poetry

Bum Airborne

Standard 

Bikes are charged and waiting on the drive
I’m applying my new Korean sunscreen
Soon I’ll don my under groin padded shorts
slip on fingerless gloves with pinhole patterns
that I’ll secure with two neat Velcro straps

It’s a long cry from leaping onto my second-
hand Raleigh (a gift from my maiden aunt)
to cycle to the Appleby River and back or
Rocks Road to fish off the working wharf
or Edens Hole for a swim and sunbathe

Like my mother in her ballgown back in
the day, cycling from Richmond to Stoke
or further, ciggie in hand, anything for
a whirl around the ballroom – and who
knows what shoes she used to cycle

But it’s 2025, and I’m 75 and I have
a battery on my bike and certain
preparations required include a Hi-Viz 
vest, bright blue crash proof helmet
my iPhone charged zipped in my pocket

Past the purple ragworth, the fisherman
divers, families with chilli bins, walkers,
smiling at other cyclists, some unpowered
moving faster than me, and scowling at
a family on the beach who’ve lit a fire

On the roadside is a sign that says
Light No Fires and the ashy smell
catches in my nostrils along with
indignation as I imagine sparks
flying from the beach to the bush

I cycle over newly laid aggregate
which covers the injuries made
by Cruise Ship buses as they
hurtle along the Coast sending
up clouds of dust and diesel

Each year a fresh crop of potholes
uneven surfaces, and skid patches
for wary cyclists … the trick is to
pedal fast and sure seated like
you did back in the day, unafraid

Stand on the pedals bum airborne
as you cycle over the cattle stop
arms rigid, controlling the battle
over the bumps and down again
flying briefly, well, almost it seems

Channelling that girl on her Raleigh
no gears and back pedal brakes
riding two abreast up Oxford Street
arms folded, careless, carefree
sans sunscreen or Hi Viz, and
just a white Panama hat thank you

High Wire by Michael Fitzsimons

Standard

High Wire

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 Poems were 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,

something sustaining,
like a cut lunch.

How Good is This? … (the title of another poem).

Every time I iron

Standard

(for Jan)

We were motherless mothers
You and I, with our newborns
New to it all

You taught me how to iron
business shirts, you, knowing
all about shoulders and seams

I’d iron creases in, instead of out
You showed me how to fold and
flatten you knew about fabrics

I can see the pale green caterpillar 
cake you made for her birthday, the bright
eyes, the coconut, coloured napkins

your new deck and recently renovated
stylish bathroom from Park and Clarke
planned by that man we saw on the telly 

An elegant claw bath and retro, floral
wallpaper with Rimu of course
for fittings after all this was the 80’s.

We used to say ‘life’s too short to
stuff a mushroom’ but you did for
one dinner party stuff mushrooms


Oh we were glorious in the suburbs in
our cul-de-sac overlooking the sea
You and me, you and me

It wasn’t a flash suburb and the sea
was far off but we could see it all the same
And the sun sank earlier than we wanted

Life is too short to stuff mushrooms 

We found that out when you left us
leaving your girl not even a teenager
breaking all our hearts

Sometimes I want to surprise him, iron a whole
batch of freshly washed shirts, flattening
those shoulder seam just like you

Skinship

Standard 
Skinship

Run the sound over your tongue
let it roll for a while in your mouth
then swallow it whole

Skinship, like kinship, meaning
connection but through the skin
as simple as holding hands

Konglish, meaning Korean
English, a new word, but
not a new feeling

Skin on skin, a hand in
yours, a touch, skinship
kinship, friendship

It’s not difficult to
guess why Korea
created this new word

Fathers holding adult
son’s hands, mothers
holding daughters

Touching, skin on
Skin, with kin 
this word

Skinship
It crosses culture
it caresses
skin on skin

The ship of affection
Skinship
Sail on you beauty

Daebak!

