctKyS0_P9DFcSsrSXf1q-ijxgbRSTleJ_Dlm3w121E5H/s3000/RebeccaMcMillanPhotography_202304_ChrisTse-07063-resized.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Smiling chinese man in a green suit holding a carved stick." border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUki2CJRp2Y44wof67ti4TmdyctIEqXGDFgXjOzruJYpFVV2TahtgIv8LXMq6wHcWFjDU6aJp6xJ-UIYOErPMyJ3mdNQFjAAakYTw4FLB8CqITEAQtTrfGTZzS89V3coDMOyZdanmxPVOctKyS0_P9DFcSsrSXf1q-ijxgbRSTleJ_Dlm3w121E5H/w427-h640/RebeccaMcMillanPhotography_202304_ChrisTse-07063-resized.jpg" width="427" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris Tse (the 13th Poet Laureate) holding his tokotoko carved by Jacob Scott.<br />Photo by Rebecca
McMillan Photography. All rights reserved. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-82665568016866694782022-12-02T10:32:00.028+13:002022-12-02T10:47:51.360+13:00Opening of “Long Waves of our Ocean: New responses to Pacific poems” exhibition<p>Chris joined us at the National Library recently for the opening of <i>Long Waves of our Ocean: New responses to Pacific poems</i> and premiered his poem, <em>the longest wave</em> as a response to the central place of poetry in the exhibition.</p>
<p>The title of the exhibition is a line from the poem <em>Stepping Stones</em> by Albert Wendt:</p>
<p>"...and our islands are your anchor and launching site<br /> for the universes that repeat and repeat</p>
<p>like the long waves of our ocean like Tagaloaalagi’s<br /> compulsive scrutiny of what is to come and fear"</p>
<p>— Peter Ireland</p>
<h2>~~~the longest wave~~~</h2><p>I run from the mountains / through urban sprawl / through shopping malls / through air-conditioned office buildings / I run from desperation / and headlong into a joy that I hope will crush me / I run from ransom notes left on shattered windscreens / dead ends / bad weeks that won’t end / I run from narrative and happy endings / history presented as spillage / everybody involved making a petty mess / I run from storms swallowing the skies / through fire and locust plague / I run with zoo animals released back into the wild / like public servants unshackled from security clearances and !P@55wordS / I run from social media and porn bots / from influencers selling me plastic bodies / from the urge to sleep through the anthropocene / I run from Christmas decorations in October and hot cross buns in January / through time-lapse decay and benefits realisation / through the haze of burning press releases about liveable cities / I run from my embarrassing teenage poetry / from thinly veiled metaphors jumping in and out of closets / in and out of the shared body heat of a crowd / out of breath / out like a light / but still wired / let me sleep / through white noise and bird song / through neighbours’ squabbles about boundary lines / I run from borders / away from units and definitions / away from inboxes overflowing with flattering comments / I run from infographics and statistics / that explain why we are miserable / from proof of our self-inflictions / I run in search of direction / away from need and want / from could’ve, should’ve, would’ve / I run from the canon / from my catalogue of ailments / past the sun and moon locked in their orbits / past the billboards advertising an impossible future / away from the party / each of us saving the best parts for later / but never finding the time to enjoy / I am here for a good time / I am here in salt / preserved for good measure / I am the longest wave / stretching beyond myself / I run to be lost and found / I run towards land / I run home</p><p>— Chris Tse</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkvi3Kd_N2mY_fgn4qlUy96VLRltuhT9xHu0-Tpw3bbbWWstucksu8lup6Dl_VApDwm7e_ZOhV-yvn0Pjb3YzBNcwp56dF06AU37bgqcHV8mMrEqGSAb-9vZWH7Age514c4ZZqF08c9w88TfSWp8VwV7rHwEzEKQiQWgRArJNm4r_T8I3Z9Z66zn5X/s1000/chris-tse-long-waves-of-our-ocean-1000.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkvi3Kd_N2mY_fgn4qlUy96VLRltuhT9xHu0-Tpw3bbbWWstucksu8lup6Dl_VApDwm7e_ZOhV-yvn0Pjb3YzBNcwp56dF06AU37bgqcHV8mMrEqGSAb-9vZWH7Age514c4ZZqF08c9w88TfSWp8VwV7rHwEzEKQiQWgRArJNm4r_T8I3Z9Z66zn5X/w640-h426/chris-tse-long-waves-of-our-ocean-1000.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris reading ~~~<i>the longest wave</i>~~~ at the opening of <em style="text-align: left;">Long Waves of our Ocean: New responses to Pacific poems,</em><span style="text-align: left;"> National Library, Wellington. Photo by </span>Celeste Fontein.<br /><br /><p><br /></p></td></tr></tbody></table>
<p>More about <a href="https://natlib.govt.nz/visiting/wellington/the-long-waves-of-our-ocean-new-responses-to-pacific-poems">Long Waves of our Ocean: New responses to Pacific poems</a></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-37674333119668938462022-08-26T08:30:00.033+12:002022-08-26T09:19:10.287+12:00Welcome to Chris Tse our new Poet Laureate <p>The National Library
is delighted to celebrate National Poetry Day by announcing Chris Tse of Wellington as the New Zealand Poet Laureate for 2022-2024.<p>Te Pouhuaki National Librarian Rachel Esson described Chris’s appointment as recognition of “a poet leading a generational and cultural shift in the reach and appreciation of poetry in Aotearoa.”</p>
<p>Fellow poet Freya Daly Sadgrove says Chris “will unite and embolden the full breadth of Aotearoa’s poetry community as well as entice new audiences with his innovation. He’s a glam-rock poetry superstar with a big, gorgeous heart and he will raise the profile of Aotearoa poetry right now like no one else.”</p>
</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRP09LSaak0OTpS8mISvG0mOg1w_s5hzFcTZM_mS9XxoX_8_M5BrSUkaQry7FrN759bs1GQeQCYI1nZe_yIwU_pA04QOwhYj9RrrDqX-rrczlgMdmHr3R0-QhZ9L-7Z5rCEGuDS9OhKaVBJw8cMF7Kcot9eEtA-c1NP0hu0acAEIANqftdjVdLEBvT/s800/chris-tse-poet-laureate-2022.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Chinese man in coulourful jacket standing in front of a large round mirror." border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRP09LSaak0OTpS8mISvG0mOg1w_s5hzFcTZM_mS9XxoX_8_M5BrSUkaQry7FrN759bs1GQeQCYI1nZe_yIwU_pA04QOwhYj9RrrDqX-rrczlgMdmHr3R0-QhZ9L-7Z5rCEGuDS9OhKaVBJw8cMF7Kcot9eEtA-c1NP0hu0acAEIANqftdjVdLEBvT/w640-h426/chris-tse-poet-laureate-2022.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Self-portrait Chris Tse. Photo provided. </td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<p>For Tse, his appointment was a thrill and an honour.</p>
<p>“The number 13 is a lucky number in my family, so it feels very auspicious to be named the 13th New Zealand Poet Laureate.</p>
<p>“Stepping into this role as a queer, Asian writer is an incredible and life-changing opportunity. I’m thrilled and honoured to be following in the footsteps of some of our literary greats.</p>
<p>“New Zealand’s poetry scene is thrumming with diverse and innovative voices on both the page and the stage, and I can’t wait to use my tenure as Poet Laureate to help people discover the riches of this scene.”</p>
<p>Congratulations Chris we look forward to hearing more from you.</p>
<h2><em>Why Hollywood won’t cast poets in films anymore</em></h2>
<p>1. There are public reasons and there are private reasons.</p>
<p>2. The public reasons are toothless exaggerations</p>
<p>3. In private, we recount the times we’ve been made to feel damaged.</p>
<p>4. The night writes its power ballads behind closed doors.</p>
<p>5. We have dressed our wounds with the sins of our tormentors.</p>
<p>6. When we were happy, we filled our suitcases with fresh bread.</p>
<p>7. Now that we are filled with rage we choke our duck ponds with dry crusts.</p>
<p>8. There was a time when the colour of a nightclub brawl did not exist.</p>
<p>9. Nowadays, a bookstore drive-by shooting no longer elicits social media outrage.</p>
<p>10. We must acknowledge that there are no more wars left to cry over.</p>
<p>11. Except for the wars we wage against ourselves, which we refuse to acknowledge.</p>
<p>12. We carved our names into every building to remind ourselves never to return.</p>
<p>13. You can dance for a destination, but you will never get there in one piece.</p>
<p>14. Careers based on public humiliation are no longer worth curating.</p>
<p>15. At no point have we accepted responsibility for casting the first stone.</p>
<p>16. If it’s all lies, we must pretend not to notice.</p>
<p>17. If it’s all truth, we must pretend not to care.</p>
<p>18. Either way, it’s meant to hurt.</p>
<p>19. It’s meant to make you want to leave your husband for a tax accountant.</p>
<p>20. It’s the way we step out of a burning theatre as if nothing’s wrong.</p>
<p>21. As if the smoke in our eyes is a lover’s smile caught in sunlight.</p>
<p>22. An uncontrollable fire is perfectly fine, given the state of the world.</p>
<p>23. Then why do I feel so angry?</p>
<p>24. Are you angry?</p>
<p>25. I’m angry.</p><p><i>— Chris Tse</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmHZcu7nlK8hDwyZ-AaN5_OmWKglXc0Wrc-1By6qeWzKBs4M0saJwj_O-wPL9KYqXSpW8e7znZVDHXy7rQuu3F7epc0miGEyzrobOqRUhTOsA2oa2-VjMMGSh4mtQEmbIQfET26PQpBPEIoIXxBPpIpuULgAk5wmhRHVQl3k94TPqupyEZSRHREOg/s994/chris-tse-2022-post-laureate-phantom-poster.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Poster announceing Chris Tse as new Poet Laureate, includes a poem called ‘Chris Tse and his imaginary band’ and biographical information about Chris which is available on the Poet Laureate blog." border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmHZcu7nlK8hDwyZ-AaN5_OmWKglXc0Wrc-1By6qeWzKBs4M0saJwj_O-wPL9KYqXSpW8e7znZVDHXy7rQuu3F7epc0miGEyzrobOqRUhTOsA2oa2-VjMMGSh4mtQEmbIQfET26PQpBPEIoIXxBPpIpuULgAk5wmhRHVQl3k94TPqupyEZSRHREOg/w517-h640/chris-tse-2022-post-laureate-phantom-poster.png" width="517" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poster announcing Chris Tse as the new Poet Laureate. <br />Thank you to Phantom Billstickers for the poster.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-61057864771527919322022-06-22T10:00:00.003+12:002022-06-22T10:00:00.162+12:00Whale Psalm<p>The whale, says Jonah, is the black night filled with terrible screams.<br />The whale is missiles that winnow the grain from the wheatfields.<br />The whale is the city with bombed-out basements and burning high-rises.<br />The whale is the country, bogged down in booby-traps and wreckage of tanks.<br />The whale shoulders the load, a tower of coffins.<br />The whale is village-fiddlers tuning up a death march.<br />The whale is soldiers shouting their poems in the ruins.<br />The whale is a prayer on the lips of children.<br />The whale is liberty pecked at by birds of prey.<br />The whale is the enemy, with its taboos, its vanity and its ignorance.<br />The whale is life incarnate and a desperation to survive.<br />The whale is the weight of creation stranded on the tipping point.<br />The whale is always further away than first thought, but inescapable.<br />The whale wants to save us.<br />The whale wants to win the war.<br />The whale turns the spotlight on the whale-hunters and the war-generals.<br />The whale has climbed the diving board above the dried-up sacred fountain.<br />The whale must dive into the circus barrel, and there is no way out.</p><p><i>— David Eggleton</i></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-90014146177600276432022-06-20T10:00:00.004+12:002022-06-20T10:00:00.160+12:00Mostly Black<p>Before, as it was, it was mostly black,<br />dark beaks, polished talons, feathers, a black<br />regime drenched in the melancholy black<br />of rains that took tides further towards black.<br />From hinges of sunlight hung blocks of black,<br />and risen humps of islands were matt black.<br />Cinders sailed from bush burn-offs, carbon black.<br />Beads on antimacassars gleamed jet black.<br />Through pine's silent groves possum eyes shone black.<br />Above tar-seal a melted rainbow turned black.<br />At disintegration of monolith black,<br />green, all that blue can be, then back to black.<br />Green of pounamu lost under lake's black.<br />Blackout's lickerish taste, blood-pudding black,<br />and midnight mushrooms gathered from deep black.<br />Tattoos drawn with bent nib and homemade black.<br />Batman's mask, a dull sheen of cue ball black.<br />The primeval redacted, placed in black<br />trash bags, or else turned out as burnt bone black.<br />Pull on the wool singlet of shearer's black,<br />for blacker than black is New Zealand black,<br />null and void black, ocean black, all black.