Transposium, Dani Yourukova, Auckland University Press, 2023
The readings
Dana reads ‘Dark Academia’
Dana reads ‘Date idea: you commit a crime and then I hunt you relentlessly for seventeen years in the single-minded pursuit of bringing you to justice’
Dana reads ‘Everything is going to be fine forever’
Dana reads ‘Love poem for the space you thought to occupy’
Dani Yourukova is a queer Wellington writer with great hair and a bad personality who completed their MA in creative writing at The International Institute of Modern Letters. Their poetry and essays have been published in places such as Starling, Sweet Mammalian, Bad Apple, takahē, Stasis, Turbine | Kapohau and The Spinoff. Their debut collection, Transposium, is part philosophy thesis, part ancient Greek psychosexual fever dream, and it was published by Auckland University Press in October 2023.
It happens every spring some infant bird, fat and feathered, on the vine beside my door abandoned by its mother like the inconsolable child in the supermarket aisle making its shrill insistent cry come back come back come back come back
either way, you, or make that I, want to say that’s enough, be quiet now she’ll soon be back. This morning I watched a video of children in Gaza, the boys in nappies carried tiny plastic guns in the street, the older boys held bigger ones their aiming eyes looking straight
towards the camera. In a refuge painted green girls with angel faces and sleekly plaited hair tell. They tell it’s the way their mothers’ heads were blown off in the fighting
better they say, to be martyrs, in Paradise all will be well, we will be happy there.
more to come/
Words are meant to sustain us. No longer. I tell this bird to cease its clamour just be quiet, its unbearable your mother is coming, she is only gone this little while, she will feed you soon, that racket is crowding out my day, so many voices come back come back it’s what mothers do
what do we do when there are no longer words to summon our mothers
Fiona Kidman (November, 2023)
Fiona Kidman DCNZM is a sometime poet, with six books of poems over the past fifty or so years. The last one was This change in the light (Penguin Random House 2015). Her several novels include This Mortal Boy which won the Jann Medlicott Ockham Book Award for Fiction in 2019.
Te Awa o Kupu, eds Vaughan Rapatahana and Kiri Piahana-Wong Penguin Books, 2023
In their introduction, Vaughan Rapatahana and Kiri Piahana-Wong, the editors of Te Awa o Kupu, introduce a river that “has flowed throughout Aotearoa for aeons, with its tributaries, cascades and currents. In places it is majestically serene, in places fierce and forbidding. It is forever mighty.”
It is a river of words, it is an oral river.
Te Awa o Kupu, an anthology of poetry and fiction by contemporary Māori writers, opens windows onto the word-currents for us, so we may delight in the river’s diversity, its heart, its presence. How fitting in the opening poem, beloved poet, Apirana Taylor, calls us onto the river with the poem ‘karanga’: “everyone together with laughter tears kōrero”.
This is an anthology to hold to your heart, at a time when we so desperately need books to hold to our hearts, with writing that shines a light on things that will comfort and things that will challenge. This is a book to carry with you through summer, to pull out in both shade and sunlight, to absorb the music, the sharp edges, the past and the present, the searing beauty. This is a book to celebrate, and what better way than in the Poetry Shelf Cafe with a reading, and so with grateful thanks to the poets who contributed, welcome.
Kiri Piahana-Wong (Ngāti Ranginui) is a poet and editor, and she is the publisher at Anahera Press. Kiri lives in Whanganui with her family.
Vaughan Rapatahana (Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Te Whiti)
Vaughan reads ‘hā pīwakawaka’
Vaughan reads ‘Rangiaowhia’
hā pīwakawaka
hā pīwakawaka kei whea koe ināianei taku hoa iti?
he manu me he waha rōreka he whaikōrero pēnei i he waiata, te wā katoa
he aha tō kōrero e hoa? he aha te tikanga o tēnei kōwetewete karawhiti?
kāore ahau he mōhio nō te mea kua nunumi kē koe ki tētahi atu he wāhi
kāore ahau he kite i tō whatu kanapa kāore ahau he rongo i tō pūrākauroa, kua ngaro koe ināianei me kei te ngere ahau i a koe,
hā pīwakawaka kei whea koe ināianei?
