Author Archives: Paula Green

Poetry Shelf poets on their own poems: David Eggleton reads and responds to ‘Heraldry’

 

 

 

 

 

 

David Eggleton reads ‘Heraldry’ from Time of the Icebergs (Otago University Press 2011). This poetry performance video was recorded live by musician and film-maker Richard C. Wallis on July 10, 2020 in Waikouaiti, Otago.

 

 

A Note on ‘Heraldry’

In the 1940s, while living in New Zealand, the novelist wrote of yesterday’s newspapers flapping like hooked flounder in the gutters — as if alive, but grotesque and surreal. That’s one starting point  for this poem, the days when the heraldry of the printed newspaper brought messages and proclamations to the towns and farms. My poem “Heraldry’ is a kind of bricolage, assembling assorted emblems and badges of contemporary nationhood into patterns that might be hyperbolic headlines or vatic pronouncements.

In the 1960s, the North Shore poet Kendrick Smithyman characterised poetry as ‘ a way of saying’, meaning that poetry is stylised utterance, a tranced vocalising first and foremost. And so the herald, like a town crier, or street corner preacher, or any stand and deliver  blowhard really, has an aspect of the orating poet.

As the poet in this video, I take my authority from its chanted measure, its off-beat rhymes, its curious images. Voicing this poem, I am the hoarse whisperer of poetic observations caught in bright sunlight, an almost transparent medium, and fluttering like a drab moth in pursuit of some elusive scent. Like a no-budget imitation version of an urbane David Attenborough or a gesticulating David Bellamy, David Eggleton delivers his dramatic monologue to camera while advancing through a mock-wilderness of vegetation and trying not to slip down any conjured-up rabbit hole: ‘Not I, but some child born in a marvellous year will learn the trick of standing upright here.’

I am deep in the cactus and prowling down the side of a house in rural North Otago, all the while orating as if I have indeed found rich pickings in the discarded totems and tokens of Kiwiana, while distant bird song burbles its native wood-notes wild and a chainsaw revs up.

This poem appeared in my collection Time of the Icebergs (Otago University Press 2011), and has also featured as a Phantom Billstickers Poster Poem.

 

David Eggleton is a Dunedin-based writer, critic and poet. His most recent collection of poetry is Edgeland and Other Poems, with artwork by James Robinson, published by Otago University Press in 2018. He is the current Aotearoa New Zealand Poet Laureate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Shelf video spot: Rebecca Hawkes’s ‘Perendale Princess’

 

 

 

Rebecca Hawke’s ‘Perendale Princess’

 

 

Rebecca Hawkes is a poet and painter. She’s from a high country farm near Methven and is now living in Wellington. Rebecca’s poems have appeared in various journals, including Starling, Sport, and Sweet Mammalian – and on her website. A collection of her writing was published in August 2019 in the revival issue of the AUP New Poets series, alongside the work of Carolyn DeCarlo and Sophie van Waardenberg.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: Simone Kaho’s ‘Crane Fly’

 

Crane Fly

 

I’ve been in the bathroom with a flying daddy-long-legs thing locked in a battle for its life.
I saw it on a shower floor tile when I was showering.
A leggy bug fossil, squashed flat by water.
I told myself it was dead but couldn’t resist checking and it grabbed the toothbrush handle I held over its body.
So, I flicked it out of the shower and told myself It’ll sort itself out.
I checked when I got out.
It was lying in a wing and leg jumble, glued together with an iridescent water drop.
Still alive though, because it grabbed at the toothbrush again.
So I lifted it up to the windowsill, and it staggered upright-ish.
I saw it only had one back leg on the right, jabbing down to steady itself.
Three legs in total. It should have six.
But its struggles made it seem saveable, so I ripped off a single toilet paper square and touched the wings lightly and quickly.
That sucked the wetness up, but they were stuck together along its back, like wet cellophane but infinitely more fragile.
It wiggled its abdomen and wing joints like it was trying to fly.
That made me sad, that it wanted to fly, and couldn’t, and didn’t know why.
So, I separated the wings by running closed tweezers between the veiny transparent panels, then gently letting them open.
Oil glistened in my fingerprint troughs, which were larger than the wing veins.
If you try this yourself – don’t grab and pull the wings with tweezers.
I never closed the tweezers on a wing – it was all very indirect and slow.
After a few passes, its wings sprung apart.
It buzzed them and flew haphazardly back into the shower.
Which was clearly not a safe space.
So I walked it onto some toilet paper and put it on top of the mirror cabinet to calm down.
Later, in the middle of the night, I checked, and it was gone.
I bet it’s flown into a spider web I thought and looked in a corner of the room.
Sure enough, there it was, hanging in a web.
I counted the legs to be sure. Two fronts, one back.
There was no spider in the web so I pulled it out and laid it on the window beside the toilet in a cobwebby pile.
My cat thought about eating it but didn’t.
Its legs were stuck together, so I got the tweezers again and separated each leg, pinching cob web strands and slowly pulling, aware the web may be stronger than the legs.
Each time I pulled, I thought This leg might snap.
It’s not like there were legs to spare.
We got lucky.
After several minutes of tweezing the legs got free and it could even lift them and they didn’t stick to the window ledge.
I set it on a piece of toilet paper outside the window – thinking – Hey man, the bathroom isn’t safe. Go die outside.
It was pretty cold outside.
After I did my business, I noticed the toilet paper had blown away.
So, I mouthed Goodbye and Goodluck.
But when I went to shut the window the dude was quivering there, on the window frame, standing the right way up on his front two legs, the back one propped under like a lopsided tripod.
I shut the window and left him there.
Maybe he wants to die and I’m getting in the way.
Maybe none of the ways he’s been dying has been fast enough.
There’s too much waiting to die in an awkward tangle, so he battles to live, to find a better, quicker way.
Or maybe this is just how life is for a flying-daddy-long-legs in the bathroom.
How could I know?
I know I felt great success each time he made it through.
He’s a tough little bugger, although unspeakably vulnerable, directionless, and with no clue how to stay safe.