<br />In Te Pō's night realm, from Te Kore's black,<br />under the stars spreads the splendour of black.</p><p><i>— David Eggleton</i></p><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-76023538969189324752022-06-17T02:00:00.000+12:002022-06-18T17:18:51.886+12:00Te-Ara-a-Parāoa, Path of the Sperm Whale<p>Aotearoa's white peaks spyhop above waves,<br />seeking albatross worlds of mislaid moons.<br />Screeching kākā skim fast through tree-tops. <br />Parāoa breaches in a frost-smoke chrysalis.<br />Iwi on the shore perform haka of welcome.<br />Drizzle dances on the head of the whale.<br />Hoisted up out of water, blowing a guffaw,<br />blunt headlands slap and wallow in their turn.<br />A living wall slides past, gentle-eyed, vast.<br />Luminous planktons glow in dark ocean;<br />neon flying squid flash through salty air.<br />Silvery-bubbled, ripple-driven, Parāoa<br />tilts her tail-flukes, keels and plunges: <br />guiding her calf down Kaikōura Canyon.<br />Bob of a fur seal pup snouts through<br />seaweed wrack, in the surf's long swell.<br />A breeze licks over spun gobbets of foam.<br />A green tendril climbs sunwards in a spiral</p><p><i>— David Eggleton</i></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-9675570074077078942022-06-15T16:57:00.003+12:002022-06-18T17:14:53.772+12:00Matariki<p>Matariki's eyes are fiery in the night.<br />Feather-shawled mountains gleam their beaks.<br />Great trunks, sawn through, tumble and tilt.<br />Bold carvings, auctioned in whispers,<br />echo as prophecies, sung by wind-swept trees.<br />The hangi smokes great boars, basted in juices.<br />Plagued by caterpillars, slithered by eels,<br />a patchwork quilt of farm unravels.<br />In lightning and hail, each snail snivels;<br />learned visitors take shelter with skinks,<br />under rocks from nesting angry falcons.<br />Ghosts hoard waka in marshes, under silt.<br />An arcade is roofed with engraved glass;<br />a pedestal is bound by polished brass;<br />faces are wound tighter than a watchspring.<br />Wigs become a sheep flock gathering.<br />There's daughter of the kauri, Amber Reeves,<br />sailing for London from the Antipodes.<br />Through cavern gloom, suspended by ooze,<br />many worms glow as the matrix broods.</p>
<p><i>— David Eggleton</i></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-19306213880987712332022-06-13T12:01:00.001+12:002022-06-18T17:14:29.572+12:00Key to the Hermit Kingdom<p>Once far to the back, now far out in front,<br />to bear the brunt and wear the shame,<br />the minister for health arrives by stealth;<br />children have assembled for the last bull-run. <br />The basis of life in these islands is sun.<br />Random offence takes knee-jerk exception <br />to a nation's internet solipsism.<br />They want to topple Cook's statues, wave through<br />freedom protestors, tweeters who invite you<br />to burn replicas of J.K.Rowling at the stake,<br />or shout cancel in Putin's graffitied face,<br />then pose on Instagram to game the blame.<br />As yesterday's cassette static unspools,<br />white noise buzzes across the tells<br />of a whole world in bruise-coloured blue,<br />globe mortified by heat-wave distortion,<br />though too we might die of rabid exposure,<br />our tarpaulins snatched away by storm-cells,<br />Our gathered thoughts await their closure;<br />while all look on, thanks to their lit devices;<br />and beware the naked blade that flashes<br />in dearer chainstore supermarket aisles;<br />beware pop pop pop of police gunshots,<br />attempts to liberate property from capital.<br />When asked, step away from those unmasked;<br />accept the chill vaccine that burns the arm.<br />Everything depends on the arrival<br />of red wheelbarrows from China for big box stores,<br />before global supply links break again:<br />ever-remoter quotas of autumn's dry spell<br />frozen, like jagged truths of rock pools drained, <br />those barren rocks where marooned sailors listen<br />for the lure of mermaids and police sirens.<br />Winter's stew of anonymised outrage <br />lasts lockdown season in the Hermit Kingdom.<br />Then jet-set Spring arrives, tanned and smiling,<br />in a jeep towing Summer's caravan,<br />which brings an all-weather finish to year's end.</p>
<p><i>— David Eggleton</i></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-68611677711612131612022-05-31T09:13:00.012+12:002022-08-09T12:40:17.950+12:00Poet Laureate Award call for nominations<p>Kia hiwa ra!<br /> Kia hiwa ra!<br /> <br /> The National Library of New Zealand Te Puna Mātauranga o Aotearoa is seeking nominations for the New Zealand Poet Laureate Award.<br /> <br /> 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.<br /> <br /> 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.<br /> <br /> 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.<br /> <br /> Candidates are expected to reside in New Zealand during their tenure as Laureate.<br /> <br /> The term of appointment for the next Poet Laureate will run until August 2024.</p>
<ul>
<li><a href="https://natlib.govt.nz/files/poetlaureate/new-zealand-poet-laureate-nomination-form-2022a.doc">Download the nomination form (doc, 90KB)</a></li>
<li><a href="https://natlib.govt.nz/files/poetlaureate/new-zealand-poet-laureate-background-information-2022.doc">Download the background information (doc, 60KB)</a></li>
</ul>
<p><strong>Nominations close on Friday, 29 July 2022 at 5pm.</strong></p>
<p>Please email your nomination to <a href="mailto:lily.reid@dia.govt.nz?subject=Poet%20Laureate%20nomination%202022">lily.reid@dia.govt.nz</a></p>
<p>Email is preferred, but you can also mail your nomination to:</p> <p>New Zealand Poet Laureate Award<br />National Library of New Zealand<br /> PO Box 1467<br /> Wellington.</p><p>Attention: Lily Reid</p> <br /> Enquiries about the New Zealand Poet Laureate Award can be directed to <a href="mailto:Peter.Ireland@dia.govt.nz">Peter.Ireland@dia.govt.nz</a>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-45793057217624259042022-03-29T12:18:00.003+13:002022-03-29T12:21:11.825+13:00The End of History, and Warhead<h2><span style="color: #134f5c;">The End of History</span></h2>
<p>1989, when the fall of Berlin's wall<br />chiselled away loose masonry,<br />brought promise for humanity,<br />as tank man stood tall in Tiananmen Square.<br />Dignity seemed worth more<br />at the end of the Cold War than ever before.<br />Lovers kissed for cameras, which made<br />every photograph special, like a bouquet,<br />while wires that held the whole shebang <br />upright were hidden well away. <br />They placed white carnations in rifle muzzles.<br />They dumped Klashnikovs for bumpers of champagne.<br />They waved banners and the snare drum beat.<br />They climbed to the top of decline and fall.<br />The fix was in, nothing for it but to swim.<br />1989, when the world-wide-web's pipedream lit up;<br />telexes hiccupped, telephones tittered, faxes coughed,<br />though so many were soon to return<br />in coffins from whatever war was next.<br />Some had paintstripper to remove the pain;<br />some smooshed their wonted ancient grain.<br />Sir Galahad rode in with leather apron on,<br />making light of the massacre, the heavy weather,<br />the forked lightning, the stacks of stooks<br />in summer stubble, scorched for yonks.<br />Choppers prepared for evacuation.<br />Citizens rejoiced in satellites, holding hands,<br />blindly high on their own resolution,<br />across the ocean and down in the deeps,<br />whose dungeons opened and released the Fates,<br />in bubbles of oxygen that seemed herculean.<br />Yesterday's progress ended and was rebooted.<br />Deplorables became renewable; edibles became incredible.<br />Assemblies clanked through flung-open gates.<br />And you will know us by our toppled hopes,<br />the flogged scars and stripes that bless the bloody flag.<br />We were going forward, the damned, on our five-year plan,<br />in spirit of prayer to stardust of paradise,<br />with lassoed monuments and new statues raised;<br />but hope is the thing that scatters,<br />through tarred and feathered streets,<br />as tear-gas arrives and water cannon swings.<br />There were human pyramids and plagues<br />of new missiles; jogging shoes hung from gallows.<br />The blow-up globe was punctured and hissed<br />with escaping breath as another dream<br />began to count down to lift-off;<br />and then we were stuck in the 1990s,<br />with a long night coming on,<br />and very few left to sing revolution's song.</p><p>— David Eggleton</p>
<h2><span style="color: #134f5c;">Warhead</span></h2>
<p>Say no to the Mad Emperor of the Russians,<br />in thrall to his own truth-flubbing trolls,<br />and his judo-player skills and his steroid flushes.<br />An unholy fool, dancing like a very angry bear<br />on the hot coals of burning Ukrainian cities.<br />Let him be deposed and shunted to a far-off gulag,<br />drowned like Rasputin, stopped like Trotsky with a pick-axe.<br />Let him not die in his bed like the monster Stalin,<br />for he is one of those tyrannical jerks,<br />photo-shopped all ripped veins and vascular,<br />as bigged-up as Josef Stalin's Collected Works.<br />What Pootin doesn't know isn't knowledge,<br />because Pootin went to KGB Spy College.<br />He's a rabid mole who has swallowed a wasp;<br />a death guru with a cobra's cross-eyed stare,<br />who flicks his forked tongue out to test the air.<br />A total mass murderer as Mister Anonymous,<br />a radioactive creature from a toxic lagoon.<br />Sputnik space-case they should have sent to the moon;<br />makes like he's in a North Korean restaurant: dog eat dog.<br />Expressionless face of a long-term drunk,<br />he's a breezeblock Brezhnev, a pisspot Lenin;<br />he's in a rusted suit made of the Iron Curtain;<br />he's the skull and crossbones on a bottle of poison.<br />Everything he touches turns to smashed-up melamine;<br />he wears a fake tan like his pal Trumpentine.<br />He's an old-shoe Communist, placed as People's Tzar,<br />in an oligarchical Formula One racing car:<br />leads the pack with World Domination blah blah blah.<br />Pootin be like the psycho comrade in wolf's clothing,<br />he's the very dead soul of serfdom resurrected,<br />another well-known germophobe, always well-protected.<br />A barren rock, a cement mixer mixing a dunce's lies;<br />a minuscule human blob with rage-filled eyes;<br />a villainous Marvel figurine: Incandescent Vlad Puteen.</p><p>— David Eggleton</p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-39782295889326974822022-03-23T11:44:00.021+13:002022-03-25T10:59:54.617+13:00For Tom<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">Words and aroha for Tom Mulligan</span></h2><p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><em>For Tom</em> 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.</p>
<p>Writing on behalf of the National Library, it is a special pleasure to share Marty’s story with you.</p>
<p>— Peter Ireland</p>
<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #134f5c;">For Tom</span></h2>
<h3><span style="color: #45818e;">Part I — Tom</span></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <em>is</em> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<br /> And I think, I’ll make Tom a poem of his own.<br /> 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.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYXGN-LQendfrh_rGDKTO66kqTdgf2EzTkV43cogVaJ0T2oPekD5f0Bjv_0cu9e3uxn4t_I09oIF2BBSb-4EZ8l6jfVameFjauFAyoI4FuEBC9_E6GXMFRoGvoO5Xk6uFufgHWFekcwbmkhbCv4dk_JE1thdujFrYw3bRbEpKrIEznS975CnwnZYKx=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYXGN-LQendfrh_rGDKTO66kqTdgf2EzTkV43cogVaJ0T2oPekD5f0Bjv_0cu9e3uxn4t_I09oIF2BBSb-4EZ8l6jfVameFjauFAyoI4FuEBC9_E6GXMFRoGvoO5Xk6uFufgHWFekcwbmkhbCv4dk_JE1thdujFrYw3bRbEpKrIEznS975CnwnZYKx=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #45818e;">Part II — Hairy process</span></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<br /> 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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p><p>And I’m panic rearranging the lines in my head while I’m arranging the letters and hoping for the best.</p><p> ‘You won’t change anything, will you? Because that’s it, it’s all done.’<br /> ‘No,’ I say, ‘I won’t.’<br /> Then later that night I have a cold horror because I forgot to put my name on it.</p>
<h3><span style="color: #45818e;">Part III — Plate glass photos</span></h3>
