Tag Archives: MIchael jackson

Poetry Shelf Spring Season: Peter Ireland picks poems

‘Otherwhere’

To choose a small selection of New Zealand poems you like? This sounds straightforward, but I didn’t find it so. There is no shortage of poems in that category, plenty of poetry books to take from my shelves, and abundant resources to refer to, but I found no easy way in. It felt as though poems attach to particular moments, have a context which resist relocation. Where to begin then?

Sarah Broom’s collections Tigers at Awhitu and Gleam came to mind, as they often do, and so that’s where I started from. I chose ‘tender’ from Gleam; a spare, delicate filament of a feeling and pain to represent both books. Broom heads the poem, ‘Cohen,’ in Gleam with the L.C. line – ‘there is a crack in everything, that is how the light gets in.’ To this light I would add a description of the value of poetry by Anna Jackson, ‘to hold open a space for feeling.’ Sarah Broom’s poetry certainly revealed both.

The heading for my selection, however, comes from the title poem of Michele Leggott’s Mirabile Dictu. A book of fifty-six poems written during the time she was the first New Zealand Poet Laureate and, in a period, when her world became progressively dark; became an ‘otherwhere.’ But that is neither a remote nor dark place, rather, full of light and glowing with a love for life.

The otherwhere of Hilaire Kirkland’s ‘Observations ii’ is a starker landscape, an unflinching confession of feeling and desire. Poetry hot to the touch. Childhood is the otherwhere of Iain Lonie in his poem and as I read it, it’s the poet on the beach returning to his childhood home; while the poet remains watching him go. Sad.

Otherwhere is the point and place of Michael Jackson’s poetry. A traveller at home where he finds himself – and to quote the poet, there writing poems that ‘are like windows that give us a glimpse of a world we travel through all too quickly.’

Peter Olds is not facing blindness or death, nor coming to terms with place, rather he is looking for something in the otherwhere of a second-hand shop. He is not sure of what but returns home with a wetsuit to hang up in the cupboard behind the vacuum cleaner.  


the poems

tender

when I look around me
the world is very bright

it is so light and shiny
that my long bones shiver

I am not quite sure
I have what it takes
to stay alive in the world

I need to stay very still
and let the air move past
and through me

I am tired and tender

when my limbs meet each other
crossing on my lap
I want to cry
with the pleasure
of resting them

when tears come
my bones turn to water

and I sleep

Sarah Broom

from Gleam, Auckland University Press, 2013. Published with kind permission from the Sarah Broom estate.

Mirabile dictu

imagine    the world goes dark
a bowl of granite or a stone bird
incised by tools the nature of which
is unknown  just that they are metal
and therefore from otherwhere
just that the weight of the bowl
precludes light and lightness
of thought    my feet take a path
I can no longer see  my eyes
won’t bring me the bird  only now
has my hand found the stones
I could add to the smooth interior
of my despair  the world goes dark
I look into the eyes of my stone bird
hammers before memory
silence and the world is not

 

that is no country
for the unassigned  smell of sunlight
on skin in a darkened room   cabbage tree
shadows dancing in the hologram
on the ceiling     not here
and not there   an in-box the size
of a house    I bury my face
in his neck  breathe in
butter taste of summer corn
sweet plums an apricot almost
perfect in its remembrance
I took the road to anhedonia
forgetting the child on my hip
burying his face in my shoulder
I am that child only that child
looking into the eyes of stone

 

she flinches
because my hands surprise her
feeling for the soft coat the place to clip
lead to collar     she doesn’t see too well
an old dog going deaf but selectively
the nose now only nine thousand times
more acute than mine    the back legs
beginning to fold but still good
for a tip toe raid on the cat’s plate
look at her  black pearl an old lady
out for a walk in the sunshine   slow
and we go into the shadows   stumbling
sometimes on a stone step   the footing
problematic but the maps still delivering
coordinates and forecasts    little dog
black weight on the bed at midnight
love uncloses your eyes   the stone bird
is blind and something I must face
sits behind it making a noise like water

