Exciting news from Jack Ross: I am delighted to announce that an agreement has been reached between Dr Tracey Slaughter, Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at Waikato University; Dr Jack Ross (me), the present managing editor of Poetry New Zealand; and Nicola Legat, head of Massey University Press, our publisher, for the future housing of the journal in the School of Arts at Waikato.
Outhwaite Park
and three cheers for the old neighbourhood
clawing its way through the dirt and the
new
houses that squat where the vacant lots reflected us
and three shadows
for the people we used to be, for
rice and dope and chilli olives, three shadows
for your silhouette, with its cigarette, for the sound
of a swing at midnight
the sound of a swing when the swinger is crying
three sighs for the stubborn authenticity of a face
harsh with streetlights
the horrors of a clarinet
devastating revelations
and for the lies, for the unmoved trees
which made it all seem underwater
for the melancholy see-saws and the warm air, for her dress
in the crooked oblong of doorway, her crooked dress
in the yellow of the door
the stumbling between houses, clutching salads and lovers
the bodies passed out on our floors
three tears
for the pale orange poppies
that bloom where you kissed me
bloom where you kissed me
and three tears
for the people we used to fuck
for backbones scraped on the washing machine
for the strangers who slept outside your bedroom door
and the schoolgirls and drag queens playing table tennis
and the cockroaches breeding in the microwave;
and the four am trains and six am buses,
mint icecreams, roofs of carparks, moulting hedgehogs
lit by the phonebox, the grass overrun by wirewoves
and rotting cardboard, my summer clothes, my love —
and tunnels we crept through at dawn, birds which sang blind in the dark
the refrigerator with its empty hum, before we borrowed credibility,
we had the insane faces of barbie dolls, the overpainted walls
and exploding demolition fires
we had stones in our shoes and delinquents in our ceilings
catching our prayers before they got to the sky,
and that bridge most of us
never jumped from, we were saving it for a rainy day,
yeah three tears for the old neighbourhood
clawing its way through the dirt
and the park
that I see and can never return to
that stage on which all our memories were undone,
and I am again in the wood chips at midnight
with my neck pressed against the silence of your mouth
and I am again on the swing at dawn
watching the policeman make his way across the grass
Olivia Macassey
appeared in New New Zealand Poets in Performance, ed. Jack Ross and Jan Kemp (Auckland: AUP, 2008)
Aimee-Jane Anderson-O’Connor:
I first heard this poem in Tracey Slaughter’s creative writing class, and I still remember the shiver down my spine. There were those neighbourhoods like mine right there in the lecture hall and this voice that talked a bit like how I talked: yeah. It was one of those poems that you read at the exact right moment, and it was the first that I printed out and carried with me.
It’s beautiful and sort of pining, but all the same gritted and stubborn. It’s got this sort of nostalgia, but with claws. The parties, but also the grubby silences after them, the confetti and the roaches and the cardboard rotting lonely in the corner. The impossibility of going back, but also the impossibility of wholly forgetting: ‘The park that I see and can never return to’. It was the first time I remember seeing repetition in a poem and really loving it. The first poem I read out loud again and again. That rhythm, that imagery, those final lines. The white space after them. Those echoes in the half-dark. I come back to this poem often.
Olivia Macassey‘s work has appeared in Takahē, Rabbit, Poetry New Zealand, Otoliths, Ngā Kupu Waikato, Landfall and elsewhere. Her books are The Burnt Hotel and Love in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.
Aimee-Jane Anderson-O’Connor was awarded the 2018 Charles Brasch Young Writers’ Essay Competition, and the 2017 Monash Prize for Emerging Writers. Her poem ‘Instructions’ was named by The Spinoff as the best poem of 2018, and she took up The Spinoff Review of Books Writer-in-Residence Award at the start of 2019. Her work has appeared in Starling, Mayhem, Brief, Poetry New Zealand, Landfall, Turbine, Mimicry, Min-a-rets, Sweet Mammalian, Sport and Verge. She writes thanks to the tireless support of some of the best people on this great watery rock.
ANNA IS DRIVING HER WHITE CAR & HER CAR IS CRYING
Home
Anna’s white car refuses to leave the driveway without shouting goodbye
to all of the titoki,
the camellias,
the silverbeet,
the letterbox,
the veranda,
the trampoline.
Desert
“Those flowers remind me of the blues,” says the white car,
“the sky is bruise bruise bruise,
the tussock is hair follicles of a blond boy.”
“What’s that couch doing on the roadside?” says Anna.
A battered brown leather three-seater.
Anna would wave out if there were people on the couch,
she would shout out “hey!” as she was driving past,
but there are no people on the couch,
no people with legs spaghettied,
no people with light-washed faces,
no people laughing at the television
or crunching Snax & kicking crumbs behind the cushions.
Motel
At the reception Anna pays two hundred & sixty dollars for the unit for two nights.
