Tag Archives: nz poetry shelf playing favourites

Poetry Shelf Playing Favourites: About Wasps by Murray Edmond

About Wasps
(for Ian Wedde)

In pipes, in tins
in broken clay,
under a ledge of brick or wood,
hung from a tree,
anywhere
a cavity is formed,
hidden, secret,
now, at this time,
October,
the dormant queens begin
to sniff the wind,
twelve degrees
expected maximum
in Wellington today,
along the cliffs
of Maida Vale
and Lyall Bay
Vespula germanica is seeking
out a place,
those brittle mothers
with ten thousand, maybe
more eggs ranged
inside the abdomen.
Not this winter
but the one before
in my house above
the sea I turned the bricks
I’d stacked
for paving and retaining
in my crumbling
garden
and found them there, a dozen
or so
of the hibernating queens, huge,
yellow, sluggish,
cold, stiff as ancient metal rusted up
(the first one blundered
in my Christchurch kitchen
yesterday. I hammered
it with a rolled-up
newspaper). Those
rigid winter queens
I rolled out in the wind
and let them die
feeling
more part of the natural
cycle of
the garden for
doing so.
The nest
by March or April
brims
with workers, queens and
drones, the cells
are packed
with pupae, larvae
and sweet food,
royal jelly
culled from aphids, jam
and fruit,
but by late May
or early June
after the workers have
cannibalized the nest
and gorged themselves
and ceased to come back
home
and the queens have
danced above the trees
and mated,
the rats and mice move in
and rip the nest apart
and shred
the paper honeycomb
to line
their own dark holes.
And now, today,
those queens who made it
through the winter
they
begin to venture out
in
slow cumbersome
flight,
they test
the equinoctial wind
not knowing yet
what is happening
on the updraft and the down,
why even
sleep has stopped
and they
fly at all
yet in this state
one will clip
herself
to the grey, splintered
side of a lamppost
and with her jaws
scrape off
small wood
and chew it up
and swallow it
and regurgitate the mash
a pulp for making
paper,
the first stutter
of the new

Murray Edmond
from Letters and Paragraphs (Christchurch: Caxton Press, 1987)

‘About Wasps’

‘About Wasps’ was published in my book Letters and Paragraphs (Christchurch: Caxton Press, 1987). Recently I did  an interview with Scott Hamilton for his online journal Reef Shark. The subject Scott chose for this interview was this book, Letters and Paragraphs. I was intrigued and engaged by his proposition. The first half of this interview can be found on this link.

The second half of the interview will appear soon.

When you go back and look at old poems, not all of them stand up as well as you hoped; however, ‘About Wasps’ seemed to me to still possess life.

‘About Wasps’ is dedicated to Ian Wedde. On 14th October this year, 2026, Ian celebrated his 80th birthday. This is another reason for reviving the poem at this time. There’s something in the poem about birth and death and rebirth in relation to the life cycle of the European wasp, Vespa germanica. Perhaps this has an analogical relation to the life, death and rebirth of poems.


Murray Edmond: born Kirikiriroa 1949; lives in Glen Eden, Tāmaki-makau-rau. Recent publications: Time to Make a Song and Dance: Cultural Revolt in Auckland in the 1960s (Atuanui Press,  2021) – cultural history; FARCE and Sandbank Sonnets: A Memoir, (Compound Press, 2022) – 2 books of poems; Aucklanders (Lasavia, 2023), a book of 15 short stories.

Poetry Shelf is hosting another festival season of Playing Favourites. Poets have selected a poem of their own that they love, usually previously published.

Poetry Shelf Playing Favourites: Lifeboat by Cilla McQueen

Lifeboat

‘A winning reputation as a tourist destination.’
‘The greenest lifeboat in the world.’
Close the shoreline? DoC defend us!
Chop their arms off when they try
to climb aboard, lest all alike be lost?

Wakatipu wake with sewage in his mouth,
Queenstown slide off his lap into the lake,
the monorail buckle under the weight of visitors,
King Kong swallow his delectable actress,
the banks collapse, the river flood, some war begin?

Cilla McQueen
from Fire-penny, Otago University Press, 2005

Prescient . . . from the early nineties. Cilla

Cilla McQueen MNZM lives in Motupōhue, Bluff, at the southern tip of the South Island.  An artist, teacher and former Poet Laureate, her latest collections of poetry are Qualia (Maungatua Press), Poeta and In a Slant Light (both from Otago University Press).