 

descant on the other madrigal
power tools shaping wood and stone
machining a filigree that falls like moonlight
on the workshop floor    did I dream this
or did I walk out of the house
asking forgiveness and unable to see
anything but my feet entering the shadow
hearing small waves fall over themselves
at the water’s edge    now my hand
finds the bird and my fingers trace
the incisions in fantastica replica
not here and not there     an otherwhere
pouring itself through the gap    

 

Michele Leggott

from Mirabile Dictu, Auckland University Press, 2009

Observations ii

daily the neighbour’s dog is withdrawn to the park
ignores his mistress and courts her
the mongrel in a canine pas-de-deux
I have a dog most like to this which bites the heels of men

I must subdue it then.

my old dog blindly whimpers in the dark
hunts for its bounding hare in dreams
through my thorned channels and deep streams
and twitches bloodwet at my feet till I am rudely woken

so I shall whip it then.

I have a hound too weak and too afraid to bark
which cringes for the flesh that I withhold
and aching nuzzles me when nights are cold
till I allow my animal to feed and thrive again

it will devour me then.

Hilaire Kirkland

from Blood Clear & Apple Red, Wai-te-ata Press, 1981, also in An Anthology Of New Zealand Poetry in English, eds Jenny Bornholdt, Gregory O’Brien, Mark Willliams, Oxford University Press, 1997

The house of childhood

I watched you walk along that mile of beach
to the house at the end of the beach

the home I’d pointed out, the house of childhood.
How well I remembered the garden, its grey stone wall
the stone rest in the garden, overlooking the sea.

And so you set off bravely, to walk that mile
staggering now and then in the sand that ran to you until
the sun blazed overhead, to the right the sea shimmered
I watched you walking that mile, your figure grew smaller and smaller.

Out of the sea’s shimmer came the faint crying
of voices subdued by the sea and the view.
I remembered the stone rest, the thyme scent of the garden
and beyond the stone wall, the sea splashing in the evening.

I pointed all this out to you, this house of my childhood
and watched you set off towards it, staggering slightly
not looking back, growing smaller and smaller
until you passed into the sand, into the stone wall

and under the garden, the earth of the garden, under the sea.

Iain Lonie

from A Place to Go on from: The Collected Poems of Iain Lonie, ed. David Howard, Otago University Press, 2015. Published with kind permission from the Iain Lonie estate.

Three Key West Poems

Between the satisfaction of frivolity
and the austerity of exile, I had to choose
and it has cost me my life’s happiness

– José Martí

1: Hemingway House

He had everything, or so it seemed,
the biggest house, the largest
swimming pool, one best seller
after another, money no object,
a writing room above the Carriage House
in which a lesser writer
might aspire to genius,
heads of trophy animals,
shelves of books,
backpack and barometer,
a table for his portable Remington,
and ever the lighthouse in his line of sight.

But the photos of the old man reeling in
500-pound sailfish or marlin from Pilar,
his custom-built fishing-boat, belie
the hazardous currents
and heavy seas he could not quell,
the one opponent he could not KO
in his backyard boxing ring
or drown in his blue pool,
something impervious to drink
and fame, that it would take a shotgun
in Idaho to kill.

What demonic ripples cross
our minds as we drift through his house,
now a national monument,
peering at photographs of his four wives
and his aging face,
the carved bedstead he bought from Spain,
the six-toed cats whose lineage
thrives beneath the Christmas and Traveler’s palms,
the banyan and flamboyants
on Whitehead Street, where after the tour
we walk to where a bollard
marks the southernmost point in the United States
and across the water, embargoed
and invisible, the island that Cuban exiles
once waited to reclaim.

2: The Idea of Wallace Stevens at Key West

I am walking beside the sea that fluttered its
empty sleeves and whose dark voice spoke
to one who made it an image of inconstancy.