<p>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.<br /> 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.<br /> I like to think they helped me make that last line.</p>
<h3><span style="color: #45818e;">Part IV — Last say to the home side</span></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<br /> ‘Are you sure?’, he asks, looking at me hard.<br /> 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.<br /> ‘Can I have two colours?’<br /> ‘Are you sure?’<br /> I say I want the text to be green for the marae, and the tūī and the fern to be black.<br /> He just looks at me. He doesn’t say that it will take him another two hours, he<br /> 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.<br /> ‘Stand back,’ he says, ‘You don’t want to get hit by moving parts.’<br /> 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, <em>birds burst out pells and whistles.</em><br /> 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.<br /> 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.<br /> ‘That’s it,’ he says, ‘You put the letters away.’<br /> 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.</p>
<p>Neville’s gluing carpet inside the car when I go to find him. He’s pleased. He keeps a copy for the Printers Association.<br /> ‘Tom’s a good guy,’ he says.</p>
<h3><span style="color: #45818e;">Part V — Little whare</span></h3>
<p>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.<br /> ‘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.<br /> ‘What are you thinking of doing?’<br /> I show him the poem so he can see the size.<br /> ‘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.’<br /> ‘Like a pataka?’ he says. And he rolls a smoke, while he considers it. ‘What about like that little shrine at Fernhill?’<br /> I think about that blue and white Madonna behind the plate glass and the pure pitch of the roof pointing to the blue sky.<br /> ‘That would be the right feel, but it still has to look like a whare, eh? And I want to paint it green.’</p>
<p>We start picking through the wood. He takes some fine small flat pieces and says, ‘What about this for the sides?’<br /> ‘Perfect.’<br /> ‘Do you want them upright like this? Thick here? How wide would you like the bottom?’<br /> ‘Only wide enough to hold them in.’<br />
He squints through his smoke, head back, while he considers the bits of wood.<br /> ‘We could make a little lip, and put a little wedge at the back, so they’re tilted. Then they won’t fall out.’<br />
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.<br /> ‘Which parts would you like coloured?’<br /> ‘The arms, definitely. And maybe somewhere inside, do you reckon?’<br /> ‘What do you think of this colour?’<br />
He has a steely-grey green.<br /> ‘I need it to be the green of Matahiwi,’ I say.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi63XzqRac-7SgsCfReOTExCK8ngfMrT_GhpcBjtzsgSdJBnVwXLOy9gh2c1-T_1XzneK28fLxh-lNz--BuwKDrnxp0omssNMnDVlQFAHaR1oSTLFSn3A1nYxQQhDR5mubIlAWqCdPhbjrvfzt0jDYYkpmmbO-8LMO9HHnK-mVy7QM8XYty3A_qCW_3=s1333" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Intricate green carvings on the edges of the roof of a marae." border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi63XzqRac-7SgsCfReOTExCK8ngfMrT_GhpcBjtzsgSdJBnVwXLOy9gh2c1-T_1XzneK28fLxh-lNz--BuwKDrnxp0omssNMnDVlQFAHaR1oSTLFSn3A1nYxQQhDR5mubIlAWqCdPhbjrvfzt0jDYYkpmmbO-8LMO9HHnK-mVy7QM8XYty3A_qCW_3=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 14px; text-align: start;">Matahiwi marae </span>Te Matau-a-Māui. Photo Florence Charvin.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #45818e;"><b>Part VI — Green of Matahiwi</b></span></h3><p>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.<br /> ‘It’s this green.’<br /> ‘Put it on here,’ he says, and gives me a brush. He has an upturned white bucket.<br /> ‘On there,’ he says, ‘You can see the colour.’<br />
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.<br /> ‘Do you want me to paint it?’<br /> ‘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.’</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<br /> ‘It’s so beautiful,’ I say, ‘Tom will love it.’</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHZg5nOo-X-eB-IuQeuFra_fkloFt1j5sLecVx0u9zM9YuSNyQy27HxKOL8yw3Exppb_1Xtt8sNXTPcQc1rgoba0i-3QjCxNJdLe5PpmwnPLK3PyeUxPd1EgiBgzE8NJud-eOzPwO4BgA0ndZ7ZzXQwZfuUi39n2uO4iZFxMBFNxbAU0rHUuxWcoRN=s1195" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="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" border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHZg5nOo-X-eB-IuQeuFra_fkloFt1j5sLecVx0u9zM9YuSNyQy27HxKOL8yw3Exppb_1Xtt8sNXTPcQc1rgoba0i-3QjCxNJdLe5PpmwnPLK3PyeUxPd1EgiBgzE8NJud-eOzPwO4BgA0ndZ7ZzXQwZfuUi39n2uO4iZFxMBFNxbAU0rHUuxWcoRN=w536-h640" width="536" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poem Tom Mulligan by Marty Smith. Photo Marty Smith.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #45818e;">Part VII — So much aroha</span></h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 <em>is</em> 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.</p>
<p>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. </p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivObvwNg0TNAnmB1fCO8Z9JFPTMdgoR4fSSKg-3WBZTgcZxUrMy_NmUk-Tmz65hN8sgKhoDnMdW4kZPAycON6cMkHC6djf-S6ui2V5NqEckDJsnfrFF0nHNovXlZp-Is9B_SZXI_8Hp783jF7GDVzTp0wJ8aMlhKp_3wjIJDE7-oW66YBYtoSxfuhp=s1000" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Man sitting at a table in his house. There are pictures on the wall above him." border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivObvwNg0TNAnmB1fCO8Z9JFPTMdgoR4fSSKg-3WBZTgcZxUrMy_NmUk-Tmz65hN8sgKhoDnMdW4kZPAycON6cMkHC6djf-S6ui2V5NqEckDJsnfrFF0nHNovXlZp-Is9B_SZXI_8Hp783jF7GDVzTp0wJ8aMlhKp_3wjIJDE7-oW66YBYtoSxfuhp=w640-h480" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" lang="EN-AU" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-AU; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Tom Mulligan. Photo Florence Charvin.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0c343d;"> </span><span style="color: #134f5c;">Marty Smith biography </span></h2>
<p><strong>Marty Smith’s</strong> <em>Horse with hat</em> 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.</p>
<p>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 <em>Poets Night Out,</em> 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.</p>
<p></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-407001906243529302022-02-06T09:39:00.001+13:002022-02-09T09:40:35.046+13:00A Poem for Waitangi Day
<p> I</p>
<p>From the Void, Te Kore, seven kinds of light:<br /> first, glowworm glimmer; then pale gleams;<br /> next, a dim aura; the stars grow fainter<br /> as Papatūānuku separates from Ranginui;<br /> pale beams follow; before summer's<br /> bright clarity emerges;<br /> and down in the gully we walk out into the sun,<br /> crossing the creek as if time has just begun.</p>
<p> II</p>
<p>We wave charms and amulets,<br /> horoscopes and horticultural guides<br /> to best brands to buy<br /> for Generation XY,<br /> Generation Alibi.<br /> All in this waka together,<br /> bombarded by small pieces of pumice and scoria;<br /> so emotionally invested<br /> in Kiwiland's avatar —<br /> where we the people, we the sheeple.<br /> we the peeps, we the perps,<br /> we the fraudsters, we the Treaty-honouring,<br /> dwell and dwell<br /> on a happening turned into an awakening.</p>
<p>Can't hongi with the poets, just elbow-bump<br /> at a hangi for the Queen;<br /> lower masks, rub noses, and tipple a snifter<br /> of Bailey's Irish Cream.<br /> Bring home ashes in a trim hessian bag:<br /> those lately gone to the realm of Hine-nui-te-pō.<br /> The manes of white-haired New Zealanders<br /> nod sagely like toe-toe plumes in the breeze.<br /> The CEO's a paladin who just lost his rag:<br /> a prince of millionaires<br /> with a Herne Bay heli-pad.<br /> Plenty of bottom end to go around the bend;<br /> a magistrate's gravelly speech,<br /> throws the rule-book in a straight line,<br /> as southern rātā and pōhutakawa<br /> paint the whenua red.</p>
<p> III</p>
<p>Place-names vanish, to be replaced<br /> by brand-new ancient dreams,<br /> when the motu turns over in its sleep<br /> and rumbles and steams.<br /> Root vegetables bake delish in a dish;<br /> I speak of the potato and the kūmara.<br /> Commended souls do eye-rolls.<br /> The festive season has its reasons.<br /> The dire-wolf bares its teeth<br /> to express grief;<br /> puddles exclaim with pelting rain;<br /> myriad tones of voice let rip<br /> to the muffled hills as one song,<br /> through the car window's quarter-light.<br /> The rubble of jaded intellects is landslip.<br /> If this be Doomsday, it is not in jest.<br /> Isolation with the hard borders of lockdown<br /> declares the importance of being earnest.</p>
<p> IV</p>
<p>Here come the clouds; how vapid they are,<br /> as if texting each other with sun emojis,<br /> or pursuing futile chases that dissolve<br /> into future expanses of climate change.<br /> The lazy wind gives a farewell wave and dies;<br /> a tsunami rolls and rolls,<br /> far-out as a January day,<br /> foamy as a car-wash.<br /> Beneath the calm surface of bland<br /> quivers a passive-aggressive possessive<br /> that whips out like a lizard's tongue<br /> to drag home its target like a wrapped-up fly.<br /> Silly old fossil fuels flow from Noah's flood;<br /> there's reverence and sublimation in hydro-electric structures.<br /> Will the weather never get green?<br /> It's going to be a fly-by of better loyalty cards<br /> through blue skies from now on,<br /> and a free Sweetwaters concert in every rest-home.</p>
<p>There's a convenient convenience store,<br /> but no public convenience to be seen.<br /> There's abject poverty up there on the screen,<br /> but it's quickly covered by a request<br /> to recycle your plastic dreams<br /> of pre-packaged lunch deals and bank loan schemes.<br /> Shoegazers on tv denounce single-use.<br /> Low tolerance levels are expected to increase.<br /> Seals flip and glide and swim in-shore.</p>
<p>The sacred nacre of pāua, spit of oyster spat,<br /> a smelt blaze and the tag of string flutter;<br /> starred wire fences cut across contours;<br /> the falling folds of the bush-line<br /> are petticoats of green crinoline.<br /> Musculature of rugged ranges,<br /> coloratura of operatic tūī,<br /> chaffing of chaffinches,<br /> beady wax-eyes that cluster in view,<br /> a rumour of rosellas, a squabble of sparrows.<br /> Flipped vortex of a spinning top;<br /> lawn rolled up like carpet and flung on a truck.</p>
<p>There's pounamu that dwells in a tapu pool<br /> to be prised and appraised anew,<br /> as a stoned head bends and lends an ear,<br /> while marl rebuffs the translucent inanga.<br /> Brisk claw and scrape of a twig by a kākā;<br /> kererū going for it — the reddish berry, <br />with bunt and swoosh, sough and shush.</p>
<p> IV</p>
<p>A supply chain strains around the massive<br />
neck of a kauri tree, and talismans are token<br />
in this one hundred per cent pure Arcady,<br />
the Lord knows where, between shade and azure. <br /> It is, in semblance, a looking-glass land,<br />
solid gold golf ball whacked into the gulf;<br />
moth-land, moon-land, shear-land, gland-land,<br />
whose North Island might checkmate South Island,<br />
and take as pawns Stewart Island, the Poor<br />
Knights, the Great and Little Barrier<br />
bishops in a game of Crown and Anchor.<br />
And let the glacial attitudes of the Pākehā<br />
melt like snow creatures, or ice crystals,<br />
in the eerie green faery mist<br />
of patupaiarehe, amid chants of atua;<br />
then bring out the chart of Te Tiriti o Waitangi,<br />
document stained with blood and squid-ink.<br />
A flying canoe ghostly in the sky paddles<br />
over the whole fished-up archipelago,<br />
guided by Kupe, whose pointing finger<br />
shines with shark oil as the stars rise.<br />