[hey fantail where are you now my little friend?
a bird with a dulcet voice an oratory like a song, all the time
what is your story friend? what is the meaning of this one-sided conversation?
I do not know because you have already disappeared to another place
I cannot see your glistening eyes I cannot hear your long tale, you are lost now & I am missing you
hey fantail where are you now?]
Rangiaowhia, 1864
[I pāhuatia ō mātou tūpuna i Rangiaowhia – our ancestors were killed unguarded and defenceless at Rangiaowhia – Tom Roa, 2014].
ko wai e mōhio mo ngāwhakapiko o Rangiaowhia? kāore te maha ki tēnei whenua ināianei. ko wai e mahara ngā tamariki mura kāore te maha o tēnei rohe. ko wai e whakapono te kupu o ngā mōrehu? he tokoiti noa o ngā tāngata i noho ki waho tērā tāone.
Auē.
Auē.
Auē.
ki ngā hāhi hoki, ki ngā hāhi hoki, te wāhi puaroa; te wāhi whakaruruhau – tēnei mahi whakamataku o ngā pākehā. tēnei tārukenga nā ngā tāngata mā. kia mōhio ki tātou katoa.
[Note: At dawn on February 21, 1864, armed cavalry, followed by foot troops, charged into the settlement of Rangiaowhia, whose terrified, startled and screaming residents ran for their lives in every direction… Rangiaowhia was a place of refuge for women, children and the elderly. It was an open village, lacking fortifications or defences of its own… For the Kingitanga supporters urged to fight in a ¡§civilised¡¨ manner, just like the British, the assault on Rangiaowhia was an almost incomprehensible act of savagery. They had complied with requests to move their families out of harm’s way, only for the troops, to deliberately target them in the most horrific manner possible. – Vincent O’Malley, 2017].
Translation from te reo Māori to English –
who knows about the murders at Rangiaowhia? not the majority in this country nowadays. who remembers the burned children? not the majority in this district. who believes the word of the survivors? only a minority of people outside that town.
alas
alas
alas.
in the churches also in the churches also. the sacred place, the safe place. this terrible deed of the pākehā this massacre by the white men. we should all know.
Vaughan Rapatahana (Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Te Whiti) commutes between homes in Hong Kong, Philippines, and Aotearoa New Zealand. He is widely published across several genre in both his main languages, te reo Māori and English and his work has been translated into Bahasa Malaysia, Italian, French, Mandarin, Romanian, Spanish. He is the author and editor/co-editor of well over 40 books.
He earned a Ph.D from the University of Auckland with a thesis about Colin Wilsonand writes and lectures extensively about Wilson. More, Rapatahana is a critic of the agencies of English language proliferation and the consequent decimation of indigenous tongues, inaugurating and co-editing English language as Hydra and Why English? Confronting the Hydra (Multilingual Matters, Bristol, UK, 2012 and 2016) and several academic papers accordingly.
He is a poet, with ten collections published in Hong Kong SAR; Macau; Philippines; USA; England; France, India, Australia, and Aotearoa New Zealand. Atonement (UST Press, Manila) was nominated for a National Book Award in Philippines (2016); he won the inaugural Proverse Poetry Prize the same year; and was included in Best New Zealand Poems (2017). He also writes short fiction and has had two novels published.
Rapatahana is one of the few World authors who consistently writes in and is published in te reo Māori (the Māori language). It is his mission to continue to do so and to push for a far wider recognition of the need to write and to be published in this tongue. His latest poetry collection written exclusively in te reo Māori (with English language ‘translations’) is titled te pāhikahikatanga/incommensurability and was published by Flying Islands Books in Australia, 2023.
Relatedly, he is series editor of two key books published by Penguin Random House in 2023, Te Awa o Kupu and Ngā Kupu Wero, which are compilations of firstly, poetry and short fiction, and secondly of non-fiction pieces, written by ngā kaituhi Māori over recent years.
Stacey Teague (Ngāti Maniapoto/Ngāpuhi) is a writer, editor and teacher living in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. She is a publisher at Tender Press.
