The Postman

This cargo of confessions, messages,
demands to pay, seem none of my concern;
you could say I’m a sort of go-between
for abstract agents trusting wheels will turn,
for censored voices stilled in space and time.

Some people stop me for a special letter;
one or two will tell me, if it’s fine, that I
have picked the right job for this kind of weather.
A boy who understands life somewhat better
asks where postmen live – if not our office, why?

The work is quite routine but kindnesses
and awkward problems crop up now and then:
one old lady sometimes startles passers-by
claiming she is blameless as she hisses
at people in her reminiscent ken;

she startled me as well the other day,
gave me a glass of lemonade, and slipped
me a letter to deliver – ‘Don’t you say
a word to anyone, it’s no concern
of theirs, or yours.’ Nor no more it was, except

here was this letter plainly marked ‘To God’
and therefore insufficiently addressed.
I cannot stamp it now ‘Return to sender’
for addressee and sender maybe One. The best
thing is burn it, to a black rose He’ll remember.

Gordon Challis
from Building, Caxton Press, 1963

It is February as I write this and New Year’s resolutions whether conscious or otherwise have bitten the dust, though as always, my intentions were good. One of those was to write more letters. I bought a nice pad at Whitcoulls, I’ve envelopes and stamps, a collection of postcards found in an op shop and my Pelikan fountain pen, and to my credit I did write and post some letters over the holidays.

So, when looking through Jenny Bornholdt and Greg O’Brien’s anthology of New Zealand poetry for a favourite poem I stopped at ‘The Postman’. A nicely turned and gentle poem and reminder of the age of post men and women which I fear is drawing to a close.

I particularly like the question put to the postman, asking where postmen live? For a moment, I saw a barracks, with uniforms neatly folded on the end of bunks, and whistles hung within easy reach. Nearby, a shed for bikes and other paraphernalia of the postal era. If this sounds like pure nostalgia for the heyday of letter writing and posties, that is exactly what it is.

Peter Ireland

A fan of the letter, Peter Ireland works at the National Library, where he helps with the Poet Laureate.

Poet Gordon Challis (1932-2018) was born in a Welsh family in Birmingham, England. He arrived in New Zealand in 1953 and worked as a postman in Wellington and studied psychology and social work at Victoria University. After some years working as a psychologist in Australia and New Zealand, he retired in 1988 and moved to Nelson and Golden Bay.

Four Gordon Challis poems at The Spinoff
Cliff Fell obituary at NZ Books
Best NZ Poems, ‘walking an imaginary dog’