On a coral key you cannot dig a grave,
therefore these whitewashed, stacked
sarcophagi.  A tour bus passes as I try to read

the names through black iron railings, urns
with artificial flowers, decaying foliage;
a breath of wind in the bedraggled palms

like incessant rumor-mongering.  Most
are Cuban names, names of those who
never made it back, but sat on wooden porches

in Olivia Street as roosters crowed,
chickens scratched, and the click and clack of dominoes
presaged their sepulchers,

bookending birth and death with a woman’s name –
Mary Louise Baez (“the sunshine of our home”)
or Angelina P. Oropeza (“No greater mother ever lived”),

sentiments echoing in my head when I stop
at the Dollar Store on Truman Street for water,
glimpse the strip club opposite

called Bare Assets, and push on
to Reynolds Street where Wallace Stevens
wintered.

Only the sea remains the same,
its answering yet unavailing constancy
at the end of a nondescript suburban street,

no hint of money as “a kind of poetry,”
and the Casa Marina across from the tennis courts
like a prison for white collar criminals.

The same black wrought iron railing
that surrounds the cemetery encloses a white sand
private beach, but there’s no Pale Ramon,

accompanying a businessman in a Panama,
finding order in the ocean’s ambiguity,
only a freshening wind

and a shrimp boat on the Gulf
as full throttle, jet skis buck the broken waves
and thunderclouds like anvils

build toward evening when they may
or may not break, and the man in espadrilles
and his ghostly companion pad back to their hotel

with an image in mind that will
in another generation overwhelm
a poet in the antipodes

inhaling the smell of kelp
and facing the same reality
of which direct knowledge is impossible.

3: The Waterfront Playhouse

There remained
the question of how you were to find your way between
the house with Italian chandeliers and the grand hotel
with its hymns and prayers.
Was it our task to reconcile
the view across the Gulf
with that weed-choked, plastic-littered sea within a sea
or integrate the two, discovering ourselves
reborn in palm-laced shadows and splintered light,
between what did not eventuate and what befell
when the sea’s cross currents were too dangerous –
the fringing reef and its lagoon,
the raked sand, the decomposing wrack,
the drunken bar,
the garden by the pool
the rainy night the poet and the novelist
came to blows, one breaking his hand
on the other’s jaw, their lame apologies?

Will we say on leaving Florida
that this was where we were happiest,
preparing our packed lunch of salad greens,
French bread, and pitted olives from Kalamata
whose groves I knew by heart?
that we discerned the difference
between desire and what we simply need,
slaking our thirst with water,
making love in an air-conditioned room
Bolero playing on the radio
and no question of life or death,
not even when we had to leave
the place they advertised as Paradise?

Michael Jackson

from Walking to Pencarrow: Selected Poems, Cold Hub Press, 2016

The wetsuit

I go into a second-hand shop:
there’s something I want to buy
I don’t know what.
CDs, surfboards, stuffed guitars,
something that talks?
not a phone
not a TV,
a radio, perhaps? —
something small & shiny
you can tuck in your pocket
hide in your hand,
something that has a tongue in it
something that talks?
not a couch,
not a sandwich-maker that’s been through
a Castle Street fire.

I wade through the usual crap:
stuffed cameras, mouth organs,
music posters, ski boots, dark glasses
I don’t want —
a 12-bar heater, a wedding dress,
a mountain bike I don’t want …
Is it sex?
Is it sex I want? —
I’m in the wrong shop.

A man in a bright blue shirt approaches,
“Can I help?” he asks politely.
“I’m looking for something — I don’t know what.”
He shows me a PC, a DVD, a TV LCD, a car stereo,
a cellphone you can photograph yourself on
& send the picture to your friends, hands free —
I reject them all …
“You’re out of date,” the man says
after I tell him I still use a typewriter.
“What you need is a computer: email,
on-line, text, photo i.d.,
Trade Me.” (Woe is me!)

I buy a wetsuit & head home.
“And what do you think you’re going to
do with that?” my partner asks sarcastically
as I hang it in the cupboard behind the
vacuum cleaner — “You can’t even swim!”
“Oh, I thought it would come in handy
in the garden when it’s raining,” I reply —
“& I’ll be ready if Maori Hill ever gets
hit by a tsunami.”

