Presentation on theme: "Hone Tuwhare Stop your snivelling creek-bed: come rain hail"— Presentation transcript:
1 Hone Tuwhare Stop your snivelling creek-bed: come rain hail and flood-waterlaugh againHone Tuwhare
2 Life &Work Born 1922 Only surviving child of 5 ROADSI turn away from roads,sign posted hot macadams:roads on smooth roads curvinglooping under, up and yondergoing leading nowhere.I dream of roadsbut seek instead a tumblestumble-footed course I knowwill earn me sad woundscutting deep to bone.I have learned to lovetoo much perhapsrough tracks hard of goingpoorly lit by stars.Night-long voyagingshave found no easy pathto the silent gatethat is the dawn -that truth beyondthat is the banished city.Hearing only the night-birdsbooming ancient blasphemies:moon-dark ease reflectionin the knocking stonesthe river chortling.Life &WorkBorn 1922Only surviving child of 5Mother died of consumption - lived with fatherLeft school aged 15Apprenticed as boiler maker: Otahuhu railway workshops - here he meet poet R.A.K MasonJoined communist party 1950’s - Quit. Rejoined kicked out.Politically active: trade unions
3 Publications (Poetry): No Ordinary Sun (1964) TIME AND THE CHILDTree earth and skyreel to the noontide beatof sun and the old manhobbling down the road.Cadence -of sun-drowned cicadain a child’s voice shrilling:… are you going man?Where are going man where -the old man is deafto the child.His stick makes deepholes in the ground.His eyes burn to a distant pointwhere all roads converge … .The child has left his toysand hobbles after the oldman calling: funny man funny manfunny old man funny.Overhead the sun pacesand buds pop and flare.Notable influences:Maori cultureBible, Old TestamentWork as boiler makerFather’s library cardPublications (Poetry):No Ordinary Sun (1964)Come Rain Hail (1970)Sapwood and Milk (1972)Something Nothing (1974)Making a Fist of It: poems and short stories (1978)
4 DRUNKWhen they hustled him outat closing time he hadforty cents clutched inhis hand for another drinkRain stabbed the streetswith long slivers of lightHe picked his waygingerly treading the goldennon-existent stairsto the fried-fish shopWhirling pin-pointsof coloured lights confusedhim: and when people appearedto converge on him he swervedto avoid them and collidedwith a postHe sensed a sea of recedingfaces picked himself upand promptly emptied his gutson the footpath fervently callingfor his bleeding mate Christwho was nowhere to be seenLater wearing a stiff maskof indifferencehe pissed himself in the busAt work the next morninghe moved with effort in the hollowsilence of a self-built tomb:unaware of the trapped mortalcrouching thereTHE OLD PLACENo one comesby way of the doughy trackthrough straggly tea tree bushand gorse, past the hidden springand bitter cress.Under the chill moon’s lightno one cares to look uponthe drunken fence-postsand the gate white with moss.No one except the windsaw the old placemake the final curtsyto the sky and earth:and in no protesting sensedid iron and barbed wireease to the rust’s invasionnor twang more tautlyto the wind’s slap and scream.On the cream-lorryor morning paper van no one comes,for no one will ever leavethe golden city on the fussy train;and there will be no more waitingon the hill beside the quiet treewhere the old place faltersbecause no one comes any moreno one.‘The mana of my house has fled, / the marae is but a paddock of thistle’
5 “His verse is known to induce mute readers to read aloud …” NOT BY WIND RAVAGEDDeep scarrednot by wind ravaged nor rainnor the brawling stream:stripped of all save the brief fineryof gorse and broom; and standingsentinel to your bleak lonelinessthe tussock grass -O voiceless land. Let me echo your desolation.The mana of my house had fled,the marae is but a paddock of thistle.I come to you with a bitternessthat only your dull folds can soothefor I know, I knowmy melancholy chants shall be lostto the wind’s shriek about the rotting eaves.Distribute my nakedness -Unadorned I come with no pricelessoffering of jade and bone curio: yetto the wild berry shall I givea tart piquancy; enhance for a deathlessspace the fragile blush of manuka …You shall bear all and not heed.In your huge compassion embracethose who know no feeling otherthan greed:of this I lament my satisfactionfor it is as full as a beggar’s cup:no less shall the dust of avaricious mensuccour exquisite blooms withmoist lips partingto the morning.“In these days when so much poetry is clouded with caution, sickness, weak cynicism, it is good to find a man seeing things with the clearer vision of one who knows life by work, by hard work with his hands … he speaks so profoundly from Maoridom that the source can be felt to lie in the depths common to all man.”(R.A.K Mason)“His verse is known to induce mute readers to read aloud …”
6 Te aka where o te whenua – e The root is drawn from the earth, NO ORDINARY SUNTree let your arms fall:raise them not in supplicationto the bright enhaloed cloud.Let you arms lack toughness andresilience for this is no mere axeto blunt, nor fire to smother.Your sap shall not rise againto the moon’s pull.No more incline a deferential headto the wind’s talk, or stirto the tickle of coursing rain.You former shagginess shall not bewreathed with the delightful flightof birds nor shieldnor cool the ardour of unheedinglovers from the monstrous sun.Tree let your naked arms fallnor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball.This is no gallant monsoon’s flash,no dashing trade winds blast.The fading green of your magicemanations shall not make pure againthese polluted skies … for thisis no ordinary sun.O treein the shadowless mountainsthe white plains andthe drab sea flooryour end at last is written.‘Taku kotuku noho awa,Taku tumu herenga waka,Nana i kumekumeTe aka where o te whenua – eKa rangona koe ki OtahuTe wehi o te whenua-e’(‘The heron has flownThe canoe is gone,The river is no haven,The root is drawn from the earth,But in Otahu,The place of birth,There is no death,You cannot die.’)
