Night is settling, the last flitters of a piwakawaka glimpsed between tall trunks of manuka almost gone, hazy now, no dimension to put a hand around to grasp. I wait for you to come down the hill, walking ginger on the path, trusting in normal sense. I lean into the night, listening for the clink clunk of the latch. Still here.
Tag Archives: Poetry
Letter to Sam Hunt
25th August 2018
Hi Sam,
Hope you’ve stumbled well through the worst of winter. Almost there now, the onion weed’s in bloom. A beauty that can be overlooked, but not if you’re looking. I know you will be.
A good description of your poems, if you don’t mind, like “onion weed.” Smallish, delicate, but hardy; bloody difficult to remove from the garden. Keep popping up amongst the C K Stead daffodils, the Hone Tuwhare orchids, the Fleur Adcock dahlias. A fine garden that.
It’s a pity, don’t you think, that the kids aren’t digging R A K Mason anymore. Though mine really like Ella Yelich-O’Connor (aka Lorde). Poetry survives in one form or another.
Evon rang me last week to tell me you had another book out. I went to the bookshop in my lunch break to have a look. Great title, Coming To It, double-edged.
Another selection across the years I see, with some new ones thrown in. I like how you refuse to put them in their order of age, from earliest poem to most recent. Keeps you guessing that way, and the poetry fresh, like hanging out with young people can be good for old bones.
How old are you now as the crow flies? Not counting all the detours, the ancient beginnings and past endings. Sappho, she was 2,648 this year. Yeats, would you believe it, 153.
And what are you making of the common newsy world? I heard a new fibre optic cable came ashore at Mangawhai, on the opposite coast to you. (You’ve always known which coast to choose, what to avoid).
This cable will be bringing us the world. Sometimes wish I could disconnect completely, go fishing. If I did maybe I’d catch more poems. We risk knowing too much to ever understand.
I hope that for you the fishing on the Kaipara is good. The warmer weather will help, the big ones will come into the shallows.
Just for fun, I’m writing on an old typewriter I found at the SPCA shop for $20. It really bangs. The apostrophes drop on to the page like bombs from an old B-52.
With all the mistakes and banks of xxxxxxxxx building up, I feel like a Kerouac typing On The Road or a Dylan thumping out sleeve notes above the Café Espresso in Woodstock. Oh the delusion!
He’s playing here again soon — are you going? I guess he’s turned himself into Ovid now, when he’s not doing Sinatra. I’m sure you’ve got Tempest. Have you seen the video of Early Roman Kings? It’s such a dag.
Well, I’ll sign off now. Please excuse this public note. There is a back road to you, but I no longer know it.
It’s enough that these lines of yours mean something to me today: “When one of the Greats/ comes in amongst us/ Then we—guests/ eating from paper plates—/ Stand at the outmost circle,/ thank them for calling./ We have our Gods, and Fates:/ we honour them all;/ when we’re not out killing,/ we’re a humble people.”
Written on the occasion of Sam Hunt’s latest collection of poems, Coming To It, being released to the world. Published by Potton & Burton.
Once seated
The old purple towel,
faded to dull lilac, placed
on the seat of the bent
picnic table. The grey wood
stained with black mould.
It’s chilly. But there’s sun enough
to sit for awhile. The dogs
in the neighbourhood are barking
like a modern jazz quartet.
The bass hungry, the drums excitable,
the piano just for fun,
the trumpet leading them on.
On this lucky earth
after W. H. Auden
Staring up from a field in Pakistan, your eyes
like the eyes of any child. Your face enlarged
on a poster, made so big it might be seen from the edges
of the human inhabitable zone on this lucky earth;
and viewed again on our screens, while eating
or bored in the common way, or just walking dully along.
The drones that hover their targets don’t see.
I sit outside a café at an unsteady table
on an uneven path, where another child, lifted high
on shoulders, waves her tiny hand. There’s a seamless sky
behind the weight of cherry blossom; and I’m unsure
whether to share with friends the image of you
—as pixels to the wind—or to simply forget
and build my delicate home the way I’d like it to be.
Big Love Song #21
after Arthur Rimbaud
It doesn’t mean a thing:
the pyramid eye
or the constellations,
not night’s scattered verse.
Smoking incense,
the bride’s dress,
the taste of dark wine—
it doesn’t mean a thing.
Neither does beautiful Paris:
the elegant avenues,
the asphyxiating decay,
the distant nausea.
Only your soft pure face
and the warm bed of home.
Big Love Song #6
Away from voices
on shore, we row out
into the limitless fog.
Our bodies rock
together: shoulders,
thighs, touching
—which is all
we want to feel,
flooding our heads.
The tumid night
blankets the water
like an oil slick.
Our dog is like Frank O’Hara
our dog is like Frank O’Hara
aaaaaaalover of gregarious freedom!
we don’t want to train him—he’s untrainable
half wild, like a Coltrane solo
he takes free rein, takes it where it will go
he barks at everyone he sees with no malice
he just wants to say hello
and tell everyone he loves them
he can jump up in the air in crazy yelping pirouettes
he’s a bit of a show-off
he’s too quick footed for the big slow dogs
who can’t pin him down there’s no easy walk
trotting along beside in regular rhythm
it’s all full tilt, nose down, tail up, pulling forward
choking against the collar—sudden stops
deviations instant enthusiasms
abandoned for the next delicious scent tiring
and exhilarating, like keeping up with Peter
when his brain’s exploding
T.S.Eliot mixed with obscenities
he sleeps close to us on the bed
any noise, 2am, 5am, and he’ll leap off
and run around barking in circles it’s idiotic
and pisses us off
he wants to lick your ears in the morning
loves it when you scratch his head
he hardly eats, but likes to clean your plate
flies annoy him (he’s mostly content)
he escapes often, being small and agile
always finding a new way to get out
we’re lucky he hasn’t been hit by a car
we would miss him a lot
aaaaaabecause he’s full of the genius of life
our dog
a destroyer of shallow boredom
like Frank O’Hara.
In front of the screen
Low wet night,
dripping gutter path,
snail-weather, invisible
to the socked and buttoned,
blanket-draped, who’ve
curtained their day off early,
to sit with the flix, who must
only throw a chewy ball
over the couch repeatedly
to the dog who thinks
everyone’s gathered here
facing the same way
to play fetch.
I wish
I wish I was in Greenwich Village
reading Macbeth, legs crossed, a glass of wine at my ear.
Or in the Sistine Chapel
seeing Adam raise his dandy arm to bearded God.
Or in front of Socrates proclaiming
the revolution of reason, reaching for his cup.
Or in a Parisian café drinking absinthe
with poets, painters and philosopher junkies
in wrinkled collar shirts.
Or eating fruit with Manet and his companions by a lake.
Or crossing a bridge over the Sumida River in the rain.
Or shopping at Macy’s and seeing Adrian Piper
with WET PAINT on her top.
Or driving a bulldozer for the first time
through the Nevada Desert.
Or side-by-side with children flying their kites
through a hole in the prison wall.
Vaughan Gunson : Writing 