Poetry Shelf is hosting another festival season of Playing Favourites. Poets have selected a poem of their own that they love, usually previously published.

Poetry Shelf Playing Favourites: Jack Ross picks Rilke’s ‘Panther’

Some thoughts on Rilke’s ‘Panther‘

Rainer Maria Rilke, a young Czech-German poet, moved to Paris in 1902. He worked there for a while as the great sculptor Auguste Rodin’s secretary. It was a difficult time for Rilke, a time he later tried to recreate in his autobiographical novel The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge., about a Danish student adrift in the immense, alien city. Rilke, too, was dissatisfied with most of the work he’d done to date, but couldn’t yet settle on a new direction for his poetry.

Paris, in the early 1900s, was a hotbed of Modernism. Exposure to these new ideas had both a stimulating and a paralysing effect on Rilke. At Rodin’s atelier he met artists and writers of all kinds, but their own certainties only left him more in doubt.

One day (or so the story goes) he was bemoaning his fate to his boss Rodin – in particular his inability to write anything of substance. Rodin replied, “Why don’t you do what I do? When I get stuck on something, I go for a walk with my sketchbook, then just sit down and draw something. You should try it.”

“But I’m a poet,” complained Rilke. “Poets don’t do sketches. We wait for inspiration to come, then write a poem.” Rodin shrugged his shoulders. “Why wait? Go out and sketch something with words.”

What did he have to lose? Why not give it a go? Rilke, already – in his late twenties – a bit set in his ways, reluctantly agreed to go out with a pad and pencil, and try to find something to describe.

Eventually he found his way into the Jardin des Plantes, the zoological gardens. The first cage he sat down in front of held a panther. This was the result:

Der Panther
The Panther

Im Jardin des Plantes, Paris
In the Botanical Gardens, Paris
Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe
His gaze is from the passing of the bars
so müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält.
grown so tired, that it can hold no more.
Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe
It seems to him, as if there were a thousand bars
und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt.
and behind the thousand bars no world.

Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte,
The soft passing of supple strong strides
der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht,
which draw him in the smallest of circles
ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte,
is like a dance of might around a centre
in der betäubt ein großer Wille steht.
in which a great will stands stunned.

Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille
Only sometimes does the curtain of the pupil
sich lautlos auf –. Dann geht ein Bild hinein,
lift itself silently – then a picture enters,
geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille –
passes through the tense stillness of the limbs –
und hört im Herzen auf zu sein.
and comes to an end in the heart.

Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903
[literal version: Jack Ross]

It may well be the most famous poem Rilke ever wrote. The intensity with which he described the panther’s frustration at being locked up in such a narrow space, with no possible escape, pacing round and round forever, must surely have had something in it of his own feelings at being penned in a foreign city, unable to write, unable to form real connections, at a complete loss.

After that, he went out every day and wrote down descriptions of what he saw. There was no more waiting at home for inspiration. The result, eventually, was a collection called simply Neue Gedichte [New Poems], which helped to revolutionise not only his own poetry, but European poetry in general.

But, through it all, that sense of imprisonment, of melancholy, of the need to escape from confinement still speaks through his poem. There are many translations of it, in many languages. Some reproduce the original rhymes and pentameter lines precisely; others take a freer approach: concentrating on what they themselves can draw from the poem, how it intersects with their own lives.

I, too, have been a stranger in a strange land, have felt that sense of loneliness, confinement, and loss. But the suffering of the Panther dwarfs all that, putting it in brutal perspective.

Here’s my own attempt to get across something of Rilke’s poem:

The Panther
in the Jardin des Plantes, Paris

His eyes have grown so tired of watching
bars they can’t see anything
beyond them    bars    a thousand bars
no world no rest outside him nothing

the narrow circle of his steps
carries him around again
dancing to the silent beat
that pins his will inside this pen

once in a while the pupils open
take a snapshot    pass it through
the shuttered stillness of his body
to the heart it answers to

Jack Ross, 2026


Jack Ross
’s latest book of short stories, Haunts, came out from Lasavia Publishing in 2024. A new poetry collection, Tesseract, is due out later this year. He lives with his wife, crafter and art-writer Bronwyn Lloyd, in in Tāmaki Makaurau Auckland.