Town Hall Dance

I only went the once –
          an expat's visit,
claiming a rite of passage
          I thought was owed.

Nineteen sixty four, sixteen
          kitted out
in all the right gear –
          stove-pipe trou,

winkle pickers, car coat
          (collar up), white shirt,
thin black tie, Brylcreem
          Old Spice.

Hoping a girl from my past
          remembered me,
liked me enough to dance –
          no such luck.

So I joined the bunch
          of wallflower boys,
caught up on goings-on –
          who was seeing whom,

watched the rock'n roll
          extroverts perform,
realised my chances
          of emulating them

were hostage to Peter Posa,
          'She's a Mod',
and a faded avatar of
          my Papatoetoe past.


While I was sourcing images for ‘No One Home’, I reconnected with Jenny Clark – we were classmates at primary and intermediate school. Jenny is now a mainstay of the Papatoetoe Historical Society, who provided me with images of the old St Georges Anglican church and the Wyliie Road orphanage, which I converted to sketches for my book:

At the same time, the Historical Society was putting together a display of memorabilia relevant to the Papatoetoe Town Hall, which is celebrating its centenary. I wrote the 'Town Hall Dance' poem for inclusion in the display, which the Society then photographed and produced a set of four postcards from – see the post card with the poem in it below. if you would like to order a pack (or more) of the postcards at $5 a pack, contact Jenny at jennya.clark@xtra.co.nz

'No One Home' in its bundling box

There’s nothing quite like seeing a collection of poetry in its new-born published glory. What were once promising images and text on screen can now be cradled carefully, cooed over, and have its cover and pages, if not quite caressed, at least given ‘Oh, wow!’ compliments.

This happened last week for me with the delivery of my latest work, No One Home – see sidebar – from the printer (Wakefields Digital) to the publisher (Mākaro Press).

Once the distributors have had a chance to get the book ‘out there’ over the next two or three weeks, we will have a proper christening. At the moment this is looking like it will be in the second week of April, but I will post the details as soon as they firm up.

Learning to ride

Not long after my complaints
about the long walk to school

how everyone had one
so why couldn't I

you came home one night
with a two-wheeler bike -

a Monarch (boy's, second-hand)
front handbrake, rear pedal -

no bell, chain-guard or gears.
You bought it, no doubt

off a 'for sale' ad in the local rag
painted it fire-engine red

showed me how to use the pump
oil the chain, crank and hubs

told me to level the pedals
before I stood on one

straddled the cross bar
sat on the black saddle seat

while you palmed my back
steadied the handle bars

said to push with my feet -
one then the other - coaxed me

to steer straight, keep upright
as we practised setting off.

When I came a cropper
skinned my arms or knees

you painted them orange
set me up for another go

until I was able to wobble solo
up and down life's street.

If only that were so.


This is another boyhood memoir poem from No One Home (which went to the printers late last week, so birth is imminent). I will keep you up to date with when the book is available and when and where it will be launched.

I previously posted on this blog versions of two other poems which are in the collection. They are Three Memoir Haiku and Sticks, trees.

Beaches

What do you seek?

asks Waipū Cove.

What's not in this

beach-outing snap –

rock pools

a plastic ship

wind in our hair.

What brought you here?

asks Martins Bay.

The picnics we had

on your shore –

races in sacks

egg-and-spoon

three legs made from four.

What do you recall?

asks Mangawhai.

A badjelly sand dune

that ate kids alive –

the pipis we dug at low tide

a Tilley lamp, Primus

and tent.

Why do you still dig?

they all inquire.

To find what I lost

when I had –

     a mother and father,

a bucket

and spade.

This poem forms part of my next collection, No One Home (Mākaro Press), a boyhood memoir in poems and letters. 

The new Minister's brief to the Head of Department

No leaping out

from behind hidden agendas,

no lining lame ducks up

for media pot shots,

no scaring the crap out of me

with revelations or defamations

and definitely no defecations

in my corner.

Hire the best spin doctor going -

one that will guild

your OIA gnome droppings

so they look like

unvarnished truth lollies.

Send your top policy wonk

to work in my office -

they can rewrite

your dreary drivel

to better reflect

what I told you to say

in the first place.

Absolutely NO surprises

or I will make sure you slide down

the gnome stud book

faster than Jack abseiled

the beanstalk when the giant

started fee-fi-fo-ing.

That's all for now -

drop by next week

and brief me on the cock-ups

you've had to cover up.

My apologies to anyone who has visited this blog during the last 18 months in the hope of finding a new post. I took a long break that was neither planned nor caused by physical ailment, nor did it result from anything as mundane as writer’s block – in fact, I have put together another collection of writing over that time. More about that in the next post (which I promise will follow soon after this one).