</p><p><em>Kia kaha, kia maia, kia manawanui.</em></p><p><em>— David Eggleton</em></p><p><em><br /></em></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyU8c8Wg4HtJo-6Ctetfc_F7mMI9sM3DsBwyOP-j_765qWSQJawSP-TGnp7TkkzB4zeDXlj2lAbt29shT9nppnfDbnKXTfKeSkqb9SsFswBbqmHgHQ_ARiOfql-5Wi6-z5GpElKtgUSIlYQvzc2fLNC8dCKgO01L-16zX0zLncIaW6AxZ3UT13hx_9=s1333" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyU8c8Wg4HtJo-6Ctetfc_F7mMI9sM3DsBwyOP-j_765qWSQJawSP-TGnp7TkkzB4zeDXlj2lAbt29shT9nppnfDbnKXTfKeSkqb9SsFswBbqmHgHQ_ARiOfql-5Wi6-z5GpElKtgUSIlYQvzc2fLNC8dCKgO01L-16zX0zLncIaW6AxZ3UT13hx_9=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pohutakawa, Barrier Island. Photo David Eggleton</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><em><br /></em><p></p><p></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0Dunedin, New Zealand-45.8795455 170.5005957-75.834634338045191 135.3443457 -15.924456661954807 -154.34315430000004tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-25875572874659019692021-12-13T10:30:00.009+13:002022-02-09T10:57:46.772+13:00Time of the Icebergs<p>Here is a link to a poem video, released in early December, which
has been created by myself and Richard Wallis for my poem <i>Time of the
Icebergs</i>. 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.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The poem <i>Time of the Icebergs</i> also features in a new
poetry anthology forthcoming from Auckland University Press and launched
in May 2022 entitled, <i>No Other Place to Stand, a book of climate change
poetry from Aotearoa and the Pacific</i>.</p>
<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #76a5af;"> Watch <i>Time of Icebergs</i></span></h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="466" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/K3k-oVIuIhw" width="561" youtube-src-id="K3k-oVIuIhw"></iframe></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #76a5af;">Time of the Icebergs</span></h2>
<p>In the time of the icebergs —<br />
big black baby buggies pushed by women<br />
in hoodies, denim and eff-off boots.<br />
Crop circles on Google Earth say NO to Monsanto.<br />
Boxy four-wheel-drives plane through the wet —<br />
semi-amphibious barges, growling up and down,<br />
piloted by yummy mummies, or tattooed property<br />
developers in cargo shorts, their tee-shirts<br />
emblazoned with Crowded House logos,<br />
their capitalist warrior chariots splashing kerbs.<br />
Buses pull out wheezing, and puffing exhaust,<br />
loaded to the gunnels with glaze-eyed tourists —<br />
destination, <em>Bliss or Damnation</em>.</p>
<p>Glossolalia of the Undie 500 clown cars;<br />
smashed glass of the student quarter glimmery as jewels;<br />
detritus of bonfires blown hither and yon,<br />
the shouty mouthy denizens of bouncy Castle Street<br />
wandering in fellowship of the sofa burns<br />
to the great forcing apparatus university,<br />
glowing with self-declared enlightenment;<br />
and death by chocolate beckons,<br />
from Cadbury’s vast lakes of cocoa butter,<br />
to vulgarians who flog heritage buildings for parking.<br />
Bringing frost, a flotilla of white blocks;<br />
winter bloom of blue muffin-tops over low-slung jeans,<br />
and gales in the face which smack like wet fish;<br />
chill fingerbones that touch you from far away,<br />
in the time of the icebergs.</p>
<p>The city at night one vast monastery<br />
under holy hush of snow;<br />
and bent beneath their hoods they go,<br />
like capuchin monks praying in cloisters,<br />
Ngati Cappuccino or Ngati Bogan,<br />
eye-sockets deep pits in snoods:<br />
glaze-eyed jaded ones,<br />
monkish, cowling the head for respect,<br />
or to recapture the rapture;<br />
and a hooded phantom runs,<br />
breathing out steam,<br />
a warrior monk who travels light.<br />
Closer, you see her face,<br />
ethereal as that of a novice nun,<br />
beneath her hoodie,<br />
in the time of the icebergs.</p><p>— <i><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">David Eggleton</span></i></p><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-19480325012374405932021-11-26T09:30:00.001+13:002021-11-26T11:54:06.358+13:00Ode to the Cycleway<p>Too much smashed glass on asphalt,<br />
swerving in and out of the bike lane,<br />
you got skaters, scooters, vapers,<br />
someone taking selfies with boozers.<br />
Everyone is insane after dark,<br />
by the locked park gates;<br />
and where do you park so no-one<br />
can pancake the car roof off a balcony?<br />
Someone's playing housie with a trust fund,<br />
someone's put the rent up on white fragility,<br />
someone's hurled cookie dough on the pavement.<br />
Fang it, prang it, walk away totalled,<br />
who's got the price tag of that?<br />
Shuffle to the muffler, raise the wheels,<br />
or tow it away from the harbour,<br />
after raising it out of the water.<br />
Seepage, salvage, knock-down heritage;<br />
raise up flower power in gardens.<br />
Let the chips fall where they may,<br />
on airwaves, sheathed in hagfish glue,<br />
or stuck to the highway back<br />
when yesterday was some place to be.<br />
Asphalt shades of greyscale<br />
unscroll a doomslayer's papyrus,<br />
its dried-up syrups of blood, lead, nitrate.<br />
Gaps are bridged by sighs, years by stars<br />
that might scratch your eyes out.<br />
The fevered rain is not enough to wreathe a sinkhole.<br />
Cram cranberries in your gob by the handful,<br />
and click through dross after dross on ways<br />
to improve the biosphere from inside your silo.<br />
The checkout counter, like your personal biomass,<br />
counts somewhere, maybe.<br />
And you were born and raised in a coffin,<br />
and now you're an astronaut on a mission,<br />
your ashes are launched from a circus cannon,<br />
towards a trampoline you preordered,<br />
from your parked-up car above Lover's Leap.<br />
Peeps are posting pics of themselves planking,<br />
or leaning away from the goalposts,<br />
looking down on a mass grave called Planet Earth.<br />
Ashes drilled into the skin with a needle are blue.</p><p>— <i>David Eggleton</i></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-1860380652876199652021-11-23T09:30:00.000+13:002021-11-24T10:34:04.220+13:00State of Emergency<p>In None and Son of None we see<br />
the dazzle of Him Who walked<br />
upon the Lake of Galilee.<br />
Israel has done much and little<br />
of which to be proud.<br />
Gaza, torn in two, bleeds trauma<br />
beneath a bomb-raised cloud.<br />
Praise or blame are much the same<br />
on the battleground of Palestine,<br />
and Israel answers raised hands<br />
and bloody nails<br />
with the iron flails<br />
of Christ's Roman centurion.</p><p>— <i>David Eggleton</i></p><p><br /></p>
National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-91324769157853713642021-11-19T16:13:00.004+13:002021-11-19T16:36:40.246+13:00Protest<p>Jolts and ruckus<br />
lambast swarms<br />
and hives;<br />
ant trails wave<br />
placards<br />
of fear and anger<br />
at whatever's out<br />
there that doesn't<br />
care but looks on<br />
with the languor<br />
of big cats lifting<br />
a paw — the smears<br />
are human tears.</p><p>— <i>David Eggleton</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-79682507076206587592021-08-27T13:11:00.167+12:002021-08-30T09:08:04.798+12:00Wonder: Poets Laureate at the National Library, an event held in association with the exhibition Mīharo Wonder: 100 Years of the Alexander Turnbull Library on August 6th 2021<p>A flock? A laurel wreath? A vine? A stanza? A chapter? A library? What collective noun might best define an assembly of Poets Laureate? Such national figureheads of the art of poesy-making are generally considered rugged individualists to be prized for their distinctive poetic voices, for their various 'ways of saying', rather than their harmonious concord.</p><p>New Zealand has had twelve poet laureates since the Laureateship was established by prime mover John Buck of Te Mata Estate Vineyard in Hawke's Bay in 1996. The badge of office for each of Aotearoa's Poets Laureate is their own tokotoko. The matua tokotoko or 'parent' orator's talking stick is held at the National Library Te Puna Mātauranga o Aotearoa, which became kaitiaki or guardian of the Laureateship in 2007, with Peter Ireland acting as facilitator.</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLThXR_XwNIlwhe1acU8gwv6Q6nMbjq4flT72GuN8TncZPRnox4f0n-RSe0lyio8UA9bezKzhe4UGK0608e_SZtr3tUnqZ9ola59QvTJU_jXn4Wu2GuVcCAYcsu5gatxaRXJtuEJe7Bs/s1080/poets-laureate-and-friends-in-front-of-cliff-whitings-te-wehenga.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLThXR_XwNIlwhe1acU8gwv6Q6nMbjq4flT72GuN8TncZPRnox4f0n-RSe0lyio8UA9bezKzhe4UGK0608e_SZtr3tUnqZ9ola59QvTJU_jXn4Wu2GuVcCAYcsu5gatxaRXJtuEJe7Bs/w640-h426/poets-laureate-and-friends-in-front-of-cliff-whitings-te-wehenga.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The attending Poets Laureate and friends in front of Cliff Whiting's 'Te Wehenga' mural. Back row L to R: Brian Turner, (Wendy Buck), Bill Manhire, Selina Tusitala Marsh, (Peter Ireland of the National Library), Jenny Bornholdt, (Jacob Scott), David Eggleton, Front row L to R: (John Buck), Cilla McQueen, Ian Wedde, Elizabeth Smither, Vincent O’Sullivan. Photo Mark by Beatty.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />
<p>All the tokotoko thus far have been carved and fashioned by master carver and artist Jacob Scott (Ngāti Raukawa, Te Arawa, Ngāti Kahungunu), in consultation with the poet. Each Laureate receives their tokotoko at Matahiwi marae near Havelock North in Hawke's Bay. In a way, then, these customised wooden talismans might serve to suggest a single 'poet-tree' growing out of the land.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLgtWmpqqAeafAvnCkpFQYysXVz3B15cbi2bd0g-na7t12fUBuFBk-QIJrDKN39hPAA5olafVkts6dYKA25VI3J7j9-YoXqce2n017sEtrq88QnzVSJpb-bE3qKVKREusseS4KQt_TTc/s1080/the-audience-is-welcomed.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLgtWmpqqAeafAvnCkpFQYysXVz3B15cbi2bd0g-na7t12fUBuFBk-QIJrDKN39hPAA5olafVkts6dYKA25VI3J7j9-YoXqce2n017sEtrq88QnzVSJpb-bE3qKVKREusseS4KQt_TTc/w640-h426/the-audience-is-welcomed.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The large audience being welcomed to the Poets Laureate event by Rachel Esson, the National Librarian Te Pouhuaki.<br /> Photo by Mark Beatty. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>And so a tree of singing birds, a lorikeet-like flurry of laureates convened at the National Library in Wellington on Friday August 6th to mark 25 years by raising their tokotoko in the air and shaking them together in unison, while reciting Hone Tuwhare's poem 'Reign rain' — or almost. Michele Leggott and C.K. Stead couldn't be there, but Selina Tusitala Marsh, Vincent O'Sullivan, Ian Wedde, Cilla McQueen, Brian Turner, Elizabeth Smither, Jenny Bornholdt and Bill Manhire, along with myself, took part in the evening's celebrations, which included poetry readings expertly conducted by Master of Ceremonies Gregory O'Brien in the acoustically-resonant auditorium.</p><p>The occasion was also distinguished by the launch of a poetry chapbook in a limited edition of 100, hand-crafted by master printer Brendan O'Brien of Fernbank Studio in Wellington. <em>Throw net: Upena ho'olei — a suite of poems from Hawai'i</em> consists of nine poems drafted by me in various notebooks when I held the Fulbright-Creative New Zealand Pacific Writer's Residency at the University of Hawai'i in Honolulu towards the end of 2018. These recently completed texts are accompanied by woodblock prints produced by my brother Tonu Shane, an artist who formerly lived in Hawai'i and taught at Windward Community College in Honolulu, and who now lives near Mendocino on the coast of Northern California.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2Dn9Di8FRgf5WuOQny9I1XcsqAgik7uVGUyO0xSq5X3MV-sblA-S1TDZmmPF9bx177UQs3ttBK82KBSg95rSdZtwuOzb_dZ1PnhgpNzL5APKMe5EtRzEJEl2JsEdkN5xtuGMB7Y7zOg/s1620/thrownet-on-stand.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2Dn9Di8FRgf5WuOQny9I1XcsqAgik7uVGUyO0xSq5X3MV-sblA-S1TDZmmPF9bx177UQs3ttBK82KBSg95rSdZtwuOzb_dZ1PnhgpNzL5APKMe5EtRzEJEl2JsEdkN5xtuGMB7Y7zOg/w426-h640/thrownet-on-stand.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover of <em style="text-align: left;">Throw net: Upena ho'olei — a suite of poems from Hawai'i</em></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I am extremely gratefully to Brendan and his helpers for all his hard work and the time involved in putting this exquisite publication together, from the actual letter-press printing, to the hand-sewn binding, to the choices of ink colours and textures, to the careful sourcing of high-quality papers from various places. And I would like to thank the National Library for enabling this project to happen. Images are below.</p>