Anne-Marie Te Whiu (Te Rarawa)
Anne-Marie reads ‘Blood Brothers’
Anne-Marie reads ‘Smells Like Colonial Spirit’
Anne-Marie Te Whiu (Te Rarawa) is an Australian-born Māori, currently living on unceded Gadigal lands. She is a weaver, poet, editor and cultural producer. She is a 2023 recipient of the Clothing Stores artist studios at Carriageworks and in 2021 she was a Next Chapter Fellow recipient with The Wheeler Centre. She is editor of the upcoming anthology, Woven (Magabala, Feb 2024) and her debut poetry collection, Mettle will be published with the University of QLD Press in the not too distant future. Website
Kay McKenzie Cooke (Kāi Tahu Kāti Māmoe)
Kay reads ‘Tuturau’
Kay McKenzie Cooke (Kāi Tahu Kāti Māmoe) was born in Murihiku. Her home is now in Ōtepoti, but Murihiku will always be her turangawaewae. She has four published poetry collections and two independently published novels, both set in Murihiku.
Tania Roxborogh (Ngāti Porou, Ngāti Mutunga o Wharekurī)
Tania reads ‘Rapurapu / Searching’
Nō Ngāti Porou me Ngāti Mutunga o Wharekurī ngā tīpuna o tōku māmā Nō Kōtirani, nō Tīamana mātou hoki. Ko Tippery (Ireland) te wāhi o ngā tīpuna o tōku pāpā. I whānau mai au ki Ōtautahi engari i tipu ake au i wīwā i wāwā. E noho ana mātou ki Waihora ināianei. Ko Tania Kelly Roxborogh taku ingoa. He kaiako ahau, he kaituhi hoki (ngā pukapuka tamariki, rangatahi hoki) I am of Ngāti Porou, Ngāti Mutunga o Wharekurī, Scottish, German, and Irish descent.
I was born in Christchurch but have lived all over the country. We live out at Lincoln now. I’m a veteran English teacher and an award winning writer (mostly books for children and young people) including the 2021 Margaret Mahy Book of the Year Charlie Tangaroa and the Creature from the Sea.
I have just started a new position at Te Tūhuru o te Mātauranga (Ministry of Education) as an NCEA Implementation Facilitator. My role at the ministry is to support kura and kaiako to implement Change 2 of the NCEA Change Programme, i.e. mana ōrite mō te mātauranga Māori I am also studying part time – working on a PhD via Massey looking at ways to help teacher decolonise the teaching of Shakespeare.
After work time is spent with the most beautiful and cleverest border collie in the country (Coach – named after Coach Taylor from ‘Friday Night Lights’), reading books and articles, writing, listening to podcast (political and books, te reo/te ao Māori content) watching tv, (especially mystery, crime and complex thrillers), because I love story and am fascinated by people.
Remember Me: Poems to Learn by Heart from Aotearoa New Zealand, edited by Anne Kennedy, Auckland University Press, 2023
What a wonderful idea for a poetry anthology, gathering together poems to learn by heart, and bearing such a resonant title. I am reminded of reciting poems I love and of how I hold talisman poems close to my heart. The word heart is rich in possibilities as it becomes pulse, life force, aroha, hub, nub, humaneness. I am thinking pulse, aroha and life force might form a holy trinity of poetry.
Anne Kennedy, much loved poet and fiction writer, with the help of Robert Sullivan as consulting editor te reo Māori, has brought her astute ear and eye (and heart) to the job of anthologist. It is no easy task trawling through decades of poetry, across place, style, voice and subject matter, to pare back the list of poems you love. Anne has assembled a fine array of voices, poems that are beloved by many, and a list, as she says, she hopes we will add to in our ongoing readings.
So many sublime poems are gathered here. Charismatic poems that hold rewards for your ear, as well as your mind and heart. I am musing that a poem sometimes resembles a small pebble you hold in your hand and take comfort from it, a poem such as Airini Beautrais‘s ‘Charm for the Winter Solstice’ and ‘Charm to Get Safely Home’. Here is the meeting ground of music and light shimmering. Or Arapera Hineira Blank‘s ‘Dreamtime’ with its equally sublime light and musical effects.
Some poets strike chords right from the beginning, and it is not a matter of rote learning, it is of heart learning. Maybe even heart leaning. I am thinking of how I fell in love with the poetry of Bill Manhire the instant I read him, and how some of his collections, say Wow, Lifted and The Victims of Lightning, have had such a profound and enduring effect, and how some of the poems are talismans I hold close for all kinds of reasons. I can remember hearing him read ‘Hotel Emergencies’ in the Titirangi Hall during Going West once, and the audience did an audible gasp.