Peter Olds

from Under the Dundas Street Bridge, Steele Roberts, 2012 and in You Fit The Description: The Selected Poems of Peter Olds, Cold Hub Press, 2014

Peter Ireland works for the National Library. He has worked on exhibitions for forty years or more, and has also had the good fortune of helping to look after our Poets Laureate since 2007.

Sarah Broom (1972 – 2013) was born in Dunedin and grew up in Christchurch before completing an MA at the University of Leeds and a doctorate in modern poetry at Oxford University. She subsequently published Contemporary British and Irish Poetry (Palgrave Macmillan, 2006). Sarah lectured at Somerville College, Oxford, at the University of Otago and held a postdoctoral fellowship at Massey University (2000). When she was pregnant with her third child she was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. She published her debut collection Tigers at Awhitu in 2009 and Gleam, a posthumous collection, was published in 2013 (both AUP). Her husband Michael Gleissner established the Sarah Broom Poetry Prize in her honour in 2014.

Michael Jackson is internationally renowned for his work in the field of existential anthropology and has been widely praised for his innovations in ethnographic writing. Jackson has done extensive fieldwork in Sierra Leone since 1969, and also carried out anthropological research in Aboriginal Australia, Europe, and New Zealand. He has taught in universities in New Zealand, Australia, the United States and is currently Distinguished Professor of World Religions at Harvard Divinity School. His most recent books include The Varieties of Temporal Experience (2018), Selected Poems (2017), and The Paper Nautilus: A Trilogy (2019). Cold Hub Press author page.

Hilaire Kirkland (1941 – 1975) attended the University of Otago in the 1960s and travelled through Europe in the early 1970s, teaching English in Portugal. She published a poetry chapbook and poems in journals, and frequently performed her work. Her poems appeared in several anthologies posthumously, and a collection of poems, Blood Clear & Apple Red, was published by Wai-te-ata Press in 1981. She was awarded an aegrotat BA at National Women’s Hospital shsortly before her death.

Michele Leggott was the inaugural New Zealand Poet Laureate 2007–09 under the administration of the National Library. She received the Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement in Poetry in 2013. Her collections include Mirabile Dictu (2009), Heartland (2014), and Vanishing Points (2017), all from Auckland University Press. In 2020 Mezzaluna: Selected Poems was published (also by AUP). She coordinates the New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre (nzepc) with Brian Flaherty at the University of Auckland.

Peter Olds was born in Christchurch in 1944, he left school at sixteen and after meeting James K. Baxter in Dunedin in the 1960s, began writing poetry. He was a Robert Burns Fellow at the University of Otago in 1978. In 2005 he was an inaugural recipient of the Janet Frame Literary Trust Award for Poetry. He lives in Dunedin. His previously published collections include Lady Moss Revived (1972), Freeway (1974), Beethoven’s Guitar (1980), It Was a Tuesday Morning: Selected Poems 1972-2001 (2004), Poetry Reading at Kaka Point (2006), Under the Dundas Street Bridge (2012), and You fit the description: The Selected Poems of Peter Olds, with an introduction by Ian Wedde (2014, Cold Hub Press). His most recent collection is Taking My Jacket for a Walk (2017, Cold Hub Press).

Poetry Shelf Spring Season

Tara Black picks poems

Victor Rodger picks poems

Poetry Shelf Classic Poem: Johanna Emeney picks Michael Jackson’s ‘Green Turtle’

 

Green Turtle

 

Sam smashes its head in

with the same sledgehammer

I used this afternoon

to ram our tent pegs home.

 

A hemisphere turns

turtle; Sonny hacks

its mildewed, sea-marbled

breastplate free.

 

It recoils from the sky.

Head lolls.

A flipper feebly pushes

Sonny’s knife away.

 

They empty

the long gray rope of its life

onto the sand by the thudding boat

that holds two more

 

And its carapace is a vessel

filled with a wine lake

in which clouds

float, birds fly, leaves fall.