The motel room says, “Do you like my picture?”
“I like it that you’re clean,” says Anna, “I like it that the bed looks new,
there’s Sky TV, a bath, a toaster,
& the owner has given me a little bottle of milk.”
Anna sits down on the bed & looks at the acrylic painting:
“I like it that your picture is a beach scene,
but you’re beside a lake.
A beach scene is more impersonal than a lake scene,
because it’s not connected to the place we’re in;
it’s neither beautiful nor repulsive,
which is the perfect way for a motel picture to be.”
“But do you like me?” says the motel room.
“I like it that you represent an idea,” says Anna,
“you’re more an idea of a motel than an actual motel.
You’re sufficiently general not to make
any claims on me; I like that.
I like you for what you don’t remind me of,
rather than what you do remind me of,
but I don’t want to get too personal with you.”
The motel room does not tell Anna to “turn the fucking TV on”,
because it wants to delay the moment.
Pool
When Anna was a child she thought a monster lived in the lake
& when she & her sister splashed in the motel pool at night,
she imagined the monster rising & seizing her from the back
dark corner. These were the kinds of things that terrified her.
The motel, however, wouldn’t talk about bland things
to distract her like it does when she’s an adult,
instead it told her to look up from her Weetbix
at snakes corkscrewing around the curtain rails
& that the carpet would display its incisors,
chomp down on her toes & hold her there.
Lake
After Anna finishes talking to the motel room, she walks to the lake & along the path by the lakefront.
There are DANGER stones & stickmen falling off signs at the cliff lip.
Anna notices someone has scraped off some letters:
DANG, ANGE — DANCE!
The red bicycles chained to the fence beside the lake make Anna so sad.
She doesn’t know if it’s the paint
or the child’s bike lying on its chain
or the horror of discovering, when she steps closer,
the missing pedals, seats, handlebars,
which look samesame from far away, but become uncomfortably individual
as she zooms in.
Anna finds a spot by the lake edge to eat her kebab.
She concludes she will never find the perfect spot,
but the spot she finds is good enough,
against the trunk of a pohutukawa,
she sits & bites through her food.
As Anna eats the chicken, the beef, the hummus, the yoghurt, the lettuce, the chili sauce,
she watches a couple drop their clothes, watches the man run-hop that run-hop you do when the water’s cool. The woman’s wearing a black bikini, & after she stops shrieking, the man pulls her in close for warmth.
Anna takes a photo & posts it to Instagram. If you look carefully, you can spot the entwined couple carved into the cold water. Anna calls her husband. “Did you hear about Christchurch?” he asks.
Johanna Aitchison
Johanna Aitchison is a PhD candidate at Massey University, examining how contemporary innovative poets create cohesion in experimental verse. She was the 2019 Mark Strand Scholar at Sewanee Writers’ Conference in Tennessee, and her poetry has appeared, most recently, in Best Small Fictions 2019 and Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2020.
Whenever someone reviews a book, and they have spent time reading, contemplating and questioning, I am happy. Reviews connect me with books I might want to read. Poet Emer Lyons recently reviewed my mammoth, maze-like book Wild Honey: Reading NZ Women’s Poetry (MUP, 2019) for Landfall Online.
I loved Emer’s review; it confirmed there is no single way to write one. Reacting to a book that celebrates 201 poets, Emer highlights those she made strong connections with (Heather McPherson, Hinemoana Baker, Tusiata Avia, Rhian Gallagher). I love that. Part of my aim was to write a book that sparked poetry interests in the reader – to encourage them to track down particular poets and find out more. Her review invites you into the experience of a particular reader, a little like a reading diary. Yes, give me a personal review over a detached, jargon-driven piece any day. Emer makes it clear that a personal approach can also be a critical approach (she is currently doing a PhD at Otago University). Both the personal and the critical can feed off thought and feeling.
The second thing I loved about Emer’s review is that it got me musing. I said in Wild Honey I would like to see a non-Pākehā woman write a book about Māori and/or Pasifika women poets. This is not apologetic nor guilt ridden but me believing I am not the best person for the job. I can’t, for example, wait to see Selina Tusitala Marsh’s volume on Pasifika women poets. Yet it was essential that my poetry house welcomed widely: across cultures, time and place, and writing preferences. I entered the poetry of others, regardless of difference, and listened. Slowly, slowly, slowly. I can never take my reading travels for granted. I hate the idea of being an authority.
Emer rightly suggested I didn’t make similar points about lesbian poetry. I didn’t state, for example, that I would like to see a not-heterosexual woman write a volume that presented lesbian poetry in new and significant lights – because I wasn’t the best person for the job. And I did not write about lesbian poetry (or sexuality or gender) as a particular focus. It is easy to claim this as one of the many things I did not do in the book but Emer’s argument really got me thinking and I loved that. This is what the very best reviews can do.
I felt invigorated by this review and for that I am grateful.
NZ Poetry Shelf 