Bill kindly recorded three of his poems in the collection so you can listen too.
Bill reads ‘Kevin’
Bill reads ‘Huia’
Bill reads ‘Little Prayers’
I think, too, of the first time I heard Mohamed Hassan read in Ōtautahi Christchurch and how that talismanic effect was imbued in his subsequent debut collection, National Anthem. And how I hold that collection, and that listening experience, to heart. Mohamed has kindly recorded a poem, a poem that matters so very much, so that you can listen too.
Mohamed reads ‘The Guest House’
Yes, we would all make different lists of poems we learn and hold by heart, but I have zero interest in how my list would differ, because what chimes so sweetly with me is how this book reunites me with poems that have given me goosebumps. Here are a few: Bub Bridger‘s ‘Wild Daisies’, Cilla McQueen‘s ‘Joanna’, Hone Tuwhare‘s ‘No Ordinary Sun’, Ursula Bethell‘s ‘Detail’, Elizabeth Smither‘s ‘Here Come the Clouds’, Ruth Dallas‘s ‘Milking Before Dawn’, Fleur Adcock‘s ‘For a Five-Year-Old’. I am thinking of Kiri Piahana-Wong‘s ‘This is it’, Anna Jackson‘s ‘The treehouse’, Tusiata Avia‘s ‘Ode to da life’, Robert Sullivan‘s ‘Voice carried my family, their names and stories’, Sue Wootton‘s ‘Magnetic South’, Jenny Bornholdt‘s ‘Wedding Song’, Johanna Aitchison‘s ‘Miss Dust loses her key’, Dinah Hawken‘s ‘Pure Science’. Ah.This is what poetry that sticks.
I am thinking of the sublime range of collections being published by young poets in recent years. How, as my blog attests, I am falling in love with so many of them. Picking up Remember Me and I am loving again Jiaqiao Liu‘s ‘that hand is for holding’, Fardowsa Mohamed‘s ‘Tuesday’, essa may ranapiri‘s ‘Silence, Part 2’, Ruby Solly‘s ‘How to Meet Your Future Husband in His Natural Habitat’, Nina Mingya Powles‘s ‘Last Eclipse’.
I am returning to the poems of Chris Tse, Anne Kennedy, Selina Tusitala Marsh and Michele Leggott, and savouring how they have stuck so sweetly and sharply.
Why is that a poem sticks, that this is the poem you remember, this is the poem you need to remember? It might be an idea, a spike, a feeling, an inviting space, it might be a sequence of musical chords, a startle of mnemonic words, a comfort blast. I am reminded, how when the world is so heart-blasting awry, and I cannot stop thinking of the Gaza Strip, when inhumanity is so devastatingly ugly, or of the Ōtautahi Mosque massacres, I hold Mohamed’s ‘The Guest House’ and Bill’s ‘Little Prayers’ close. I learn by heart. I mourn by heart.
Holding Remember Me, I am thinking the poetry of Aotearoa is in such very good heart, that there are many ways of holding it close, just as there are many ways of sharing it, writing it, reading it, learning it, loving it. Let us speak. Let us recite. Let us mourn. Let us challenge and comfort and celebrate. Let us find courage in what words, in what poetry, in what we, can do and be.
Recipient of a Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement, Anne Kennedy is the author of four novels, a novella, anthologised short stories and five collections of poetry. She is the two-time winner of the New Zealand Book Award for Poetry, for her poetry collections Sing-Song and The Darling North. Her latest book, The Sea Walks into the Wall, was shortlisted for the 2022 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards.
The sea was the whole of the dream and the full world of sound to the pair in the tent, their heads on the dune.
With eyes closed, up on the dune, waiting for the unknown dream, the sea was all the sound to the pair, who heard, in the sea-sound rushing up the dune, other sounds that were not the sea, that were so deep within the sound of the sea as to be the very dream of the sea, and, rushing up the blushing dune, became the dream of the pair.
As well, they heard sounds that were not the sea, that were surrounded, dissolved into the dream of the sea, that became the sea to the pair, just as the sea, blushing up the sullen dune, became the sound of the dream of the pair, the sound of things that were not the sea, but fully within the sea, the whole of the dream and the full world of sound.