Swiss ball and pelvic floors

Standard 
 
 Swiss Ball – Suna Pilates + Wellbeing
 

 I am 50, with tight hamstrings
 on the mat at the soccer club
 squeezing my pelvic floor 
 practising, breathing in and out
  
 The outward breath is a rush
 like the end of sex or perhaps
 the beginning, who knows, but
 it is a collective womb-like sigh
  
 I’m older than most of the other
 women, their tight bright bums
 and their talk of babies, or
 troubles with the teachers
  
 My troublesome two are adults
 and I’m fascinated, eavesdropping
 to know just how obsessed these
 tight bright bums are with mothering
  
 I hear of sex as a tradeable commodity
 a reward, a bribe, a something to
 feed in dribs and drabs like a treat to
 eat, if you promise to be a good boy
 
  
 I realise I had it all wrong perhaps
 the fact I thought sex was recreational
 essential, mutual and uncomplicated
 something two people enjoyed 
  
 I’m relieved I’m not a tight bright
 bum in fluro who trades sex for
 income or sex for a South Pacific bure
 that I can earn my own holidays thanks
  
 I hunker down on the mat, continue
 breathing, glad my pelvic floor is
 responding, pleased it’s not been
 wasted as a bargaining chip.
  
  
  
  
  

May in Maleme

Standard

Today is my Dad’s birthday. He died in 1999. It’s almost 80 years since the invasion of Crete coming up on 20 May. I’m not one to glorify war, but here’s a picture of my Dad taken during the war (his name was Curly in the war)… and I’ve just merged a whole lot of files from one computer to another and found a poem I wrote some time ago… a villanelle of sorts about that early morning, May 20 when the German elite took the Allied soldiers and local Cretans by surprise. So, in memory of my father.

May in Maleme

Gliders came as a horse to Troy on Crete
blind side, spilling their dawn cargo
falling from the sky like Icarus the German elite

Momentarily they were glorious, an impossible feat
how was anyone on that May morning to know
Gliders came as a horse to Troy on Crete

The Deutscher Fallschirmjager fell replete
with guns and ammunition where the olives grow
falling from the sky like Icarus the German elite

Screaming for their mutters they took a final leap
over Maleme, the 5th Field Artillery waiting below
Gliders came as a horse to Troy on Crete

Kiwi lads with only tins of bully beef to eat
roamed the hills and the olive groves
falling from the sky like Icarus the German elite

and you, my father, on that hillside steep
said hee high blow fly, and Oamaru for Timaru
but all of you and even Freyberg knew
that on Crete, retreat meant surrender.

4th Floor Literary Journal

Standard

4th Floor Journal

This week, I had the pleasure of participating in the live launch of 4th Floor journal. It is the first time that I’ve been able to attend the actual launch. It was upstairs on the first floor of the Wellington Whitireia Campus and hubby was nonplussed in the lift, having assumed the 4th Floor, meant the fourth floor!

Lynn Jenner was the guest editor for the journal and it was very nice to finally meet her. She was so enthusiastic about the work of all the contributors. I found myself sitting next to the fabulous Renée Taylor and in the very good company of Adrienne Jansen and Jane Blaikie, who were tutors at Whitiriea when I completed the Advanced Fiction Diploma some years ago.

Adrienne read her terrific series of poems titled ‘Local’ about her observations while catching the bus and developing stories for the characters she saw. It’s a delicious poem kicking off with the opening line

She balances the tray of eggs

on her fingertips, just like a waiter.

I particularly liked these lines from the poem ‘At the Exhibition’ by Jane Blaikie.

It’s as simple as that, although as must be clear

to us all by now that love and simple are unrelated.

Renée read from her poem ‘Outside the Sun is Shining’

I wanted to post an excerpt from Renée’s poetry here, but the blog format won’t let me scan the full line, so instead I will post a link so you can go right on over to the 4th Floor Literary Journal and read it for yourself (which is partly the point of this blog anyway).

I am a big fan of Renée’s writing and will never forget the performance of her play ‘Wednesday to Come’ at Downstage on the 20th anniversary of its first performance.

I love being part of this prestigious journal alongside such esteemed good company. This year the likes of Elizabeth Smither, Lynn Davidson, Pip Adam, Natasha Dennerstein, Vivienne Plumb and Mercedes Webb-Pullman, to name just a few that I know. Mercedes was unable to attend the launch and I had the privilege of reading two of her poems. I’m always enjoy poetry, so it was a pleasure.

Here’s a couple of lines to tempt you from ‘Are all the pilots down’
…
through dark clouds colder than ice

into the peace of stars

then vanish where all pilots go

finally home to the sky.

