"I hope when I die the sky is grey" one of New Zealand's best poets once wrote, and he did die a few years back when the sky was grey. My favourite poet, together with Denis Glover.
I REMEMBER IN 1979 CUTTING ONE OF HIS GREAT POEMS OUT OF THE NZ LISTENER, DATED OCTOBER 27 TO BE PRECISE. Hone Tuwhare was one of New Zealand's most popular, most read and oozing with a sense of who we are as a people.
Old Comrade
Like frightened girls, the years
ran in thickening to panic-stations
and the days ran out for Jim
as he walked past them. and beyond
Why, only a few days ago, hatless
immaculately tied and overcoated,
tied on , Jim shouldered his way out
of the Crown into the wind
at the corner of Rattray Street: he
didn't hear me call out. Jim was
ghosting
Shoulders bunched, tartan scarf whipping
Jim leaned into the wind. The wind leaned
right back and then pulled away. Jim fell.
He didn't feel the hardness or coldness
of the pavement, for, like an old friend
come back, the wind held him as he fell.
Well, there was no magic tolling of the
bell, and the skies never opened up, But
the ground did...
At the graveside, no one wanted to add
or subtract. No one - except the capitalist
who never even looked up from the counting
his worthless paper money. But, you know
I reckon old Marx would make room for him
Lenin, throw another log on the fire,
and, Mao, like a full moon rising poor a bowl
of tea, offer Jim a cigarette. Bet on it
Old Comrade
Like frightened girls, the years
ran in thickening to panic-stations
and the days ran out for Jim
as he walked past them. and beyond
Why, only a few days ago, hatless
immaculately tied and overcoated,
tied on , Jim shouldered his way out
of the Crown into the wind
at the corner of Rattray Street: he
didn't hear me call out. Jim was
ghosting
Shoulders bunched, tartan scarf whipping
Jim leaned into the wind. The wind leaned
right back and then pulled away. Jim fell.
He didn't feel the hardness or coldness
of the pavement, for, like an old friend
come back, the wind held him as he fell.
Well, there was no magic tolling of the
bell, and the skies never opened up, But
the ground did...
At the graveside, no one wanted to add
or subtract. No one - except the capitalist
who never even looked up from the counting
his worthless paper money. But, you know
I reckon old Marx would make room for him
Lenin, throw another log on the fire,
and, Mao, like a full moon rising poor a bowl
of tea, offer Jim a cigarette. Bet on it
2 comments:
The title "old comrade' fits exactly. An intriguing poem. NZ has many great writers
Thanks Marja. yes an intriqing poem and fits so many of the older generation I knew.
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