All sound promises motion, and all things that move, move together, as the dark sea face moved with the wind, moved with the sound of the sea, and the sand stripped from the constant dune moved with the breath of the tent, moved with the full world of sound, led the dance of the dream of the pair.
The dream was the whole of the pair, the promise of the sea to the pair, and the pair in the tent were the dream of the sea, rolling its deep sea-dream up the calling dune, filling the tent with the whole of the dream and the full world of sound.
The dream of the pair was the shivering of the tent, the lightheaded dune losing substance before the sound of the sea. The touching skin of the pair was like dune and sea. It was the the whole of the dream and the full world of sound.
Ruben Mita
Ruben Mita is a poet, musician and ecology student in Pōneke. He has been published in multiple outlets and won the 2022 Story Inc. IIML Poetry Prize. He likes fungi, fires and some noises.
i am squatting next to a small girl squatting next to an old woman squatting in the ruins
everything is ruins as far as we can seebut we are looking at a tiny bud growing
if everyone in the world gives it a drop of water it will survive, the old woman whispers
if everyone in the world chooses peace, it will grow says the small girl
if everyone in the world loves each bud, we will find hope, i whisper
we are holding hands we are singing someone is joining in we are standing together hand in hand tears to tears wound to wound heart to heart and it is humanity
Takahē 107 is published by the Takahē Collective Trust with Zoë Meager as Fiction Editor, Erik Kennedy as Poetry Editor, Andrew Paul Wood as Arts Editor, Alie Benge as Essays Editor, Sile Mannion Reviews Editor, with Zoë and Andrew editing comics. That gives you an idea of the terrific range of material each issue offers.
In her editorial, the chair of the the Takahē Collective Trust, Anna Scaife, writes of the disappointment at not receiving Creative New Zealand Funding, but how that makes the team even more determined to provide a platform ‘to support the literary arts in Aotearoa’.
Things are changing at Takahe. Eric Stretton, an active member of the collective, writes:
“Takahē magazine is shifting to solely digital publishing from December 2023. This is a pragmatic response to funding shortages, but also stems from our determination to continue our kaupapa: showcasing diverse new and emerging voices alongside the work of established practitioners.
We’re excited that each issue will now be free to read online, bringing our art, poetry, short fiction, reviews, comics, interviews, and essays to an even broader audience. Unchanged is our commitment to high quality, to paying contributors fairly and supporting them throughout their careers, and offering feedback and development to our contributors and staff in as many ways as possible.
Our independent spirit has kept us in continuous publication since 1989, and we have a whole lot more mahi and innovation planned to uplift Aotearoa artists and writers into the future. Our independent spirit has kept us in continuous publication since 1989, and we have a whole lot more mahi and innovation planned to uplift Aotearoa artists and writers into the future.”
Takahe 107 includes a guest fiction writer, Dominic Hoey, whose ‘School Road’, is pitch perfect in voice, confession, memory, with a pierce-in-the-gut ending, the kind of ending that loops you back to the beginning so you can experience the whole sweet effect again. Plus a guest poet, Khadro Mohamed. Kadro’s poetry is a joy to read: haunting, movement rich, with sweet cadence, as she draws upon who she is, upon place, ancestors, her mother, things missed. Ah, such an uplift. Both guests were highlights of the issue for me. Takahe 107 hosts a range of writers, mostly local, but a number from overseas, familiar names and those new to me. To celebrate the creative energies, the diverse connections and styles, five poets read their poems for you.
Wendy BooydeGraaff reads ‘Reclamation’
Wendy BooydeGraaff’s poetry has been included in Cutleaf, About Place Journal, Flyover Country, Chapter House Journal, the Not Very Quiet anthology (Recent Work Press), and the upcoming Under Her Eye anthology (Black Spot Books). Her fiction and essays have been included in Phoebe, X-R-A-Y, and Ninth Letter online. She is the author of the picture book Salad Pie (Ripple Grove Press/Chicago Review Press), and her middle grade short fiction will be included in the upcoming Haunted States of America anthology (Godwin Books). Born and raised on a fruit farm in Ontario, Canada, she now lives in suburban Michigan, United States.