 

Michael Jackson

From Walking to Pencarrow: selected poems Cold Hub Press (2016)

 

 

This poem was occasioned during Jackson’s one-year stay with a Kuku-Yalanji family in the Bloomfield rainforest. The butchering of the turtle was carried out by his host’s brother and brother-in-law, and it was an incident that clearly raised conflicts within Jackson, both cultural and emotional. It is described in his nonfiction books The Accidental Anthropologist (Longacre, 2013) and As Wide as the World Is Wise: Reinventing Philosophical Anthropology (Columbia University Press, 2016). Jackson includes the poem in the memoir and the textbook.

The speaker’s complete vulnerability to the experience (not openness, vulnerability) is one of the main things that makes the poem so powerful for me. The narrative position of the speaker is that of an outsider endeavouring to be respectfully uninvolved in the spectacle. The reader can feel his reluctance to place judgement on this cultural encounter. However, it impossible not to intuit the initial shock of the first lines and the reverence of metaphor describing the turtle—I see him almost like an old general being denuded of his armour when “Sonny hacks/its mildewed, sea-marbled/breastplate free”. The diction and imagery create a perfectly credible awkwardness and humility to the speaker in the face of the turtle’s brutal death.

The other aspect of “Green Turtle” that I find very powerful is the transcendence of the final image. The last stanza is a distillation of everything that has gone before, and, as an ending to the poem, is exquisite, raising the narrative recollection of the killing of the turtle to a lyric contemplation of this event in the scheme of things, especially within a Western, Christian model. Here, in the final lines, is the shell of the turtle, a vessel containing a blood-wine, literally reflecting the things of the world that go on as normal despite the creature’s violent death just moments before. With this ultimate image, the poet invites his readers to undertake their own reflection on humankind and nature, on life and death, on religion and culture. The poem ends with such opening out, and such unexpected beauty.

Johanna Emeney

 

Jo Emeney holds a PhD in Creative Writing, and has taught at Massey, Albany, for the past nine years. She also runs the Michael King Young Writers Programme with Ros Ali.
Jo read English Literature at Pembroke College, Cambridge, and then taught senior school English Literature for twelve years. She has written two books of poetry (Apple & Tree, 2011; Family History, 2017), and one nonfiction book on the topic of lyric poetry and the medical humanities (2018). She has just finished drafting a chapter for Routledge on Disability and Poetry.

Michael Jackson is internationally renowned for his work in the field of existential anthropology and has been widely praised for his innovations in ethnographic writing. Jackson has done extensive fieldwork in Sierra Leone since 1969, and also carried out anthropological research in Aboriginal Australia, Europe, and New Zealand. He has taught in universities in New Zealand, Australia, the United States and is currently Distinguished Professor of World Religions at Harvard Divinity School. His most recent books include The Varieties of Temporal Experience (2018), Selected Poems (2017), and The Paper Nautilus: A Trilogy (2019). Cold Hub Press author page.

 

41cl-rF2JDL._SX353_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg

 

 

 

 

Toasting Michael Jackson’s Selected Poems with the Preface and two poetry treats

2014 maj-juni 264_2

 

 

Walking to Pencarrow Michael Jackson, Cold Hub Press 2016

Cold Hub Press has recently released, Walking to Pencarrow, a selection of Michael Jackson’s poems. The poems are drawn from eight collections dating from Latitudes of Exile in 1976 to Midwinter at Walden Pond in 2016. Michael has written thirty-five books, eight of which are poetry. He has received a Commonwealth Poetry Prize and a New Zealand Book Award for Poetry. Vincent O’Sullivan writes on the blurb: ‘Jackson’s vocation as a world-class anthropologist, and his spending so much of his life away from his own country, are shaping forces on his oeuvre.’ Martin Edmond writes: ‘One of our most astute, humane, idiosyncratic and perdurable writers.’ The collection gathers together luminous pieces of the world–with family, fidgety notions of home, anchored home, slithers of beauty, people and anecdotes to act as both an interior and poetic compass. The poems both augment and transcend what is real. Reading your way through the arc of living and writing, poetry becomes an absorbing form of solace as well as an impetus to write. A spotlight on Michael is long overdue as this magnificent selection underlines.