I also really like the poetry of Helen Lehndorf and had planned to post an excerpt from her poetry but alas, I seem unable to retain the right line breaks and so instead, I will send you over to the 4th Floor Journal to read ‘So much white noise’. I can’t resist quoting this perfect question from the poem…

and how can you trust a man without a story?

The most affecting moment of the live launch was the reading of the poem ‘Exceeding Expectations’. I urge you to go on over to the 4th Floor and read this evocative, heart-rending poem. It’s a father son kind of poem and written by Brandon Mehertens who is autistic and unable to speak – a friend read the poem for him. As a poem it sure packs a punch.

Lastly, there is my own poem. I’m very happy this year with my contribution. It is my very first sestina. I find that the villanelle and the sestina allow the writer to traverse tricky topics without becoming maudlin or over- sentimental. This poem, titled ‘Ngawhatu’, is about the psychiatric hospital in Nelson and my memories of it during the 50’s and 60’s – prompted by a recent visit to Nelson about which I have already blogged.

Here’s a teaser line or two for you:

if you’re not careful, shit a brick, you’ll end up there

What’s up there? But no one speaks, it’s all unspoken

get off the grass and up your arse with superstition

hoodackie, thingummybob, bite your bum thoughts

These lines were tweeted and a few of my friends made the comment that they couldn’t imagine these words coming out of my mouth – I rather like that – and yes they did!

Finally, it must be said, that the contributors owe a debt of gratitude to the Whitireia publishing team for all their work behind the scenes, tweaking, editing, putting the final touches to line breaks, mistakes and both querying spelling and author intent.

Wearing a Poem

Standard

Tui 4

I don’t normally rush to publish a poem in progress, but these photographs by John Rainey-Smith are so beautiful that I’ve decided to take a risk – publish the photos and the poem that the tuis inspired, yesterday. I reserve the right to rewrite the poem, extend it or end it. But it does capture the first day of creativity for me in quite a while.

Wearing a Poem

Into this windless blue
cubes of sunlight land askew
on painted indoor walls
accompanied by hammering

as builders repeat their
renovating heartbeat of
another suburban almost
summer in our street

fat and sonsy tuis
gobble kohwai, their
throats awash with song
amid golden profusion

fatter even than last
year, more flowers to
feed upon, thanks
to the endless rain

my silver beet stalks
shine phosphorous red
trapped on the deck
with the mint and thyme

I was reaching for
a grief to nurture
to feed on like
the sonsy tuis

hoping to wear a poem
a somewhat dated outfit
but instead, a poem
wore me.

Tui 3Tui 2_edited-1Tui 1Tui 5Tui 6

We sat together on our deck in the late afternoon sun, sharing a beer, waiting patiently for the birds to return to sip the kohwai nectar. They rewarded us for our silent vigil. I like my poem but I’m even prouder still of John’s beautiful photographs.

Essential New Zealand Poems and doggerel

Standard

Essential New Zealand Poems and doggerel

Essential New Zealand Poems book cover

I had the interesting honour recently of speaking to a group of writers completing a memoir course. It was a thrill for me to be invited and in particular, because they had been given my recent Landfall essay ‘Who is Left’ to read and compare with an article by Rosemary McLeod, one of my absolute favourite journalists.

My essay is a personal interrogation of my motivation for not just attending, but actually liking Anzac Day commemorations. Rosemary McLeod had written about stolen war medals and her distaste for the proposed new and very large local war memorial in the old Buckle Street Museum building.

I did not disagree with Rosemary’s piece. I rarely do. She usually nails it for me. I react privately to something in the news and then find that Rosemary can articulate it eloquently and intelligently and I mostly find myself nodding in agreement. I remember returning from my ‘OE’ in the mid seventies and opening up the Listener to read Rosemary McLeod – it was the first time I had read such smart, funny and insightful local journalism. I became a fan and have remained one.

So, there I was on a wet Saturday, talking to other aspiring writers about my journey as a writer, feeling somewhat amazed (flattered) that these students had read both my essay and Rosemary’s article. I’ve been one of those students many times in my journey as a writer. We hope that by listening to others we will unlock a secret door to our own creativity – a short-cut even, or a road-map.