Charlotte Simmonds reads ‘Biological Determinist’
Charlotte Simmonds is an autistic writer, editor and translator in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Their work has appeared in, among others, Ōrangohau | Best New Zealand Poems, The Iowa Review, Cordite and Landfall. Their book The World’s Fastest Flower, a collection of poetry and lyric prose, is available from Te Herenga Waka University Press.
tokorima reads ‘me he korokoro Heteralocha acutirostris.
tokorima Taihuringa is an Aotearovian.
Philip reads ‘The City Under Rain’
Philip Armstrong teaches writing and literary studies at the University of Canterbury. His poetry collection, Sinking Lessons, was published by Otago University Press in 2020. You can find out more about his work here.
Paul reads ‘Rain at Killerton’
As well as Takahē, Paul Connolly’s poetry has appeared in many publications worldwide. He is currently seeking a publisher for his novel, Work, which was longlisted for the Bridport Prize.
aching after all that 6-3-2 1-1-6 could’ve outed your phone number hard gone viral with my aching for a reason haven’t memorised it won’t can’t be bothered 2 slabs of lasagne for 2 strong arms useless dream of an- other woman no sex just saving her from something you said talk soon that was 5 days ago almost 25 now & may is full of birth- days not mine my sister’s & mother’s i remember being my mother’s age see you soon that was 5 years ago pinkie ache blame the glove teaspoon in a dishwasher remember wide air fish- hook proof of anything at least 1 person really wanted seal the piñata & there’s love in that & i have some weird faith in that juvenile arousal flame before the bones grow up bird crap wind- shield wipe a phoney ventricle fuck active recovery what actual fool promises to jog on the spot i wanna leap year round the clock round- house kick my want candelabra through this ache & what app isn’t a second peek at god?
Amy Marguerite
Amy Marguerite (she/her) is a poet and essayist living in Tāmaki Makaurau. She completed an MA in Creative Writing at the International Institute of Modern Letters in 2022 and is currently working towards the publication of her debut poetry collection. Her writing can be found here and on her blog.
One day this week I was feeling so steamrollered, unable to answer emails, to post the review of Morgan Bach’s poetry collection, a book I had spent two weeks loving and reviewing. It took every ounce of strength to move. I could barely function. But then I read an interview with Sam Neill where he talked about his cancer experience, his new memoir and more importantly his life experience. I connected with so much he said, resparking, rebooting. I also did this with Dai Henwood when he talked about his cancer experience on the radio recently. Sam said he was more interested in talking about life than about his time with cancer. Living. Doing things. I get that.
For ten years I never mentioned my health issues publicly, and rarely to friends. But when I was about to have the transplant, I decided it was time to speak openly. Partly as an explanation for reduced activity and partly as a way of sharing my choices and challenges with others also facing tough health situations. I did the Listener interview and I’ve posted updates on the blog. I have acknowledged deep gratitude for the stellar team who care for me at Auckland Hospital’s Haematology Department.
Since my bone marrow transplant last year, and the subsequent onset of Graft Versus Host Disease, I have held some key daily mantra close: live one day at a time, focus on what you can do, find things to do that give you joy each day, mute toxic voices, say no. I find it hard saying no to requests, not answering emails promptly, and I find it even harder not being able to review all the poetry and children’s books I get. Especially when it feels like both categories get less review attention (children’s books and authors especially so!). So many sublime books are being published in Aotearoa, and I so love finding and sharing my idiosyncratic pathways through them. Some days I yearn to work at my old pace.
Toxic voices are an equally hard challenge. I’m also finding it heartsmashing to think a nation of families might die through enforced thirst while unbearable bloodshed is escalating on all sides. I find it hard to bear politics that are blind to the wellbeing of our planet, to the wellbeing of people across all cultures, societies, classes, locations. The word community feels like a key word.
This week my body has carried the weight of such heavy thought and grief and speechlessness. How to weather my myriad symptoms that are on an indefinite timeline and that pin me to a state of disfunction? How to weather global grief?
