Showing posts with label New Zealand Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Zealand Poetry. Show all posts

Saturday, 21 January 2012

Old Comrade

"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

Friday, 17 September 2010

WHITEBAITING in New Zealand

The smell of whitebait cooking in the pan has my mouth watering like no other food and the delicious taste turns a sane man into a gluitton. It has moved me so much that I have written two poems about this nobel fish that I would like to share with you today.  The highly regulated activity of whitebaiting has a particularly short season on the West Coast on New Zealand, where it has become part of the fabric of society.


By the end of August each year, the rest of New Zealand has had a couple of weeks to pursue the tiny fish that inhabit the lower reaches of the country’s rivers and coastal streams. On the west coast of the South Island however, whitebaiters have to wait until the first day of September before they can put their nets into the water. The regulations that control whitebaiting are essential for the fish’s conservation, and the periodically lean pickings of recent years have only served to highlight the need for strong measures.


The views you get of the Southern Alps while whitebaiting, are as delicate as the fish themselves. Here is Aoraki Mount Cook and Tasman just south of the Hokitika river mouth. Photo: Bob McKerrow


Whitebait is the collective name given to the juveniles of several species, by far the most common of which is the inanga (Galaxias maculatus). Having been swept downstream in the autumn as larvae to start maturing at sea, the young fish seek out a return to freshwater as the winter draws to a close. They will spend the summer in the inland waterways, before spawning in the vegetation of the stream and riverbanks and completing their lifecycle. Here is my first poem about whitebait.


RED HATTED SUE


Red-hatted Sue
How well I remember
Your beauty on opening day
Last September.




You hold your net
With such grace and poise
And scoop with a rhythm
Not a sound, not a noise.




When the ‘bait was running
A few weeks ago,
You showed no emotion
How my admiration grows.


Red-hatted Sue
I can never forget,
Watching kilos of whitebait
Running into your net.


My heart jumped with envy
For you and your style,
But I am still waiting
For that first smile.


I’m dying to ask you
How you cook your bait,
With egg or onion
Or do you eat them straight ?


I’ve got some good recipies
In my refurbished kitchen,
And would love to serve you
Inanga and pigeon.


So Red-Hatted Sue
I fantasise when I’m baiting,
Every day at the river mouth
While you are waiting


For you clearly
Are the best catch
There’s no net big enough,
No man that’s your match


I seriously think
I’m the one for you,
We could live in a baiters shack
Just me, and you
Red-Hatted Sue




WAIHO RIVER MOUTH

Ribbon-like white
Streaks the high horizon,
Where the ice oozes
Vertical to green.




From timeless boles
Ancient spars signal time
In dark leaf-stained water
Ancient insect cavort.




Starfish swim in rock pools
Flecked with glacier dust
Rivers retreat from intruders
Slicing the scarred landscape

The rugged West Coast of New Zealand's South Island, the home of whitebait.

Tuesday, 1 January 2008

Viking woman




Early one new year, long ago, I met a stunning Viking woman. She now lives happily in Denmark. This is a poem I wrote for her








VIKING WOMAN

O Viking woman
Your body and eyes tell me
Of distant lands conquered
That's what I see

Tall and graceful with
Beauty to afford
The sibilant water
From mountain to Fiord

Now on an island
Where the remnants of conquests
Lay scattered
Across your breast

The lithness of your limbs
Conceal energy and dreams
Like the first flowers of spring
Growing beside distant streams

Within your heart and body
Flows blood deep red
Inside your mind
Are thoughts that unsettle the bed

So take me O viking women
In your longship west
Through stormy seas
That's what I love best

Bob McKerrow

Sunday, 23 September 2007

Red Hatted Sue


RED HATTED SUE

Red-hatted Sue
How well I remember
Your beauty on opening day
Last September.

You hold your net
With such grace and poise
And scoop with a rhythm
Not a sound, not a noise.

When the ‘bait' was running
A few weeks ago,
You showed no emotion
How my admiration grows.

Re-hatted Sue
I can never forget,
Watching kilos of whitebait
Running into your net.

My heart jumped with envy
For you and your style,
But I am still waiting
For that first smile.