During the ‘between posts’ interregnum, I also had a poem published in an anthology of political poetry, ‘Manifesto Aotearoa: 101political poems’ (Otago University Press, Edited by Philip Temple and Emma Neale, 2017). The poem was ‘The Head of Department’s Prayer on a change of Government’. I wrote it several years ago and only sent it to the anthology to make up my submission’s numbers. The poem is a parody on the Lord’s Prayer and my thinking was that such writing is a bit naff these days, but what did I know. I had also previously posted it on this blog here, but if you like political poetry, I strongly recommend you take a look at Manifesto Aotearoa, available online at Unity Books and other good booksellers.

The reception the Head of Department poem received was very positive, so I have decided to develop a series of poems based on the departmental and political context that the Head of Department works in. The poem above is one of these. I will post more as they take shape. (An 'OIA' is an Official Information Act request, which anybody can submit to a department in order to gain access to specific information.)

Cartoon briefs - there was an old woman who lived in a shoe

• A large octopus with the words "Housing Crisis" written on its body has one arm wrapped around John Key, Bill English, Nick Smith, Stephen Joyce and Paula Bennett. Bill's speech bubble says "Just wait, it has to let go eventually." The others have expressions ranging from terror to astonishment on their faces. The arm wrapped around the cabinet ministers has "political fallout" written on it. The remaining flailing arms each have one of the following sets of words on them: homelessness, first home ownership, street beggars, garage dwellers, slum landlords, unhealthy houses, land bankers.

• The cartoon is divided in two diagonally. In the bottom left, there is a multi-level building with a sign on it - "Housing Crisis Casino". Glitter, fireworks, and stars surround the top of the building. On the ground outside, a small group of people with bows are firing arrows at the top storey. The words "Government Measures to Stop Crisis" are written above four or five arrows in flight. In the top right half of the cartoon, a group of cigar-smoking, opulently-dressed gamblers are sitting around a card table in a room. The dealer has dealt four cards - the words on the back of each card read: buy and hold, buy and do-up, buy and on-sell, buy and build, joker. A window behind the card-players has on its outside an arrow with a sucker head stuck to the glass and the word "thud" above it. The dealer is saying "Don't worry, they're not serious".

• A group of four cabinet ministers wearing casual clothing is sitting around a table. They are wearing name tags - John, Bill, Nick, Paula. A sign on a door to the room reads "Potty Shed Retreat - Ideas Room". There is a whiteboard behind the table with the heading "Strategies for fixing the housing crisis". There is no other writing on the whiteboard. At the head of the table sits a woman wearing the name tag "Facilitator". A newspaper with the heading "WINZ implicated in garage housing scheme" lies on the table. The facilitator's speech bubble says "So Paula, this was your idea?". Bill is thinking "That's clever - it frees up cars for sleeping in". Nick's thought bubble reads "What about storage container houses?" John's thought bubble has a flag with a garage on it.

Cartoon briefs - hey diddle diddle

• John Key, with a perplexed look on his face, and dressed in a frock and wearing rubber gloves, is standing in a kitchen with a large, half-empty plastic milk bottle in one hand. The milk bottle has a hole in one corner and is leaking a stream of milk onto the floor. An assortment of burnt cakes, spilt ingredients and torn up recipes litter the bench and floor. In his other hand, he is holding open a book. The title of the book is "NZ Economy Cookbook (Chinese Edition)".

• The cartoon is divided in two diagonally. In the top left, a thin, black-singleted cow-cockey with his back to us is walking out a farm gate. He is carrying a suitcase with a label which says "Fonterra's Get Rich Poor Quickly Dairy Farm Package". A fat bankster dressed in a waist-coated suit is standing by the gate grinning from ear to ear. A "Farm Certificate of Title" document protrudes from his pocket. In the bottom right half of the cartoon, Bill English is speaking on the phone - "Don't worry John, they'll still vote for us." A book with the title "Great Political Con Tricks" sits on a coffee table next to Bill. 

• A group of four cabinet ministers wearing casual clothing is sitting around a table. They are wearing name tags - John, Bill, Stephen, Murray. A sign on a door to the room reads "Green Brown Fields Retreat - Ideas Room". There is a whiteboard behind the table with the heading "Strategies for fixing the dairy downturn". There is no other writing on the whiteboard. At the head of the table sits a woman wearing the name tag "Paula Rebstock - Facilitator". A newspaper with the heading "Tourism overtakes Dairy in export earnings" lies on the table. Paula's speech bubble says "No Stephen, we can't make every tourist buy a can of milk powder as an entry tax". Murray's thought bubble reads "How about a sheep farm then?" Bill is thinking "We should make it 2 cans". John's thought bubble has a flag with a cow on it. Stephen looks as though he is sulking.