To celebrate the book, and the poems within, I have been granted permission to post Michael’s excellent preface and two poems that I particularly like. Both poems were originally published in Midwinter at Walden Pond.

 

9780473327811 cover  9780473327811 cover

 

Author’s Preface

As an adolescent, I was in revolt against the bourgeois tendency to paper over the harsh realities of social inequality, capital punishment, and colonial violence in order to create a fools’ paradise of domestic comforts and hackneyed phrases. The poems that poured out of me were filled with the angst and ambivalence of youth, its romantic infatuations, its embrace of lost causes, its wild oscillations between home and the world. Jim Baxter gave me good advice, critiquing one of my early poems about un-requited love. “Write about the body straight, and you find you are writing about the soul without knowing it … It’s the facts that count: her black or blonde or yellow hair, whatever treasure she is able to give you. The footloose sand and the seabirds and the crabs have a right to control the poem, not the I-centre or the her-centre; they can tell us more about love than we can tell them; they do in a sense control Fairburn’s greatest poem, The Cave.”1  Clearly I had to learn how to yield completely to the things that captured my attention, allowing them to speak to and through me. I also had to learn that poetry is far more than an exercise in breathtaking imagery and verbal legerdemain; it had to do justice to life; it had to measure up to something beyond itself; it had to be a kind of witnessing. My first breakthrough was ‘Blind Man’ which appeared in a student magazine when I was 19.2 Its focus was a Westland schoolteacher who had lost his sight in a car wreck, and subsequently moved to Auckland with his wife and two small children to study for an arts degree at Auckland University. Terry rented a house near the Blind Institute and I spent my Saturdays helping him with his English 1 coursework. The second poem was inspired by Arthur Koestler’s Reflections on Hanging, and appeared in Landfall in 1959.3

Nevertheless, it was only after I left New Zealand in 1963 and immersed myself in various forms of welfare work among Aboriginals in Victoria, Australia, among the homeless in London, and among war-torn communities in the Congolese hinterland, that I began to find my own voice and painstakingly piece together the collection of poems I published in 1976 as Latitudes of Exile. The earliest of these poems date from my return to New Zealand from Africa when I took a job relief teaching in the Wairarapa and began editing poems I’d drafted but never finished during my travels. To these ‘Congo poems’ was added new work based on experiences in Sierra Leone where I did fieldwork between 1969 and 1972; other poems reflected my everyday life in the Manawatu where my daughter Heidi (born in Sierra Leone) spent her early childhood and I taught anthropology at Massey University.

In hindsight, the poems in Latitudes were born of a quandary that troubled my thirties but undoubtedly had its origins in the experience of growing up in a small backwater Taranaki town in which I felt a complete stranger. A yearning for the freedom of new horizons (the ‘latitudes’ of exile) pulled me in one direction, while the longing to have and hold a place I could call home pulled me in another. A similar struggle informed the poems in my second collection (Wall) where I describe, not without irony, the experience of breaking up a concrete path only to find myself building, with the broken pieces, a wall between myself and my neighbor. What had happened to my desire to break down walls and embark on new journeys to the ends of the earth? Wall not only bears the impress of the Manawatu, Wairarapa, and East Cape ––regions of social and spiritual anchorage for me––but excursions abroad to Australia, Sierra Leone, and Europe throughout the ’70s.

In 1982–83, I took two years’ leave from academe, deter-mined to turn my hand to fiction. Two-thirds the way through my Katherine Mansfield fellowship year in Menton, France, my wife Pauline fell gravely ill. We traveled to England for medical advice before returning precipitously to New Zealand where Pauline died in September 1983. In the wake of Pauline’s death, our daughter Heidi found it difficult to settle back into school, and I felt an urgent need for “fresh woods and pastures new”. When friends at the Australian National University offered me a temporary teaching position, I sold our house in Palmerston North, sent the furniture for auction, and moved to Canberra where I completed Going On––a kind of logbook of the year before Pauline’s death and the six months after. Some of these poems were written in Menton; others in England, New Zealand and Australia. Though pervaded by a sense of desolation and loss, the best of them celebrate that deepened sense of life that sometimes arises un-bidden in the face of catastrophe. A return trip to Sierra Leone, a sojourn in Sweden, Heidi settled in school, and the miracle of my falling love again reinforced this sense of rebirth and inspired several of the new poems I published in Duty Free (1989).