I’m dying to ask you
How you cook your 'bait',
With egg or onion
Or do you eat them straight ?

I’ve got some good recipies
In my refurbished kitchen,
And would love to serve you
Inanga and pigeon.

So Red-Hatted Sue
I fantasise when I’m baiting,
Every day at the river mouth
While you are waiting
For you clearly
Are the best catch
There’s no net big enough,
No man that’s your match.

I seriously think
I’m the one for you,
We could live in a baiters shack
Just me, and you
Red-Hatted Sue
Bob McKerrow

Sunday, 16 September 2007

Waiho River mouth - a poem


Waiho River Mouth

Ribbon-like white
Streaks the high horizon,
Where the ice oozes
Vertical to green.

From timeless boles
Ancient spars signal time
In dark leaf-stained water
Ancient insects cavort.

Starfish swim in rock pools
Flecked with glacier dust
Rivers retreat from intruders
Slicing the scarred landscape

Sunday, 5 August 2007

Inanga (White Bait)


A small poem I wrote some time ago when I was white baiting in South Westland. The photo above is of the Whataroa River, New Zealand.

INANGA

Inanga slither into
The dark fold of my net,
As the raging sea crashes
I escape with my life,
But hardly a pattie there.

Too early in the year
But I commune with nature
And talk to good mates
And muse why Brunner
Ate his favourite dog

I wander to the inland creeks
Where high above the Kereru
Struts his camouflaged wings,
Staring into tea-stained
Water I see a shoal.

Weeks tick by
And the first run
Flows by my net and soon
A million bodies lithely
Congeal into a shoal.

Like sex of a distant past,
Or memories of times had
A thrill runs through my
Bones, body and soul,
I lift my net in ecstasy.

O Inanga I worship you
In pan, pattie or net
They call me a killer
But it’s not just that,
As water, we are one

By Bob McKerrow

Wednesday, 1 August 2007

Denis James Matthews Glover


We all have our favourite poets, and mine is Denis Glover. I met Denis in 1973 when he was working at the Correspondance Institute in Lower Hutt. He signed my copy of his wonderful book ENTER WITHOUT KNOCKING.


I love this wonderful sketch of Denis Glover.

Denis James Matthews Glover

Denis James Matthews Glover, one of the most spirited, versatile and influential figures in New Zealand literature, was born at Dunedin on 9 December 1912. He was the third of four children of Irish-born Henry Lawrence Glover, a dentist, and his wife, Lyla Jean Matthews. From his Irish ancestors Denis Glover evidently derived his wit, devilry and frequent bloody-mindedness; while from Lyla's wide reading and ambitions to be a writer he acquired his literary instincts.

A fluent reader from the age of six, Glover attended Dunedin's Arthur Street School. In 1925 Lyla (now divorced from Henry) moved the family to New Plymouth; Glover was dux of the Central School and spent 1926 at New Plymouth Boys' High School. They then shifted to Auckland where he excelled in English at Auckland Grammar School, and finally to Christchurch where he attended Christ's College in 1929--30.

In 1931 Glover enrolled at Canterbury College, where he took Greek, Latin, philosophy and English for his BA. He captained the boxing club, won a blue as a welterweight, played rugby for the Old Collegians, yachted and joined the Canterbury Mountaineering Club and Christchurch Classical Association. From 1936 to 1938 he was an assistant lecturer in English and reported university news for the Press. Other journalistic work included editing Motoring magazine, the Canterbury University College Review and Canta. In 1932 Glover formed the Caxton Club to pursue the study of printing and typography, and the following year he published one issue of a student magazine, Oriflamme. An article advocating trial marriage caused its suppression by the college authorities and ended Glover's brief career as a journalist.

On 8 January 1936 at Christchurch Glover married Mary Granville, the English-born daughter of a retired army officer. In the previous year he had entered into a partnership with John Drew to found the Caxton Press. Commercial printing able to fit the firm's one small press provided a modest income and allowed Glover to pursue his real interest, publishing. Leo Bensemann, artist and typographer, joined the press in 1937 and with his help Glover printed and published the work of many writers who have become established names in New Zealand literature: Ursula Bethell, R. A. K. Mason, Allen Curnow, Charles Brasch, Frank Sargeson and A. R. D. Fairburn. Volumes of his own verse also appeared, one of which included 'The magpies', New Zealand's most widely anthologised poem. The Caxton Press had become the most important publisher of creative writing in New Zealand; its publications were distinguished by the care that Glover gave to typography and printing.