<p>All in all a lambent occasion, highlighting contemporary New Zealand poetry, and ending with libations of fine wine and a raise-your-glasses toast to the history and the future of the Laureateship, proposed and delivered with a Falstaffian flourish by wine-maker and legend John Buck.</p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Throw net: Upena ho'olei — a suite of poems from Hawai'i</span></h2><div><span>Below are images of the poem Throw Net and the woodblock that accompanies it in the book</span><span style="color: #45818e;"> </span><em>Throw net: Upena ho'olei — a suite of poems from Hawai'i </em>hand-crafted by master printer Brendan O'Brien of Fernbank Studio in Wellington.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFh4qTxWi88SfpZFe4sF9rwUAOYEXyrkyY6U6B-uMKM-YZ-IllRmBbpV152l-GOeK72IsMrWyXDczFyHHHvFifW5tUTijrD_dh7auf1aFLGxq9OR_ehdHa-7NnXwCviMNS-CED1Ak7Uzk/s893/throw-net-upena-ho%2527olei-throw-net.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="893" data-original-width="808" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFh4qTxWi88SfpZFe4sF9rwUAOYEXyrkyY6U6B-uMKM-YZ-IllRmBbpV152l-GOeK72IsMrWyXDczFyHHHvFifW5tUTijrD_dh7auf1aFLGxq9OR_ehdHa-7NnXwCviMNS-CED1Ak7Uzk/w580-h640/throw-net-upena-ho%2527olei-throw-net.jpg" width="580" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image of the poem <i>Throw Net</i> printed by Brendan O'Brien.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7OVndzo98Z84T4RWL3GcX6HCJKHRztVujnQcp18l8XQGYeTtwRevM97LoV-KvkU8x5trfrmQemmt7szRRI3Ty8-f_8qzYhx_y7H2rejUx4A7cGq7rbSs4KIucTGCkTd1xxYh84LBvKc/s984/throw-net-upena-ho%2527olei-woodcut.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="869" data-original-width="984" height="566" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij7OVndzo98Z84T4RWL3GcX6HCJKHRztVujnQcp18l8XQGYeTtwRevM97LoV-KvkU8x5trfrmQemmt7szRRI3Ty8-f_8qzYhx_y7H2rejUx4A7cGq7rbSs4KIucTGCkTd1xxYh84LBvKc/w640-h566/throw-net-upena-ho%2527olei-woodcut.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Woodblock print that accompanies the poem </span><i style="text-align: left;">Throw Net</i><span style="text-align: left;">, produced by my brother Tonu Shane.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="color: #45818e;"><br /></span></div>
National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-41102344228622250662021-08-24T12:04:00.002+12:002021-08-24T12:05:21.137+12:00Poet Laureate’s Choice, August 2021 | Anne Kennedy<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Poet Laureate’s choice, August 2021</span></h2><p>The <i>Poet Laureate's Choice, August 2021</i> is a portfolio sequence of new poems from poets chosen by the Poet Laureate. Today two new poems from Anne Kennedy.</p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Sea-glass</span></h2>
<p>Oh and once he cut his finger doing handstands<br />
in the sand at Waimānalo. Some arsehole’s bottle,</p>
<p>still raw. I wasn’t there. Swim `ohana delivered him<br />
to the door, his young blood pumping into a towel.</p>
<p>Next we’re all at ER in a delegation. Anaesthetic<br />
doesn’t work. Because redhead, they say, and stitch him</p>
<p>anyway, and try distract - Ah you ginga! Later a surgeon,<br />
calm as the Buddha, sews his nerve, the width of a hair.</p>
<p>A year of therapy, a brace, a box of tumbling wheat<br />
teaching the finger not to curl, and no over-extend either.</p>
<p>At the very end he says, When I first did it, Mum, it was<br />
so sore! My heart still thumps at his pain on the beach. </p>
<p>Now down in Auckland working in a bar, he makes<br />
cocktails so so fast, like a blur, in a frosted glass.</p>
<p>— <i>Anne Kennedy</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Big in the Landscape</span></h2>
<p>First you were small. Small was an adorable stage.<br />
Your little body and the little space it took up.</p>
<p>But the bones and skin grew bigger.<br />
Bones and skin expanded until they were big.<br />
The blood and muscle, the sinews.</p>
<p>You got big in the landscape.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Then our memories got bigger.<br />
They started off small like our bodies.<br />
That was actually an adorable stage.</p>
<p>But memories of where we had been, what we had done,<br />
they gathered and swelled and attached<br />
and kept gathering and swelling and attaching.<br />
They grew bigger than our bodies.</p>
<p>Memories are us. They are enormous.<br />
They are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>You remember the school.<br />
You got so big that the primary school looked wee. We are so big the primary school looks<br /> wee. We say to each other, Oh my, the school has shrunk!</p>
<p>We are big in the playground.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>You remember a holiday.</p>
<p>The motorway exploded behind us. We were big in the back of the car. We walked on a <br />
glacier. It was big and we were dots on the landscape. Now the glacier looks wee. We say to <br />
each other, The glacier has shrunk.</p>
<p>We were big on the motorway, we were big in the car, we were big on the glacier.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>You moved from the place your little body had been, and from the place where your little<br /> memories had been. You went on a plane and exhaust blasted into the sky. You were <br />
plastered against your seat. You saw new things. You went back and forth and back and forth<br />
from the new place to the old place.</p>
<p>You were big in the sky, you were big in your seat, you were big in the new place, you were <br />
big going back and forth and back and forth from the new place to the old place.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There were trips to the mall. You drove to the mall. You bought things at the mall. T-shirts, children’s plastic shoes, synthetic duvet inners. You say, Look what I bought.</p>
<p>You were big in the mall, you were big in the car, you were big in the T-shirt, the children<br />
were big in their plastic shoes, we were big under our duvets.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p> *</p>
<p>There were work trips. You went on a plane and exhaust blasted into the sky. You were <br />
plastered against your seat. You flew up and down and up and down. You thought about new <br />
ideas. You say, Look what I thought.</p>
<p>You were big on the plane, you were big in your seat, you were big flying up and down and <br />
up and down, you were big thinking about new ideas.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There was a move to another country. We went on a plane and exhaust blasted into the sky. <br />
We were plastered against our seat. We saw new things. We met new people. We went back<br />
and forth and back and forth from the new place to the old place. We said, The new place!</p>
<p>We were big in the sky, we were big in our seat, we were big seeing new things, we were big<br /> meeting new people, we were big going back and forth and back and forth from the new <br />
place to the old place.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>You put out the wheelie bin of recycling. The plastics, the cans, the cardboard and the glass,<br /> they jostle like Christmas. You are full of joy.</p>
<p>You are big with the wheelie bin, you are big with the plastics, the cans, the cardboard and <br />
the glass, the way they jostle like Christmas, you are big with joy.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There are books about climate change that you read sitting on the couch. You quote bits from<br /> the books to your loved ones. You are so interested in books about climate change.</p>
<p>You are big reading books about climate change, you are big quoting bits from books on<br />
climate change to your loved ones, you are big feeling so interested in books about climate <br />
change.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There were the hurricanes on the other side of the world. We were an audience to the <br />
hurricanes. There was the orange sky from Australian bush fires that January day. We were<br /> entertained by the hurricanes. We watched the marvel of the orange sky. We said to each <br />
other, Oh my, look at the sky!</p>
<p>We were big on the internet, we were big on the radio, we were big on the TV, we were big<br />
hearing about the hurricanes on the other side of the world, we were big looking at the orange<br /> sky in January, we were big talking to each other about the orange sky.</p>
<p>We are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>We love our bodies. We love our memories. Our memories are enormous. Memories are us.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>But the thing is the thing.</p>
<p>We think we are big in the landscape and so we are big in the landscape.</p>
<p>You know why the glacier is wee. Because it has melted.<br />
You are not big you are small.<br />
Our memories are not big they are invisible.</p>
<p>We are at an adorable stage.</p>
<p>— <i>Anne Kennedy</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2>Anne Kennedy biography</h2>
<p>Anne Kennedy is an Auckland poet, fiction writer, screenplay editor and teacher. Recent books are the poetry collection <em>Moth Hour</em> (AUP) and the novel <em>The Ice Shelf</em> (VUP). Awards and fellowships include the NZ Post Book Award for Poetry and the IIML Writers' Residency. Her new poetry collection <em>The Sea Walks into a Wall</em> is forthcoming from Auckland University Press in October. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCtvovyulSpePhdwoNnzROMsiqK45rnEuu8ZpklnYLq7CxokOrN2rIymsBRDF3Pu0sHA7NDSSYvvGm_iqR7_-UDApjYCVlRSukl2lOvGe-XnEwXe1bHdOx6kO43ID0Q5K_Sht5AjzZQM/s750/anne-kennedy-by-robert-cross.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjCtvovyulSpePhdwoNnzROMsiqK45rnEuu8ZpklnYLq7CxokOrN2rIymsBRDF3Pu0sHA7NDSSYvvGm_iqR7_-UDApjYCVlRSukl2lOvGe-XnEwXe1bHdOx6kO43ID0Q5K_Sht5AjzZQM/w426-h640/anne-kennedy-by-robert-cross.jpeg" width="426" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anne Kennedy. Image by Robert Cross. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-33783168622224225372021-08-19T11:25:00.014+12:002021-08-19T11:37:23.404+12:00Poet Laureate’s Choice, August 2021 | Paula Green<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Poet Laureate’s choice, August 2021</span></h2><p>The <i>Poet Laureate's Choice, August 2021</i> is a portfolio sequence of new poems from poets chosen by the Poet Laureate. Today three new poems from Paula Green.</p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">The moon</span></h2>
<p>I could tell you about the moon bloated bright</p>
<p>in the midnight sky or the ribbon of white</p>
<p>clouds sending messages above the harbour and hills</p>
<p> </p>
<p>but I stall on the slave-trade image and cheap</p>
<p>throw-away products and the way Māori</p>
<p>are still let down systematically and I stall</p>
<p>on the piercing wail of men and women</p>
<p>in India whose loved ones are dying listening</p>
<p>with heart freeze to that pitch of helpless</p>
<p>despair on India’s front line</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I could tell you how I crouch on the damp</p>
<p>grass at midnight and hold out my palms</p>
<p>to cup moonlight and hope, so I can sleep</p>
<p>So I can sleep and sleep and sleep</p><p><br /></p><p>— <i>Paula Green</i></p>
<p> </p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Dreaming</span></h2>
<p>She is building something with large Lego blocks</p>
<p>perhaps a bed she sits on top placing</p>
<p>one block above the other the light</p>
<p>is dim and then darkness crashes down</p>
<p>on her and she realises each block</p>
<p>is full of toxic things and</p>
<p>if she moves an inch in the pitch</p>
<p>black she will die.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She is trying to find the parking area</p>
<p>at Countdown but she feels like she</p>
<p>is in a Gabriel García Márquez novel</p>
<p>where nothing is at it seems and</p>
<p>the parking area is hard to pin</p>
<p>down. She leaves the car and buys</p>
<p>green tea with ginger and kawakawa</p>
<p>leaves but for the love of life</p>
<p>she cannot find her car no matter</p>
<p>which Byzantine maze she follows.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She finds herself in a room with young</p>
<p>men with long hair playing guitars</p>
<p>on embroidered cushions and then in a room</p>
<p>full of bouquets of irises and people reading</p>
<p>poems out loud all at the same time and</p>
<p>on the wayward steps outside she bumps</p>