7 “I can’t give a recipe for a creative anarchic mind explosion.” THE SEA, TO THE MOUNTAINS, TO THE RIVERFar offthe sea beckonsto the mountains.Austerelythe mountains ponderthe cacaphonic river tossingwhite-splintered mane to themists swirl.Herealien sounds are struck.Nowhere is the greater fussto tear out the river’s tongue.Blue hiss a crackleof the welding rod,compressed sigh of airand the whump and whooffuse to the rising clamourof the rivet gun.Cursingscuffing the earth with massiveboots, men are walking away:and from the smoke-wreathed shoulderof a crouching hill a gigantic fistof sound unfolds – shattering the clouds.Coaxed into staccato lifea tractor nonchalantly puffsperfect rings into the startled air.Exulting menas skilled as spiders threada skyline of steel crucifixes.The sea beckonsagain and againto the mountains. Unmovedthe austere mountains pondera silence as profound as stars..Environment & connection with the land.Personification, imagery & animism..“I can’t give a recipe for a creative anarchic mind explosion.”(Tuwhare)
8 Political ideas / involvement. DELIVER US …They speak in tightesoteric voices:a special monkey-languagesuperbly designed toconcealthe very secret verycomplex technologicalknow-howof cracking nutsMonkey-wisea mental finger gamewholly absorbingbut which tends to reducea mountainto a dung-hillMeantime the dull ex-communicantsgo on crackingthe tougher nuts merelyby bashing them withbigger rocks.Political ideas / involvement.Affiliations & aspirations with ordinary working class.
9 NOCTURNEAnd if the earth should trembleto the sea’s unfathomed rageit is because the sun has fleduncapping the stone nipplesof the land.The moon has tornfrom the pulsing arm of the seaa tawdry bracelet … and Ialone am leftwith the abandoned earthand the night-sea sobbing.My heart shall limping cometo police the nightso that no surly lightshall flarenor sad spring blood forthdespondent moonto limn the swollen nightin anguish.SONGGay windimpudent lover of treeswhy do you sing grey lamentationsto a sallow sky?The headlands await your comingand the mute crags lend a pensiveear to the listless drag of thesea’s feet.Treeyour muscles leap and tensebut will not free the windheld captive in your branches.
10 A DISCIPLE OF DREAMSI walked with him -and when he spoke my eyesopened to strange happeningsand I looked down into the gasping mouthsof fishes with eyes like roundblack bread and tails quivering assilvered wine that had not been darkenedby his blood …Yet did I see him squinting at the skyin the manner of menborn to the sea:and I knew a deep dread for I sawa wrathful army on black steeds, massing …Miraculous how my fears were laid:and calmly did he bid us allto eat of the blessed foodand straightaway knelt we downto partake of his bounty.And so it was that in the midst of feastingand thanksgiving the storm fell upon uswith a fury that no one could quell: the wind torefutile protestations from his lipsand the seas threshedand lightening shattered the loavesand little fishesand the heavens spat venom on the facesof those whose meatless arms were thin armourto the pitiless rain:my rage grew to the topmost wave-and I awoke engulfed in tearsmy fists beating the floor of mystone room.
11 BibliographyNew Zealand Book Council: Hone Tuwhare (1/9/2003).He Tikanga Marae (Guide to a Marae) Department of Maori Studies, Massey University, New Zealand, 1989.Mitcalfe, B. Maori, Coromandel Press, Coromandel, 1981.Tuwhare, H. Come Rain Hail, Caveman Press, Dunedin, 1974.Tuwhare, H. No Ordinary Sun, John McIndoe, Dunedin, 1979.‘Hone Tuwhare’, in L. Cox and H. McQueen eds. Ten Modern New Zealand Poets, 1st ed, Longman Paul, Auckland, 1974.
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