During the Second World War Glover served with the Royal Navy and made four 'suicide' runs to Murmansk with the Russian convoys. On D-Day, with the rank of lieutenant, he had charge of an infantry landing craft at Normandy, earning the DSC. During leave in London, Glover discussed with Charles Brasch the founding of the literary periodical Landfall. John Lehmann, the celebrated editor, introduced him to Cecil Day Lewis, Stephen Spender and other important men of letters.

In 1944 Glover returned reluctantly to New Zealand to resume married life and his work at the Caxton Press, but he found it hard to settle back into former routines and began to drink heavily. He became a lieutenant commander in the Royal New Zealand Naval Volunteer Reserve and from 1945 to 1948 served on the Canterbury University College Council. Glover continued to publish important new work, by Basil Dowling, James K. Baxter, Janet Frame, Ngaio Marsh and others, as well as new poetry of his own. This included his two outstanding verse sequences, Sings Harry (1951) and Arawata Bill (1953).

Glover's drinking, financial mismanagement and erratic attendance now became a major problem at Caxton, and in 1952 Dennis Donovan, the majority shareholder, dismissed him. Glover then got work with his friend Albion Wright at the Pegasus Press, but was dismissed from there also. Despite the birth in 1945 of their son, Rupert, Mary and Denis drifted apart and in 1950 Glover began living with Khura Skelton. In 1954, his Canterbury career in tatters, Glover moved to Wellington with Khura. They lived, unmarried, mostly at Paekakariki, where their hospitality, drinking bouts and high-decibel ructions became legendary.

Glover worked as an advertising copywriter for Carlton-Carruthers du Chateau and King in 1954, as production manager and typographer for Wingfield Press from 1954 to 1962, and as typography tutor for the Technical Correspondence Institute from 1964 to 1973. He helped, during the late 1950s, to develop the Mermaid Press, and in 1971 founded the Cats-paw Press. He was a member of the New Zealand Literary Fund Advisory Committee from 1955 to 1958; from 1963 to 1965 he was president of the Friends of the Turnbull Library.

Glover in 1959 dictated for the New Zealand Listener (where it first appeared) the text of his lively autobiography Hot water sailor (1962). He continued to produce poetry collections such as Enter without knocking (1964), Sharp edge up (1968), Come high water (1977), Or hawk or basilisk (1978) and For whom the cock crows (1978).

Khura died in 1969, and Glover was divorced from Mary in 1970. He then laid siege to several women. In 1971 he met Gladys Evelyn Cameron (née Stevens), a voice and drama teacher, and after a six-week courtship married her at Wellington on 21 September. Lyn did much to monitor Glover's drinking and accompanied him on a trip to Russia, where he was presented with a Soviet Union war veterans' medal. In that same year, 1975, he was awarded an honorary doctorate of literature from Victoria University of Wellington and elected president of honour of the New Zealand Centre of PEN.

Glover, despite his alcoholic decline, produced 14 publications in his last decade. These included poems on Wellington Harbour, a third poetry sequence called Towards Banks Peninsula (1979), and Landlubber ho! (1981), an addition to Hot water sailor. Glover also published the collected poems of his close friend A. R. D. Fairburn and helped to edit his letters for publication. His last task was to select poems for Denis Glover: selected poems , published posthumously in 1981. On 7 August 1980, while moving belongings to a new home at Breaker Bay, Glover fell down some steps, injured himself and died two days later from bronchopneumonia. He was 67, and was survived by his second wife and his son.