Though I revisited New Zealand every year and hoped to keep the home fires burning, the gradual attenuation of old relationships was the inevitable price I paid for living abroad. After several years of unemployment in Australia, I accepted a job offer at Indiana University (Bloomington) in 1989 and throughout the 1990s made a succession of life-changing ethnographic field trips to Central Australia and Cape York Peninsula, accompanied by my second wife Francine Lorimer. But my years away from academe had radically changed my priorities as a writer, and most of the work I published between 1988 and 1998 interleaved poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction. The titles of my books suggest a preoccupation with questions of personal identity and belonging. Rainshadow (1988) explores the conspiracy of silence that may sometimes follow a family tragedy no one knows how to work through or explain. Pieces of Music (1994) questions the notion of a coherent self, or a single seamless life story. At Home in the World (1995) is a sustained meditation on the meaning of home among nomadic or displaced persons, while Antipodes (1996) ponders issues “of inequity and division between North and South as well as personal quandaries and contradictions arising from a life divided between two hemispheres.” Although I called my memoir, The Accidental Anthropologist, I could just as well have called it ‘The Unsettled Expatriate’, for while I had come to call several countries ‘home’, including Sierra Leone, Denmark and Australia, the close friendships I had formed, the roots I had put down, the landscapes I had come to love, were not of a piece. At the same time, I was beginning to discover that my homeland was not altogether accepting of its native sons and daughters who, in search of employment, adventure or love, wind up living elsewhere. Though our hearts may remain wedded to natal landscapes and seascapes and though we return annually like godwits to rebuild our nests, we are no longer regarded as bona fide kiwis. Martin Edmond, with whose work I have always felt a deep affinity, wrote a review of my book, Road Markings: An Anthropologist in the Antipodes (2012) that begins by invoking James Joyce’s poignant line––“A nation exacts a penance from those who dared to leave her payable on their return.”4 For whatever reason––age, prolonged absence, or mediocre talent––publishing in New Zealand became increasingly difficult; one editor even describing me as “effectively dead”. Despite diligent efforts to publicize my books in radio and magazine interviews, my profile faded and I became a footnote to local literary history. Yet I see a fascinating progression from Dead Reckoning (2006) and Being of Two Minds (2011), where the poet seems torn “between seemingly irreconcilable affections, identifications, and places of personal anchorage”, to a poetic voice that no longer construes selfhood in either-or terms, but accepts and celebrates its multiplicity and instability. In passing beyond the pale of a purely regional identity, or seeking to define or defend this identity against all others, I seem to have followed the Cynics’ example of living according to nature (kata phusis) rather than conforming to any particular social law or custom (nomos.) Even as a child, I was aware of an antinomian streak in me, but it has taken me a lifetime to be able to say, as Diogenes did when asked the name of his home-town, it is both nowhere and everywhere. I like to think that this notion of cosmopolites provides one answer to the self-serving parochialism and blind fundamentalism that are the curses of our times. But few writers are ever fortunate enough to publish internationally, and in pursuing my ambition to remain a New Zealand writer, I am grateful for the unstinting support of Vincent O’Sullivan over many years and, more recently, the generosity of Roger Hickin at Cold Hub Press.

 

 

 

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1 Letter from James K. Baxter to Michael Jackson, dated 22 November 1960.

2 ‘Blind Man.’ Outline, 1959: 13.  3 ‘To be hanged by the neck.’ Landfall 13(4): 323.

