The moon’s an albino hedgehog this morning nibbling on the sky A lone seagull flies low like a stalling Cessna over the Vellum paper sea, as the 83 motors by followed by a red New World truck telling me I can save every day
neighbours are out walking their dogs on the beach, out of reach as I swim in the cool fresh water (the salp have gone for now) and there’s a light show of reflections on the wharf’s wooden piles
the crowds haven’t arrived yet with their blankets and chilly bins even the wind hasn’t arrived (yet) and the traffic is light, it’s going to be a scorcher they tell us, we’ve waited for this a day to savour in the bay
Our local korimako has set up shop to taunt us with their melody Insistent, tuneful, repetitive, hiding we think in the giant macrocarpa we spot tui dancing from pohutukawa to cabbage tree and eucalypt
a breeze lifts so that leaves lift too and sunshine obscures our view fat wood pigeons (the kereru) fly drunkenly low almost acrobatic but our local korimako makes more noise than any of them, show-off
I creep up the driveway toward the macrocarpa, the way I do at night when our local morepork is hooting and tooting and talking to me they also hide and I’m certain detect my silent footsteps, so stop
And instead, I whistle back to the korimako, and considering I rarely match proper pitch with pop songs, it’s surprising that they hear me but they do, and we whistle back and forth, friends for an afternoon
We used to meet in cafes, face to face Now I lie resplendent on fresh linen to scroll while Annabel is talking earnestly from France (to me), well not really, she’s got followers And she’s not the only one, there are women with the same intensity and earnest pleas wanting me to know about foundation for old skin like mine as they rub liquid in circular motions blinking, speaking, as if they are right here with me in my bedroom and I’m the only thing that matters It’s a new skill, this earnest, look at me, I’ve Something to tell you and no you are right I’ve never met Annabel in a café but You get the drift and drift I do from one reel to another, skipping over Middle Eastern Eye with all its subjectivity, voices from both sides carnage, each claiming their morality The carnage in the next presenter’s skin Is just fortunate old age and Annabel is now at a village BBQ somewhere in France with lambs on the spit and wait there’s a wine fountain, all you can drink It’s hard to think about the less fortunate almost seems churlish to do so
I went to the launch at the Seatoun Bowling Club. You just gotta love the venues poets choose to launch their books. Mine was launched from the bedroom of the bookseller during lockdown. And more recently, Simon Sweetman’s The Richard Poemswere launched in a trendy men’s clothing store/barber shop.
I first met Michael when we were reading poems together in Kapiti at a Retirement Village and indeed we also read to one of our most receptive audiences in the dementia ward of that village. An unforgettable and unexpectedly heart-warming experience for all the poets involved.
Early on in this lovely collection, Michael writes:
My poems seem to appeal To people who don’t read poetry.
He got me, right there and then. I feel such a connection to these words about my own poetry. I’ve been picking his book up every day to read at random and each poem brings joy. There’s a theme of gratitude throughout. The poems speak of the ordinary with such love and affection and too, the profound. His love of family is palpable and joyful. He speaks lightly of a brush with death (more than a brush, a serious cancer diagnosis which he has written about in an earlier collection) but he manages to be uplifting and grateful in all his observations.
There’s delightful humour and I just love this poem/anecdote – yes, Michael pops poetic anecdotes into this collection, stylishly and inspiring.
A friend buys bulk chicken on special from PAK’Nsave. He divides the chicken into meal-size portions and freezes them. You have no idea, he says. A few bucks a meal.
He and his wife live on the pension. They eat enough chicken to fly business class to Europe every three years.
Another poem that leapt out at me and I just love, is about his daughter coming home to watch the All Blacks snatch a 16-15 victory in Dunedin … the poem talks of Razor Robertson’s first test …
Surprisingly for an All Black Coach, he’s a talker
This made me laugh out loud as I said almost exactly that when I listened to Razor’s after match chat.
Then there’s the very beautiful love poem The Fin with dolphins and orcas but at the very heart is love, romantic, domestic and true.
Another that spoke to me On the white carpet – musings about moving into a house with white carpet and spilling coffee. Memories for me of white shagpile carpet in an apartment in Auckland in the late 70’s. Play us a tune Maureen an evocative family poem reeking of all things Irish, family, history and heritage. A gorgeous glimpse into the author’s roots.
There’s so much to love in this collection. It is uplifting and for a poet, it is inspiring. I rushed to write my own poem about an encounter I had at our local Pavilion Café, after reading Michael’s delightful encounter at his local 4Square Four Square Philosophy.
The final poem in this collection Credo is one of my favourites. It’s a perfectly placed poem to end such a loving collection. It feels like a questioning of faith and yet a deeply embedded faith too. The final lines …
So when you step out the front door by the olive tree, you have something to take with you,
a curious half hour 