I am going back to the notion of one precious day. Here I am this morning reading Ruby Tui’s picture book for children and it is so darn uplifting as she writes of her child self, reaching out to the girl crying next to her with her spilled ice cream, picking up the rugby ball and running. I am grateful to Sam and Dai for speaking and sharing their stories with us, I am grateful to the aid workers, the cancer researchers, the peace brokers, the writers and publishers in Aotearoa who lift our hearts, the musicians who share the gift of music, the people who have sent me kind and gentle emails, the nurse on the end of the phone, the health workers working such long tough hours, the writers who contribute to both my blogs, the people who are so very patient with me, for my partner and daughters.
Poetry Box and Poetry Shelf are a joy patch in my day, along with reading and baking bread, cooking simple meals, and daydreaming. I may not keep to my schedules, but I will keep celebrating what words can do. One precious day at a time.
Middle Youth, Morgan Bach, Te Herenga Waka University Press, 2023
Each poetry collection I read at the moment seems to widen the scope of what poems can do. When I read Hannah Mettner’s collection Saga, I began musing on poetry as mesh. Fascinating. Yet poetry can be and do a universe of things, and it is incredibly limiting to anchor a book in one framing device. But here I am captivated by how Morgan Bach’s new collection is, amongst other things, poetry as fire. And there it is in the blurb on the back: ‘The poems of Middle Youth look directly into fire’.
Middle Youth is driven by the searing blaze of a world under threat. Think global warming, war, plague, floods, famine, the rich and the poor, the dispossessed and the the abused. Hierarchies, downright ignorance, racism. Such a global blaze, such sharp edges of catastrophe, but Morgan embeds the flame in hints, sparks, tongues, as well as widening the molten implications of climate change.
I read: ‘a business man’s burning fingers’, ‘peripheral glimpses of fire’, ‘a woman breathes fire’, the ‘extinguished flame’ in a cocktail, ‘our unwanted thoughts / just below combustion point’, ‘California is burning’, ‘In Iceland people have gathered / to watch fire pouring from a fissure’.
The heat creeps up on you. It becomes a shared rage along with a wallop of hopelessness and veins of hope. I am reading the astonishing poem, ‘I could love you for a moment /but there is a democracy / to think of’, and I am in awe at the searing marriage of understatement and knife in the heart, ellipsis and the brutal present, exquisite melody and piercing image.
the dark is no longer dark but spotted in gold like the hide of a cheetah fast approaching
The ubiquitous presence of fire is traced in motifs and subject matter, but it also becomes a form of tone, the heat of speech, the self under threat, the refusal to look away. And now I am reading poetry as skin, the skin of my reading singed, a barometer, a register of helplessness. The skin of the poem, that scaldable barrier, that fragile layer, sunburnt, allergic. In ‘heat death‘, Morgan writes: ‘Within weeks / my skin is dust on the shelves / of my new room’.
I haven’t had a poetry collection affect me like this for an eon. You could also see this through the lens of mesh. There are layers of connection and connecting. The speaker has her tarot cards read and goes driving in the country to eat sandwiches by a lake with friends. She celebrates a birthday, gets vaccinated, pays her pension, furnishes her living space, loves and is loved. The penultimate poem, ‘to proceed within a trap (v)’, begins with the speaker and three generations of her family watching the Beatles documentary. It ends with an approaching New Year, the conundrum of how to live the weeks leading up to it, and before marking the new year as ‘fresh silence’, we read:
Did the future always gape? An empty room, requiring a rhythm, a melody
to appear from somewhere, the air to fill with a scaffolding from out of the minds
of people with enough ego to give the rest of us something
to look at, to sing along to.
Middle Youth (yes as opposed to middle age) got me musing on whether I can view flame as beauty, comfort, warmth, light or as devastation, discomfort, disintegration, darkness. Or both. Is it possible to look upon the future as the empty room that we will furnish with words and actions, restoration and healing? Ah. What to do when we wake up and step into the vociferous rooms of the day? Middle Youth is poetry at its skin tearing, provoking out of slumber, flame sparking best.
Morgan Bach was the recipient of the 2013 Biggs Family Prize in Poetry, and her first book, Some of Us Eat the Seeds, was published in 2015. Some of her recent work appears in Turbine, The Spinoff and Best New Zealand Poems. In 2014, with Hannah Mettner and Sugar Magnolia Wilson, she co-founded the online poetry journal Sweet Mammalian.
Cover painting: Karla Marchesi, The Sense of an Ending
NZ Poetry Shelf 