4 James Joyce, ‘Notes by the author’, in Exiles (New York: Viking, 1951).

 

 

 

Seamus Heaney 1939-2013

 

I dig deep for words

worthy of what you gave

delving into the peat and loam

of your own upbringing,

a country boy as you were

who in the end became

a countryman, versed

in the particular tools of your trade

honing language

to cut a swathe

through unbearable experience,

scything a space where we all could breathe,

a wedge of silage in the side of a hill

held down by tires on a black

tarpaulin, the ritual

of tying the harvest bow.

 

I cannot bear the thought

of you reduced to bone

smashed in a mortar,

shelved or scattered

across the plow,

though know the earth or sea

will gravely welcome you,

an ally at a time we spend

our time naming and numbering

our enemies,

walling ourselves in, wanting no contact,

and the only poetry

garish doggerel slashed on brick

in the small hours by a kid too young

to carry a gun.

 

I am ill at the idea

that you are gone, who wrote

about your wife with

unparalleled love, who sat

at a table so solidly, so filled

with confidence that

inspiration would always come,

unbidden in the gorse-

scented wind or brine-soaked

oyster-catching sea,

an unexpected gift, a good turn,

a phrase for something

we did not quite believe.

 

The stacked lumber

of your seventy-four years

and our repining

is now pared down to a single

knot-holed plank of grief.

In a cobbled yard

we build your bier,

as plain and unpretentious

as celebrity allows,

acknowledging the simple fact

that your words were also ours

whether walking through a hail of stones

and hate-filled rhetoric on a Belfast street

or penning in our collective mind

obituaries for the blinding passions

that had brought us to our knees.

 

We will sing your praises

as if you were our lost Lycidas,

not drowned by history

but survived

to tell the tale,

to bind us close with the fraying twine

of your careful phrases.

You showed us what we had forgotten

about our common clay,

how we might bridge the gap

between history and hope,

a skunk in the garden

and your beloved wife

bending to take a plunge-line black

negligé from the bottom drawer.

 

If I go against the grain of your

tilled, harrowed fields,

furthering the line

of the glinting plow to take in

clamoring gulls and other scavengers,

if I migrate or deviate,

slam the tractor into reverse

at the thought of a cowering animal,

it is because of what I read

between your lines in Wintering Out

or on bog sacrifice in North

or on those antinomies that strike a spark

from the hooves of our hurrying harnessed pairs

and hint like fireflies

of a path through elephant grass

or a stream, still muddy after rain,

that will run clear.

 

 

 

Midwinter at Walden Pond

 

I am walking around a so-called Kettle Pond

on a sub-zero January morning, made more bitter

by the arctic wind that chafes and burns my face

 

when I turn into it. This is the only unpolluted lake

for miles around, the spring-fed pond where Thoreau

built his hut (desk, chair, pot-bellied stove and cot)

 

and daily wrote the thoughts and observations

that would make his name.  This morning, though,

my mind is on the ice-bound pond’s bizarre

 

sonority––squeaking, gulping, stomach-

rumbling groans, as if Thoreau’s ghost had been

disturbed, or Melville’s Leviathan were about to sound.

 

Through pitch pines, I glimpse a single skater

making tracks across the frozen

snow-dusted surface, as if he too

 

is seeking ‘to live deliberately’ and find

companionship in solitude. I take

the uphill path to where the great man lived

 

two years, two months, two days, the site

now marked by a random pile of stones,

some bearing the engraved or painted names

 

of those who made their pilgrimage to Walden Pond

and in the hornbeams’ shade shared

their favorite passages from his book,

 

blessed by the down-turned gestures of the pines,

hearing the anomalous whistle of a train.

I am not one of them, I know. I only take

 

this path for exercise or the possibility of

a poem, suffering only snow from a low bough,

the groan of pack ice pressed in upon itself,

 

as I try to decipher the skater’s

random signature, or ask why visitors would hurl

big stones out on the ice unless it was to see

 

if it could take their weight. In Central Australia

those who take stones from a sacred site

are cursed. To bring them here is to be blessed.

 

Surely I am not the first nor will be last to find

that a frozen lake can free the mind.

 

©Michael Jackson 2016