<p>into Anna Jackson who also can’t find</p>
<p>her parking space.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The panic rises because they don’t know how</p>
<p>to get out of the surreal script let alone</p>
<p>the Countdown maze so they find</p>
<p>a yellow bench by a wide window</p>
<p>shut their eyes and wait.</p><p><br /></p><p>— <i>Paula Green</i></p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Heat</span></h2>
<p>in the hand that holds the scratching pen</p>
<p>in the earth that holds the sprawling pumpkin</p>
<p> </p>
<p>in the water that holds the body in pain</p>
<p>in the pot that holds the lentil soup simmering</p>
<p> </p>
<p>in the arms that hold the daughters breathing</p>
<p>in the stone that holds the midday sun</p>
<p> </p>
<p>in the shoulders that hold a world that’s suffering</p>
<p>in the road that holds the long way home</p><p><br /></p><p>— <i>Paula Green</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #45818e;">Paula Green biography</span></h2>
<p>Paula Green is a poet, anthologist, blogger and children’s author. She has published fifteen books, including five for children, and runs two blogs <em>Poetry Box</em> and <em>Poetry Shelf</em>. In 2017 she received The Prime Minister’s Award for Poetry, and was made a Member of the NZ Order of Merit for Services to Poetry and Literature. In 2019 she published three books: <em>Groovy Fish and Other Poems</em>, <em>The Track </em>and <em>Wild Honey: Reading NZ Women’s Poetry </em>(shortlisted for Ockham New Zealand Book Awards).</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WzREMWI9hW0tSR0NKf_qt5CNahGrW-8CYQgHqQAGc2bFGbPLvqIgaZ6CqW69hgqQX3cpX-cSC2JoB0kpR1gmhSyZJt2ivvP2wvX7Qr4_5RGAYUvRI-d443sL2ofBR0vLQcFB4_1K3Zo/s1080/paula-green-credit-michael-hight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6WzREMWI9hW0tSR0NKf_qt5CNahGrW-8CYQgHqQAGc2bFGbPLvqIgaZ6CqW69hgqQX3cpX-cSC2JoB0kpR1gmhSyZJt2ivvP2wvX7Qr4_5RGAYUvRI-d443sL2ofBR0vLQcFB4_1K3Zo/w640-h426/paula-green-credit-michael-hight.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paula Green. Photo by Michael Hight.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-21033715675105102772021-08-16T13:08:00.014+12:002021-08-16T13:20:15.663+12:00Poet Laureate’s Choice, August 2021 | Reihana Robinson<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Poet Laureate’s choice, August 2021</span></h2><p>The <i>Poet Laureate's Choice, August 2021</i> is a portfolio sequence of new poems from poets chosen by the Poet Laureate. Today three new poems from Reihana Robinson.</p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">use both arms to hold on use your legs to kick *</span></h2>
<p>I am this intuition tradition to the core, I am the sunshine in the song, the intimate<br />
equation, the unfurled sheets, the jealous grace the concentration pure</p>
<p>I am your lifeboat slowly paddling to shore, come dance with me and find your nook, our<br />
time is short and sweet, out here on the mantle we yearn for the core</p>
<p>our toes are sizzling atop the volcano, our lips demand more, each one of us clean, each<br />
born into air, wanting, desiring more year after year and now I am impatient</p>
<p>and am I not an immigrant?</p>
<p>no ship will come, no spirit of vengeance, no rolling back the boulder, no incarnation,<br />
voodoo, no jab to quell each prayer left in disarray, disenfranchise is a word</p>
<p>like flag and flagellate, a stone, a sound, a treatise from life to love to hate, sacrifice is<br />
just a word supposed to bring men to heel, snap march click shoot, parade heroes leave<br />
home</p>
<p>leave lovers, leave mothers, march to some drum,<br />
yet only machines grind a universal language and the trees remain silent, their growing<br />
unheeded, their bark un-embraced, leaves</p>
<p>coming and going</p>
<p>leaving no trace of what could be possible, were a pathway to be cleared, a radical<br />
departure, a free belvedere propped up in a<br />
clearing, push over bleak nullity stand up and rejoice</p>
<p>the war’s over, the war’s over, the war is over</p>
<p> </p>
<p>* Use both arms to hold on use your legs to kick<br/>
<em>During 2016 refugees became headline news in the ‘west’ as if these were the first refugees. The survival of those living in refugee camps for generations, amid extreme deprivation, is rarely in the news but suddenly the desperate sea journeys are news and this made me think about how we all desire belonging— somewhere, anywhere, without war. The title is a parent’s cry to their child as they hit the sea. </em></p>
<p><em>— Reihana Robinson</em></p><p><em><br /></em></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Who is not an immigrant?</span></h2>
<p>I am an immigrant, an error of history, a spilled mystery<br /> I span the globe, just like you and you and you, immigrants<br /> with fingerprints and I too pay for floor length curtains</p>
<p>you step aside as if bearing the tide your resentment a storm cloud<br /> your gaze like a razor stripping skin in long strips your nails<br /> dig in, more claws than grips, your hatred is solid it weighs on your</p>
<p>soul, it is too big to handle and deep as a hole<br /> you are definitely going to require employees<br /> you are on the wrong side, could be saving the bees</p>
<p>how fast your glee grew, it cant be genetics or maybe<br /> scientists tweaked genes yet I cant quite pity you<br /> so you stand alone man, on your island of plenty, barely</p>
<p>breathing and wrath leaves you seething—are you listening?<br /> the skin on your nipples, ripple desire oh yeah, turns your belly<br /> to fire, you could light up a town or a city</p>
<p>and give back some joy, some laughter, oh boy<br /> turn your glance turn handsome<br /> turn your glance free</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who is not an immigrant?<br/><em>In catharsis lies hope, where a realization of futility hits the prideful ambitious, not as punishment but as self-revelation. And how the creation of humans may well have been an aberration in the inventory of the galactic list of things to do. It leaves a skerrick to the imagination to allow something bold and beautiful yet to come. It is, to quote Peter Balakian’s </em>August Diary,<em> “the longing for the native place/between two selves” before the lid closes.</em></p>
<p><em>— Reihana Robinson</em></p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Ding dong bell oh Maui Maui Maui</span></h2>
<p>Like the boy who put Pussy in the well<br /> the demi-god is chastened for his misdeeds<br /> Mista Sun is livid when he finds<br /> his journey interrupted</p>
<p>Little humans had had to run<br /> so the old ones say, Mista<br /> Sun was moving too damn fast<br /> they were worn out</p>
<p>But hey they weren’t obese<br /> not diabetic<br /> no time to beat<br /> up their babies … wanted to make time for loving</p>
<p>so from a few perspectives they were<br /> going along okay, perhaps a little sleep deprived<br /> and we do know how that can screw you<br /> take a look at Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo, lads</p>
<p>frequent flyer-ed from cell to interview<br /> chamber, no sleep at all and so many secrets<br /> but back in the day when the day is not so long<br /> wahine knot a net to catch the Mista</p>
<p>to bargain with Mista to bring some ideas<br /> to the table—negotiate, placate, ruminate<br /> collective bargaining if you consider<br /> the many elements</p>
<p>I mean who would seriously argue<br />
with an eruptive prominence?<br /> To escape captivity Mista slows right down<br /> and for this bright light idea (one of</p>
<p>those eureka moments) the demi-god<br /> is revered—Maui is the one who tosses the net<br /> and let’s not forget<br /> he did not weave the net but taught</p>
<p>the art and so it is the women who cut<br /> their hair weaving a magical sieve<br /> Mista Sun gets the idea and over time<br /> the days and nights feel right until</p>
<p>little humans prolong the day<br /> light candles, lamps, power up screens<br /> decay the mauri once embraced<br /> flickering light like a tanning machine</p>
<p>closest thing to a campfire<br /> that being a fond memory<br /> something their tīpuna used to light</p>
<p><em>— Reihana Robinson</em></p><p><em><br /></em></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Reihana Robinson biography</span></h2>
<p>Following a career in teaching and art education in Wellington, Reihana Robinson threw it all away for a life of homesteading, writing, art and environmental research, and living off grid in the Coromandel.</p><p> She was the inaugural recipient of the Te Atairangikaahu Poetry Award and was selected for <em>AUP’s New Poets 3</em> in 2008.</p><p> Reihana has held artist residencies at the East West Center in Hawaii and at the Anderson Center, Minnesota.</p> <p>Reihana's published poetry books are <em>Aue Rona</em> (Steele Roberts, 2012), a reimagining of the Māori myth of Rona and the moon; and <em>Her Limitless Her</em> (Mākaro Press, 2018). She is also author of <em>The Killing Nation, New Zealand’s State-Sponsored Addiction to Poison 1080</em> (Off the Common Books, 2017).</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMqhmeeFJl3lU4aL8h9LfgkoWkNU1muCFybIG3LzQMCTxuvMsaA4cgXT8PNfveaIfCSrExQHxHi0Zt0jhjGKik7O6pdjfBDsgLDZmtUPJlWkWhIgETyeAET96ZwLzyRcZP9i1QFuymOE/s1410/REIHANA.ROBINSONCredit.Ahuwhenua.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1410" data-original-width="654" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifMqhmeeFJl3lU4aL8h9LfgkoWkNU1muCFybIG3LzQMCTxuvMsaA4cgXT8PNfveaIfCSrExQHxHi0Zt0jhjGKik7O6pdjfBDsgLDZmtUPJlWkWhIgETyeAET96ZwLzyRcZP9i1QFuymOE/w296-h640/REIHANA.ROBINSONCredit.Ahuwhenua.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reihana Robinson. Photo by Ahuwhenua.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-52622717465611369732021-08-12T13:13:00.007+12:002021-08-16T10:25:29.901+12:00Poet Laureate’s Choice, August 2021 | Michael Steven<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Poet Laureate’s choice, August 2021</span></h2><p>The <i>Poet Laureate's Choice, August 2021</i> is a portfolio sequence of new poems from poets chosen by the Poet Laureate. Today a new poem from Michael Steven.</p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Intercity Bus Elegies</span></h2>
<p> </p>
<p> *<br /> <br /> When I left your yard to bus north again<br /> strange portents gathered in the sky. <br /> <br /> Westward the setting sun turned <br /> clouds into curlicues of orange flame. <br /> <br /> Tweakers and glue sniffers combed <br /> the terminal for coins, cigarette butts.<br /> <br /> Backpacking Mormon foot soldiers<br /> with pressed shirts and bryl-slick haircuts<br /> <br /> waited on rides out to the provinces. <br /> I envied for a moment the rigor <br /> <br /> of their faith; its unerring certitude. <br /> Dusk was copper and rippled with static.<br /> <br /> I wanted beyond my limits to believe.<br /> Strange portents were hanging in the sky</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> *</p>
<p>Summer taught the changing world’s vernacular.<br /> January brought us a Sunday afternoon<br /> <br /> darkened at three by the inconsolable <br /> drift of bushes burning across the Tasman.<br /> <br /> Nightly the news reports chilled us.<br /> We watched corporate drones in real time<br /> <br /> murk Iran’s top general near Baghdad. <br /> An endgame seemed inevitable. <br /> <br /> We found new words for hopeless.<br /> February’s humid lassitude <br /> <br /> delivered death and car crashes.<br /> We waited through summer’s sleepless <br /> <br /> soupy heat, keyed-in to panic,<br /> for the empty stasis of tomorrow.<br /> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> *<br /> <br /> It was the hour of news speak algorithms. <br /> Our hectic world emptied, inverted. <br /> <br /> Planes grounded behind closed borders.<br /> The people wailed partisan folk songs <br /> <br /> from their balcony prisons while coffins <br /> heaped up in Bergamo and Madrid.<br /> <br /> Rings of satellites orbiting the stratosphere<br /> beamed back down granular images <br /> <br /> of trenches furrowed behind mosques.<br /> In Brooklyn’s empty parking spaces<br /> <br /> forklifts filled makeshift mortuaries.<br /> Without marker the dead put to their rest</p>