And so, I told the students about what I now call my epiphany. That I was driven to writing passionate rhyming verse about my teenagers, one with dreadlocks and the other a green Mohawk. The epiphany came as I stood in a local mall with both lads and a letter from the local high school principal demanding that the green Mohawk be modified. We found some hair dye and he went from an emerald-green to Gothic black but I must say green suited him a lot better. Out of this, came the doggerel. And out of that, I gained a place on one of the first under-graduate poetry writing courses (now de rigueur) up at Victoria University in the late 1990’s – one of the 12 disciples with Greg O’Brien (not the Last Supper, but my first).

I had no idea that my rhyming verse, was in fact, doggerel. I had no idea what doggerel was, as I’d not heard the word before. I grew up with my mother reciting lines from ‘The Sentimental Bloke’ by C.J. Dennis, and we always called it poetry. So, here I was in Greg’s class with real poets (people who’d actually been published), and my own rather amateurish doggerel, as I discovered. But too, it can’t have been all bad, as there must have been an essence of something for the university to have taken the chance on me and invited me on to the course.

How proud am I, a decade or so later that one of the poems that I started to write during that course, is included in the newly published anthology ‘Essential New Zealand Poems – facing the empty page’… to be between the superb suede-like orange-flavoured covers with so many poets that I admire – too many to mention, many of them now friends.

Sunlight and Seamus Heaney

Standard

Seamus Heaney (St Seamus) has died.
heaney2

I didn’t meet him, until 1999, when I slipped at the last minute into the undergraduate Poetry Course at Victoria University. My first notification told me that I had ‘missed out’ and they listed the 12 names of the chosen ones. It felt like the Last Supper with Greg O’Brien at the top table and me, with no invitation. And then, one Saturday morning, unexpectedly, a phone call from the poet Greg O’Brien. I was, at the time, working in the recruitment industry and unbeknown to the poet Greg, I was imagining he must be the Greg O’Brien from the recruitment industry.

Greg had phoned me to say he loved one of my poems. It was a warm-up to explain that I was now being invited to the Last Supper. You see, one of the ‘chosen’ twelve had turned out to be a non-starter… I can’t recall exactly, but I think she hadn’t even submitted a portfolio.

It was my good fortune.

And so, in those few life-changing weeks that I attended the Victoria University undergraduate Poetry Course – I think one of the first few… I met Saint Seamus. I also met Eavan Boland. I found my life forever changed. When I was running a book group and writing class at a local women’s prison, I found myself in awe, as a prisoner deconstructed Heaney’s ‘Bog Queen’ poem – good poetry crosses all social divides.

One of my favourite Heaney poems (besides of course ‘Digging’) is ‘Mossbawn 1.Sunlight’
This poem speaks to me of my own mother, also Mary, but she was called Molly.

[wallcoo_com]_Chinese_plum_blossom_17GA010

Instead of an outside pump, I see the woodshed, the kindling, the coal bucket and the roaring fire. I watch my mother apron-less, glide across the linoleum (the new linoleum that my Aunt ruined with her stilettos one Friday night when she turned up for our Catholic Friday night fish dinner). My Mum made her own batter, crisp, light and golden. She had tiny feet, size 3 shoes, and was as slender and light as plum tree branch. Her hair was a charcoal perm, she wore crimplene button-throughs, and her only accessory was a cigarette. Yes, she stood by the window, to look at the blue Richmond hills. The slung bucket was for coal. The tinsmith scoop was an old crockery cup that dipped in the flour bin. Flour dust trailed across the polished floor to the bench where she rolled pastry with a lemonade bottle. She had biceps the size of a downtown gym membership, earned from beating the butter and sugar by hand. I wrote a poem about this http://www.maggieraineysmith.com/cms/node/28

images

Yes, I love Seamus Heaney’s poetry. It speaks to me of my Irish ancestry and my own Kiwi childhood. The new apple green half-size fridge throbbing under the Bakelite blue radio. My Dad’s chair in the corner where his hair oil bubbled the paintwork behind him. Scones lighter than Nigella could imagine, sponges dropped on the hearth to prove (no sudden dips in my Mum’s cakes). The back door open with sunlight pouring through in the late afternoon. Doors open and closed to control the oven temperature – a window opened instead. Mid summer in Nelson and the coal range raging, the hot water cylinder rumbling like Ruapehu and then erupting and spilling over old red tiles (no OSH health and safety measures required).

Yes, I love Seamus Heaney – RIP. For Seamus and my Mum, Molly, July 16, 1974.