Lehmann has described Glover as 'looking rather like Mr Punch in naval uniform, sturdy, stocky, sanguine of complexion and temperament, a man in a million, imperturbable and with a great sense of humour.' Glover's conversation and letters could be wickedly witty and subversive. He was an indefatigably pugnacious talker with outrageous remarks his trademark. But the mask should not be mistaken for the man. Within the jester was a sensitive poet, a serious craftsman with a passion for excellence. Under Glover's discerning eye, New Zealand typography and poetry both came of age.

Glover had an Elizabethan breadth of talent and fullness of character. He was, among other things, scholar, adventurer, typographer, publisher, poet, author, critic, raconteur, performer, drunkard and lusty lover. A man of sometimes anarchic temperament but warm humanity, Glover was impatient with prudery, shoddiness, pretence, political chicanery, officialdom or anything mean-minded. Faults he admitted to included an unrepentantly monocultural and masculine view of society and of literature, an 'immodest enthusiasm for draught beer' and a tendency to shed 'printing presses, wives and books' as he went.

Denis Glover is probably New Zealand's most quotable poet. His best verse, evincing a timeless simplicity and directness, is built to last - even when Glover declares the opposite: 'Verses, verses, what are they? / The wind will blow them all away.' Glover persistently undervalued his own poetry, and there is certainly much lightweight and facetious verse scattered through his output. None the less, he is New Zealand's best poet of the mountains and the sea, the author of some strikingly original love poems, a superb lyricist and satirist. His style is completely individual: idiomatic, tough, sardonic, flexible and spare, marked by glittering imagery and a deft use of assonance and rhyme. He had the common touch. Harry, Arawata Bill, and Mick Stimpson, with their brooding, lyric, restless souls and crusty self-reliance are now key man-alone figures in our literature. They are also versions of Glover himself.
Thanks to Dictionary of New Zealand Biography and 'gemini' Old Poetry Resercher for biography info.

Saturday, 16 June 2007

Fishmonger and a Shepherd

We had two neighbours when I was a boy
Jack Downes the fishmonger
And Len Sidell the Jakaroo and gardener.
Dad used to shell oysters in Jack’s shed
Over a bottle of whiskey
While Len sculptured an elegant garden
Leaving an original cabbage tree
And grew two macrocarpa trees into
A magnificent 4 sided Arch

Watching Jack shell oysters and
Len create a little haven of trees
Was art to me when I was three
And when Len’s border collie died
The shepherd was parted with his only love
He buried him under the cabbage tree
Jack and Len’s wives knew each other
Rita and Justine
But I never saw them talk in 20 years
One catholic and the other a Prody
Jack had a 35 Oldsmobile with soft leather seats
And when he stopped at the pub for a beer,
He would always bring me out a raspberry drink

We had a Saturday night ritual where Jack and Len gave
Me sixpence each to buy the Star Sports
And each gave me sixpence to spend
And often I bought Jaffas and Aniseed balls

They’re both dead now, the cabbage tree is a
Reminder of Len and his dog
And the hydranges still bloom long after Jack’s and Rita’s death
Both their houses stand tall and look over
The Mighty Pacific Ocean
Memorial to men who shaped my life
And the silent Rita and Justine
West Coast wedding

Rain dances on a tin roof
In a gold miners shed
My daughter is in pure white
The shed is lined with silk
Breakers drum on the beach
Guests drink Speights
And champagne flows
Next to tyres on a digger

Ceremony melts into simplicity
Vows exchanged
Rings given from gold dug
From beneath our feet
Earth, gold and sea
Birth death and marriage
Clouds hang limp
Lake an aging miner
And sand flies bite

Red Band gum boots
And swannies
Replaced by ill fitting suits
For a day


The ridge behind contains
More gold than dreams
But lovers have more
Dreams than gold
Walking along the edge.
Of hope and love

Waiho River Mouth

Waiho River Mouth

Ribbon-like white
Streaks the high horizon,
Where the ice oozes
Vertical to green.

From timeless boles
Ancient spars signal time
In dark leaf-stained water
Ancient insect cavort.

Starfish swim in rock pools
Flecked with glacier dust
Rivers retreat from intruders
Slicing the scarred landscape

Friday, 15 June 2007

Mount Cook Revisited

Mount Cook Revisited

Mountains never change
Except their faces
People never change
Except their faces

Jan 75