<p>became black pixels, memorial smudges.<br /> Night after night the news reports chilled us.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> *<br /> <br /> Past Norton Road’s jaundiced factories, <br /> corroding foundries and scrap yards <br /> <br /> walks a man with outstretched arms.<br /> His palms are facing upwards,<br /> <br /> aiming a supplication at heaven.<br /> God updates his image for the times.<br /> <br /> He will come to us in teal scrubs,<br /> rubber sneakers and a surgical mask<br /> <br /> caroling his ventilator gospels<br /> from a kingdom of disinfectant clouds.<br /> <br /> Traffic stalls to brake light haze.<br /> Drivers download the day’s ending.<br /> <br /> A stray dog shits beneath a lamppost.<br /> The path the man walks on is a motorway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> *<br /> <br /> From the new truck stop near Taupiri <br /> late capitalism’s gleaming coronas<br /> <br /> downsize the night’s first stars. <br /> Back draft from passing freighters<br /> <br /> shakes the bus cab and chassis. <br /> In every seat: an islanded traveller’s<br /> <br /> myopic face made lunar by screen glow. <br /> Next to me a woman from Holland<br /> <br /> swiping through her Kindle novel<br /> mutters about the gone world.<br /> <br /> Mallards crest an arc over the urupã. <br /> Seaward the dark river slithers¾<br /> <br /> eerily, unmediated and succinctly,<br /> light sliding off its black liquid scales.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> *<br /> <br /> On every bus there rides a lay evangelist.<br /> Tonight’s tweaker preacher clambers<br /> <br /> along the aisle clutching at seats,<br /> laying down his vision of original sin.<br /> <br /> Pupils sprung from firing points of meth<br /> he yammers louder than a rock drill<br /> <br /> spitting parables at anyone who’ll listen—<br /> “Does hate have a home in your heart?”<br /> <br /> He spooks a couple of young backpackers—<br /> “If it does, the Devil’s got <em>your</em> papers.”<br /> <br /> The driver yells at him to sit back down.<br /> He goes on raving in the darkness—<br /> <br /> “My god has no name other than God.<br /> The Devil’s got papers on every one of us.”<br /></p><p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> *<br /> <br /> Above the racetrack at Hampton Downs <br /> the sky discharges like a giant capacitor.<br /> <br /> Fork lightning letters the space in between<br /> with a jump cut of twenty-five years<br /> <br /> back to night school, at Manukau Polytechnic.<br /> We’re dropouts, baby dopers and drinkers.<br /> <br /> The tutor, a former navy drill sergeant, <br /> blasts us again with variants of Ohm’s law. <br /> <br /> I‘m wedged between them in the front row:<br /> the boy whose heart will blow out on speed,<br /> <br /> the boy whose life will end as a flashpoint<br /> between the terminals of an 11kv transformer—<br /> <br /> ignorant and blazed while the tutor barks on <br /> about fault currents finding the short path to earth.</p><p><br /></p><p>— <i>Michael Steven</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;"> Michael Steven biography</span></h2>
<p>Michael Steven was born in 1977. He is the author of numerous poetry chapbooks, as well as the acclaimed collections <em>Walking to Jutland Street</em> (2018) and <em>The Lifers</em> (2020), both published by Otago University Press. In 2018 he was awarded the Todd New Writer’s Bursary. Recent writing appears in <em>Kete</em>, <em>Photoforum, Poetry</em><em> New Zealand Yearbook 2021</em> and <em>Ōrongohau|Best New Zealand Poems</em>. He lives in Tāmaki Makaurau.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDw0qTtIcyRPOunlA0tHjDuREpuqoDQp3KvT-DP6ZmDc4OnsoeEgEN72ojulliNyc4rEOvcmqOFrbrE0QZUSIW9oazsuuL7HIK-BWxzytAMYtygsMh3GC9IeT6Eu-ue96S0CcZqJyYIQ/s1350/michae-steven-credit-michael-steven.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDw0qTtIcyRPOunlA0tHjDuREpuqoDQp3KvT-DP6ZmDc4OnsoeEgEN72ojulliNyc4rEOvcmqOFrbrE0QZUSIW9oazsuuL7HIK-BWxzytAMYtygsMh3GC9IeT6Eu-ue96S0CcZqJyYIQ/w512-h640/michae-steven-credit-michael-steven.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Steven. Photo by Michael Steven.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-55894009246354357472021-08-09T11:42:00.006+12:002021-08-12T13:14:41.540+12:00Poet Laureate’s Choice, August 2021 | Emma Neale<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Poet Laureate’s choice, August 2021</span></h2><p>The <i>Poet Laureate's Choice, August 2021</i> is a portfolio sequence of new poems from poets chosen by the Poet Laureate. Today three new poems from Emma Neale.</p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">The pearl in the bone</span></h2>
<p>I placed my father’s skull</p>
<p>inside a lacquered wooden case</p>
<p>carved with closed lips, set with eyes</p>
<p>the swirling blue of gasoline on rain.</p>
<p>I hid the box in a crack in the rocks</p>
<p>as far from the seas as I could climb</p>
<p>then twined a wreath of common weeds –</p>
<p>broom, heather, thistles gone to seed –</p>
<p>as if to appease the small starved gods</p>
<p>whose hooked yellow teeth might want to notch</p>
<p>the clam-white bone that once locked safe</p>
<p>around the soft flesh pearl of him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the dawn fell open like a bourbon rose,</p>
<p>I wept afresh, for how heavy a head of care</p>
<p>can hang on the stem of a neck,</p>
<p>for how everything we strive to secure and perfect</p>
<p>thins like an old man’s hair silver as starlight</p>
<p>swallowed by time’s jade and gelid waters.</p><p>— <i>Emma Neale</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Service</span></h2>
<p>We saw a tiny funeral on our walk today —<br />
someone had taken such small care —<br />
bumble bee on its side, striped scythe,<br />
its buzz cut, furled like a black and yellow end-quote,<br />
no more drum of <em>hum quoth the bee</em> —</p>
<p>and beneath it someone had placed<br />
a four-daisy bouquet<br />
three white flowers, plus one pink-tipped,<br />
all arranged like a witch’s broom for afterlife flight:<br />
a funerary object to stow in a sarcophagus<br />
the way the Egyptians packed combs, pots,<br />
palettes for malachite eye-shadow.</p>
<p>I almost called her Sister Icarus<em>— </em><br />
yet someone did feel the sting of this loss<br />
though they, too, were just <em>walking dully along;</em><br />
and although they left her out<br />
on the pavement’s lichened altar<br />
as a banquet for wasps and ants<br />
it’s still possible the birds<br />
could discover her first<br />
metabolize her licorice and butter lines<br />
into patterned bars of song<br />
to blast like hope from the radios<br />
of the trees’ Spotify green.</p><p>— <i>Emma Neale</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Like girls were hot soft scones</span></h2>
<p><em>For Emer Lyons</em></p>
<p>At Sunday School, I always felt bad for Adam<br />
God taking away his rib like that<br />
the hurt must have been worse<br />
than the time I dislocated my toes,<br />
when Dad wrenched their weird new burning hooks<br />
back into their sockets again; though even that agony<br />
meant zilch when I tripped and truly broke<br />
the same two toes only moments later —<br />
what great pain could come from such small things!</p>
<p>So imagine Adam, lying there, clay-dust-tan,<br />
like a man buried to his neck in beach sand,<br />
only he was the sand, a Sandman waking<br />
out of God’s dream of having someone to show His tricks to:<br />
then, poor man, having a deep part of him removed<br />
as if now God thought cutting a live body<br />
was just a children’s game of Operation —<br />
how could you do that to someone you loved,<br />
even to give them company? Would I have given a rib<br />
to help make Jeffrey, or Darryl? The boys down the road<br />
who after school walked me home, invited me to tinker<br />
with off-cuts, nails, coping-saws, make swords<br />
like wonky crosses, any misfire with a hammer<br />
that blued a thumb enough to make all three of us cry?</p>
<p>Well, would I?<br />
The questions the Bible raised,<br />
they ached as if girls were hot, soft scones<br />
and Sunday School teachers the glinting blades<br />
avid to fillet us, spread blame like seed-pitted jam<br />
gritty and sticky on our skins — but why feel responsible<br />
for what Adam had lost, what Eve had done?</p>
<p>If I took a pinch from a Play-Doh man<br />
to make a Play-Doh woman<br />
they smelled, tasted, squashed back down the same.<br />
Weren’t they both just clay? Tangy, salty, equal clay?<br />
If Eve was cursed to have her sorrow multiplied,<br />
always to be dissatisfied, did the rope of <em>not fair </em><br />
that coiled my throat mean God was one big long<br />
<em>nyah-nyah, told you so?</em></p>
<p>I hadn’t stolen the apple, neither had my mum.<br />
Nor my baby sister, nor any of the girls at school, <br />
not even the ones in lace-topped socks I was jealous of.<br />
God was overreacting. He needed to be sent outside,<br />
put on his own back doorstep, so he could see<br />
the orange comets of money spiders<br />
shoot across the concrete in their busy-work,<br />
ladybirds lift their red ponchos to show black satin,<br />
moths dock the tiny white yachts of themselves<br />
in the quiet green bay of a leaf — so He could, from that place,<br />
like the kitchen radio sang, <em>look down on Creation</em> —<br />
feel his rage dissipate into the sunny butter-melt of calm,<br />
still the closest thing to heaven we have found.</p><p>— <i>Emma Neale</i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Emma Neale biography</span></h2>
<p>Emma Neale’s most recent novel, <em>Billy Bird</em>, published in 2016 by Vintage, Penguin Random NZ, was short-listed for the Acorn Prize at the 2017 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards and long-listed for the 2018 Dublin International Literary Award.</p>
<p>Emma, who is the author of six poetry collections, received the Lauris Edmond Memorial Award for a Distinguished Contribution to New Zealand Poetry 2020. From November 2017 to May 2021, Emma edited Landfall Review Online and <em>Landfall. </em>Her first collection of short stories, <em>The Pink Jumpsuit</em>, is due out from Quentin Wilson Publishing in 2021. She lives in Ōtepoti/Dunedin, where she works as an editor.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPWkMgU60Vn93EZxYFqhqwPCrkMW5CVT-FuLmyaB-nl0v01-fj3gNFdK_x3vLPQ3H5bHIFWxrawe5bIXlda8u4kWXa1wgzz_Z5RrF4Owi2kOlvlDSl4GVtU5vwtfBNlgIL90xSlkhYu0/s989/emma-neale-credit-caroline-davies.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="989" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZPWkMgU60Vn93EZxYFqhqwPCrkMW5CVT-FuLmyaB-nl0v01-fj3gNFdK_x3vLPQ3H5bHIFWxrawe5bIXlda8u4kWXa1wgzz_Z5RrF4Owi2kOlvlDSl4GVtU5vwtfBNlgIL90xSlkhYu0/w640-h512/emma-neale-credit-caroline-davies.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emma Neale. Photo Caroline Davies.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>
National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-23644410520259079892021-08-05T15:06:00.003+12:002021-08-12T13:14:58.382+12:00Poet Laureate’s Choice, August 2021 | Gregory O’Brien<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Poet Laureate’s choice, August 2021</span></h2>
<p>The <i>Poet Laureate's Choice, August 2021</i> is a portfolio sequence of new poems from poets chosen by the Poet Laureate. Today three new poems from Gregory O’Brien. </p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Signing</span></h2>
<p>It comes back to you. At the School<br />
for the Deaf, the waltzing class,<br />
a balloon placed between each couple</p>
<p>to maintain appropriate<br />
distance. ‘You were that much taller<br />
and then some.’ This afternoon’s</p>
<p>balloon replaced with a flutter<br />
of hands, as if gathering altitude, as if<br />
‘I could fall from</p>
<p>the height of you’. It comes back<br />
as a vocabulary or untethering,<br />
for every outward breath, a breath</p>
<p>breathed in. The space between us that once<br />
might have whispered ‘I am listening’ or<br />
‘I can see you<br />
through the red balloon.’</p>
<p>— <i>Gregory O’Brien</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Styx, Central Otago, late summer</span></h2>
<p>As it happens over fellfield and peneplain<br />
as if<br />
raining. On weedle and wedge<br />
and Mr Haye’s lone metal arm<br />
as if snowing.</p>
<p>Over blue tussock and somnambulant<br />
lawn<br />
the sun gone<br />