 

Simone Kaho

 

Simone Kaho is a Tongan / Pākehā poet who writes discontinuous narratives in poetry. She has a Masters from Victoria University of Wellington’s International Institute of Modern Letters. Her first book, Lucky Punch, was published by Anahera Press in 2016, The second will hopefully arrive in 2021.

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Shelf noticeboard: Invitation to Jackson Nieuwland’s poetry book launch

 

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Invitation to Jackson Nieuwland’s poetry book launch hosted by Compound Press

 

Friday, August 7, 2020 at 6 PM – 7:30 PM   Unity Books Wellington
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🤯 You thought you knew who you were, and then you attended the book launch for I Am
A Human Being by Jackson Nieuwland… Suddenly, everything seemed possible.
👾 Join us for an evening of transformative poetry launching the debut collection of one
of Aotearoa’s most exciting emerging poets.
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Poetry Shelf noticeboard: The Kotahitanga Projects stand against racism

The Kotahitanga projects were uploaded last week and were launched in Kirikiriroa on Tuesday 14th.

 

Waikato artists are championing the fight for unity through works of art that speak powerful messages of hurt, sorrow, hope and strength. The creative works aim to spark crucial conversations against racism and fuel the narrative for kotahitanga

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Poetry Shelf poem: Paula Green’s ‘Twisted Citrus’

 

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Twisted Citrus

 

I have ordered a box of oranges

lovingly picked from the Gisborne trees

to juice with apples lemon and ginger

 

because my throat is spiked with nitpicking negativity

from politicians underplaying our collective successes

and overplaying our minor failures

 

because my heart is missing beats

at the thought of politicians opening borders

without defining safely

 

because my knees are weakened

by a woman claiming herself as the colour white

and that swamps don’t matter

 

because my head distrusts a leader

prepared to smash and grab

in order to gain power and get the country back

 

because I can’t sleep

because our safety might be under threat

because human decency is even more so

 

because

and so

 

I will unpack the box of oranges

and place in a glass bowl so their winter

goodness shines through

 

Paula Green

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry Shelf connections: John Gallas’s Unscythed’

 

Unscythed

 

By Paparahi Flat, just past the droving bridge,

a vasty field of uncut corn rattles, torn,

sere and straggle-flapping, up to Bonners Ridge.

 

It’s Winter now. I don’t know why, in ragged rot,

this tall and stalky race were left uncropped, bereft

of use or profit, bluntly clattering, forgot

 

and draggled-pale, their shreddy leaves like flags,

their cracked confusion like a beaten, huddled troop,

abandoned, standing still, in August’s rimey rags.

 

Their neighbour-whispers, nods and anxious wags betray,

it seems to me, some shabby incredulity

at some long luck, some higher husbandry that stays

 

their felling and their muddy end, some shrunk surprise

that they are left alone. I watch them gasp and click.

Their green-time gone, their salad-days long passed, they rise,

 

a little blankly, yes, a little like a crowd

achatter when the show is done and all the darkling

auditorium of earth an empty shroud

 

 

of wind and cold, but standing still. Perhaps this way

of dying, atom-slow, defying expectation

and the time, this easeful progress downwards, may,

 

with distant busyness, and blindness in the dark,

be mine. I leave the gate and cross the mudded bridge.

Above the track two slapping kahu wheel and cark.

 

I follow them to Brackall, past the flooded farm,

across the ice at Denham’s Dip to Birthday Creek,

and then the rimu’s shelter, and its sudden calm.

 

John Gallas

 

John Gallas is a NZ poet published by Carcanet. His 20 collections include The Song Atlas, Star City, The Little Sublime Comedy and 52 Euros. The Extasie (60 love poems) and Rhapsodies 1831 (translation of French poet Petrus Borel) to be published January and March 2021. He presently lives in Leicestershire. His a librettist, St Magnus Festival Orkney poet, Saxon Ship Project poet, Fellow of the English Association, tramper, biker and merry ruralist. Presently working on two sets of poem-prints (’18 Paper Resurrections’ and ‘Wasted by Whitemen’). ‘Unscythed’ written in Sefton, near Rangiora: home of bro.

Poetry Shelf poets on poems: Kay McKenzie Cooke and Rachel McAlpine read and respond to new poems

 

 

 

 

Kay McKenzie Cooke reads ‘No Longer Applies’ from Upturned, The Cuba Press, 2020

 

Kay McKenzie Cooke, Kai Tahu, Kati Mamoe, lives in Dunedin. Her fourth poetry collection Upturned has just been released from The Cuba Press. Her website and blog can be found here.

 

 

Upturned cover.jpg   How-to-Be-Old-cover

 

 

 

 

Rachel McAlpine reads ‘Reading a paper book’ from How to Be Old The Cuba Press 2020

 

Poet Rachel McAlpine lives in Wellington and is 80. She blogs, podcasts and draws (badly) as well as writing poems. How To Be Old, her latest collection of poems, will be launched by Fiona Kidman at Unity Books on Tuesday 21st July at 12.30 pm.

 

The Cuba Press