lightly<br />
from bough to bulb and<br />
everything between<br />
a cricket ball bowled</p>
<p>not particularly well<br />
at nothing<br />
in particular.</p>
<p>— <i>Gregory O’Brien</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">The Spaniards of Italian Creek</span></h2>
<p><em>(Speargrass above Lake Dunstan, Central Otago, Aotearoa/New Zealand)</em></p>
<p></p>
<p>Urchins of this raised<br /> undersea, at once<br /> ocean-bedded and blue sky’d,</p>
<p>your foreign accent<br /> we forgive you,<br /> your barbed inflorescence</p>
<p>upon which our wits too<br /> are sharpened. In this<br /> the gleaming hour or</p>
<p>golden age of<br /> such things, the water race<br /> that runneth under</p>
<p>low land and lupin, spear-<br /> grass and shotgun shell,<br /> chattering, as if to say</p>
<p>we were expecting you<br /> mid-morning, clad in<br /> edelweiss, spinescent.</p>
<p>Blue bells and coral<br /> lichen make up your bed,<br /> the coolest of linens upon which</p>
<p>this armada sails, these<br /> syllables worn and pressed,<br /> sea-eggs of the stratosphere<br />
in snow’s pocket.</p>
<p>— <i>Gregory O’Brien</i></p>
<h2><span style="color: #45818e;">Gregory O’Brien biography</span></h2>
<p>Gregory O’Brien is a Wellington-based poet, art-writer, curator and artist. He has curated major exhibitions by a number of artists, including Fiona Hall, Rosalie Gascoigne, Noel McKenna, Jo Braithwaite and Euan Macleod. His recent books include <em>Always song in the water — an oceanic sketchbook </em>(Auckland University Press 2019) and a collection of poems, <em>Whale Years</em> (AUP 2015). In 2019, he exhibited paintings, made in collaboration with Euan Macleod, at Watters Gallery, Sydney. Early in 2022, Auckland University Press is publishing a collection of his poems and paintings, <em>House and Contents, </em>and, in September 2022, his extensive monograph on painter Don Binney.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjziH7YKT-iCZGo3lu5zA0nFWzkOU3GR6kX1fA1tuNUwBcwHB4KGVnzLt2vJMLUzx_nKArvIZc3wp-aU621Gp6JwCn2EW4v9vOwGs8StNtJ2Teb6u2hx5awGJwDXET5yyLO5zJo3X7CYTo/s1285/gregory-obrien.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1285" data-original-width="1000" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjziH7YKT-iCZGo3lu5zA0nFWzkOU3GR6kX1fA1tuNUwBcwHB4KGVnzLt2vJMLUzx_nKArvIZc3wp-aU621Gp6JwCn2EW4v9vOwGs8StNtJ2Teb6u2hx5awGJwDXET5yyLO5zJo3X7CYTo/w498-h640/gregory-obrien.jpg" width="498" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gregory O’Brien. Photo Bruce Foster</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8300321474428682567.post-42070665121012152492021-07-29T11:14:00.004+12:002021-07-30T09:37:36.018+12:00Literary salon: Matariki ki Waikato<p> On the
evening of Thursday July 22, ending the month-long celebration of the rising of
the Matariki star cluster in the night skies, a stellar constellation of poets
performed at <i>Literary Salon: Matariki Ki Waikato</i> at the Meteor Theatre
in Kirikiriroa/Hamilton, to a warm and responsive audience.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The performers were:</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>wahine toa
and pioneering Māori poet, Hinewirangi Kohu Morgan (Ngāti Porou, Ngāti
Kahungunu ki Nuhaka, Ngāti Ranginuiki Tauranga Moana);</li><li>Te Kahu<b> </b>Rolleston (Ngāi Te Rangi),
a Māori language activist, battle rap artist, educator, and a former national
spoken word champion whose poetry performances combine slam-rap with
traditional mōteatea and kapa haka;</li><li>Vaughan Rapatahana (Te Ātiawa), a poet,
Māori language activist, and a multi-lingual scholar who has lived and taught
in Nauru, Brunei Darussalam, United Arab Emirates, China and Hong Kong. Vaughan was also MC for the
evening.</li></ul><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I was the fourth member of this dramatic quartet, sheltered
there from the misty Waikato drizzle, together with my dark, gleaming tokotoko,
Te Kore, in the Meteor theatre, a heritage building that was once the Innes
Tartan fizzy-water bottling factory.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Below are two of the poems that were recited on that
evening, the first, <i>Five Kuia/ grandmothers ago</i> is by Hinewirangi and the
second, <i>sixteen years</i>, is by Vaughan.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJ9c0VL-FTv-PEJjG4UW76Og2fuh7KqlLeCeFl5vppfveneRsuMJeuchveqhlr0lAu1zBh5CBbRKypEWa2BnoHYpBD9AUigw0yD10ApgWK-P1NoWSX1MUxeDO72ElBlHZ3kTXTtMTkcE/s1067/matariki-ki-waikato.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEJ9c0VL-FTv-PEJjG4UW76Og2fuh7KqlLeCeFl5vppfveneRsuMJeuchveqhlr0lAu1zBh5CBbRKypEWa2BnoHYpBD9AUigw0yD10ApgWK-P1NoWSX1MUxeDO72ElBlHZ3kTXTtMTkcE/w480-h640/matariki-ki-waikato.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From left to right: David Eggleton, Hinewirangi Kohu Morgan, <br />Vaughan Rapatahana, Te Kahu Rolleston. Photo by Leticia Canlas.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<h2><span style="color: #134f5c;">Five Kuia/grandmothers ago</span></h2>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I awoke in my Whare Tangāta/womb<br /> Hearing the voices of whānau singing my oriori/lullaby<br /> I awoke to the voice of the Putatara/conch shell calling Wainuiatea</p>
<p>The goddess mother of all atua ō ngā wai/the god/desses of the water</p>
<p>She the first hoa rangatira/partner of Ranginui<br /> To open the waters within, so I could safely pass<br /> Into Te Ao Māori.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I sprang from my whare tangāta/mother<br /> Into the arms of my Uretu/father.<br /> I became the taonga/treasure of my tribal peoples.<br /> My kuia/koroua/grandmothers/grandfathers raised me, while all abled bodies</p>
<p>Went to their natural world mahi/work for the wellbeing<br /> Of all the tribal people-collectives/whānau.<br /> I was loved, and I learnt to love.<br /> He taonga he mokopuna.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I understood the Purākau/ancient stories<br /> Of atua/god/desses.<br /> I understood that I was Atua having a human experience<br /> I began my journey of Te Reo Rangatira/Māori language<br /> I began to understand my whakapapa/genealogical links with Tūpuna.<br /> I was sent to Te Whare Kohanga/the birthing house<br /> Where I sat upon moss, collected, cleaned by our kuia.<br /> Within this sacred whare/house, I learnt the sacredness<br /> Of my body, the sacredness of the Whare Tangata/the house of Humanity.</p>
<p>I understood my preciousness and was loved in that space.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I learnt the love of my whaiaipo/sweetheart, Hoa Rangatira<br /> With him, and his sacred seed, Te Uretu ngā kākāno mai Rangiatea</p>
<p>My uretu/father carried the sacred seeds 10 million of them.<br /> And I would be the ‘one in a million to race into te Pae ō Tiki/Cervix</p>
<p>To cling to the Ahuru Mowai, a gift of the Mareikura.<br /> We concieved in the whare tangata a beautiful child.<br /> I felt my completeness, the circle, of love.<br /> I understood the intrinsic knowledge was passed down by the wahine</p>
<p>In the waiu/breast milk of te whare tangata.<br /> As I was raised, so would our baby, by the kuia/koroua.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I understood the esoteric world, the whaiaiio carved<br /> Into my rae/forehead.<br /> The kuia of the Whare Wānanga taught women’s stories<br /> Schools of learning, for the tohunga karakia/prayer/chant specialists, Tohunga Kōkōrangi/astrology specialists, tohunga tito waiata/composers, Tohunga kohanga/birthing house.<br /> I was chosen to walk in this world as a child and I knew my place.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I walk on Papatuanuku were sacred moutains and rivers,<br /> Trees and rocks marked the demarcation of my tribal area<br /> I was Tangata Whenua, I knew that.<br /> I understood my role in taking care of the Papa/mother earth.<br /> I bathed in the pristines waters of Wainuiatea, nourishing waters of Parawhenuamea I went to the great ocean of Hinemoana to take sustenance for my whānau.<br /> I knew the balance of life, I was born into a world of balance.<br /> Where we knew our roles as men and women<br /> There was a balance and we worked together.<br /> We lived in papakainga/villages.<br /> Where our support systems were intact.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers/kuia ago<br /> I knew where I could walk, I understood the wahi tapu/sacred places And walked tenderly, with respect.<br /> I knew how to keep sacred the taonga gifted by tūpuna.<br /> I understood my grandmother self and knew I<br /> Would soon be five grandmothers going forward.<br /> Because five grandmothers ago in 1847 Hinewirangi was born.<br /> In 1947 Hinewirangi was born again.</p>
<p>Five grandmothers forward,<br /> Only one hundred years later<br /> Five grandmothers forward, what do I leave them now,<br /> The mokopuna, kotiro, wahine, tane, grandmothers, grandfathers What sacredness can I teach them about<br /> I must walk back five generations to bring that knowledge forward. Five generations, five grandmother/fathers forward<br /> And like both grandmother/father five generations ago,<br /> Be loving but strong, be kind, but harden up.</p>
<p>Our grandmother/fathers lives are at stake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong><em>Rimu rimu, Tere Tere, seaweed drifting. drifting</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>E rere ki te moana. floating on the ocean</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>E tere ana ki te ripo drifting into the whirlpool</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>I wahia e. out there.</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em> </em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>Tirohia I waho ra when I look out there</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>E morina ana e it is so calm</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>Kei roto i ahau while within me </em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>E marangai ana e everything is storm tossed</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em> </em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>Kei te tio, te huka the snow is biting cold</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>I runga o ngā hiwi on the ridges</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>Kei te moe koromiko and lying curled up asleep</em></strong></p>
<p><strong><em>Te wairua e is you spirit. </em></strong></p>
<p> </p>
<p>(I would like to thank the Tumuaki of the Kirikiriroa Runangā Andrea Elliot-Hohepa and Roma Balzer for the opportunity to write this poem expressing the stories of our Tūpuna.)</p><p>— <em>Na Hinewirangi Kohu Morgan</em></p><p><br /></p>
<h2><span style="color: #134f5c;">sixteen years</span></h2>
<p>[<em>whatia potatia te tihi o Taranaki</em> — Māori — the peak of Taranaki is broken off]</p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p><em>kua tekau mā ono ngā tau </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>sixteen years have trundled by,</p>
<p>like a wounded locomotive.</p>
<p>had my bouts of breakdowns, break ups,</p>
<p>break throughs.</p>
<p>& came off the rails then</p>
<p> and there.</p>
<p>your death still pervades,</p>
<p>my side-track maunder,</p>
<p>this erratic journey</p>
<p>through the tunnels of life,</p>
<p>across those ramshackle aqueducts</p>
<p>between stable station</p>
<p>& depots of disrepair.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>misplaced my ticket stub decades ago,</p>
<p>never made first class.</p>
<p>guess I never will.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>kua tekau mā ono ngā tau </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>sixteen years have trudged past.</p>
<p>& I’m still at that crossing.</p>
<p>those infernal bells never cease</p>
<p> their strident trill.</p>
<p>while the barriers taunt me</p>
<p>in fissiparous semaphore</p>
<p> that never fades.</p>
<p>your death is my own l I f e l o n g transit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>when I finally alight,</p>
<p>I pray you’re waiting,</p>
<p> at the terminus</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>— </strong><em>Na Vaughan Rapatahana</em></p>
<p><br /></p>National Library of New Zealandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05067703181520460430noreply@blogger.com0