Moving and Shaking
Remembering a Great New Zealand Poet
It seems like a long time since I last wrote here, even though not even two months have gone by. But in our world, where time (and attention) diminishes in proportion to ever-increasing demands on them, two months may as well be an eternity.
In my “defence,” I could only say that it is summer in New Zealand, and while, where I live, temperatures rarely reach mid-twenties, the pace still slows as it does in summertime. Especially at a certain age :)!
As I am writing these lines, the sky is coloured in dusky blue and pale, tea-rose pink hues above the still, grey sea. A few people walking with themselves, their dogs, or with the evening descending softly into a mild, late summer air.
I’ve been reading poems written by a New Zealand poet whom I first discovered by sheer chance while browsing books in a bookshop in the city where I then lived.
I remember picking up a book because the cover caught my eye — a solitary cabin perched as if wind-blown in the middle of a rust-coloured field. “Elemental,” by Brian Turner.
I opened the book and read the first couple of poems, then walked to the counter and purchased it. I knew neither who Brian Turner was nor where Central Otago was. What I knew was that his words spoke to me as if whispered into my ear.
Since that day, I have discovered other New Zealand poets, and some I loved, but none as much and as instinctively as Brian Turner. I have also acquired almost all of Brian’s work, visited where he lived and loved, and sadly, read many tributes published after his recent passing.
Brian Turner, age 80, died on the 5th of February in the arms of his partner, writer Jillian Sullivan, moments after declaring, “Right. Let’s get going.”
In that, as in everything else, Brian was the quintessential New Zealander.
Because, after almost 31 years of dwelling on these islands, I am quite sure that no place on Earth could beget such a poet as Brian Turner.
There are of course many great poets in many great places, but how many of them are also highly successful sportsman, (Brian represented New Zealand in hockey, played cricket at a regional level, caddied around the world, crewed on offshore racing yachts, and climbed many Southern Alps peaks, including Aoraki/Mt Cook), fierce environmentalist, avid cyclist and all round great bloke, as they say around here.
Amongst all that, Brian managed to write 13 poetry collections and receive many awards, including that of Poet Laureate. He was also an essayist, columnist and biographer. How he managed all this is a mystery, but he did.
I think it must have something to do with his view on life; I recently read that he believed the best writing came from people who were closely associated with a region, because they knew the land, and identified with everything in it.
I believe he was right.
Of all the many poems I am grateful he had written, I have chosen “Moving and Shaking” to thank him for being who he was — a great human.
Moving and Shaking
by Brian Turner
I am lunching in Ōtūrehua— where the hell is that? —
at one of the town’s most popular spots
for the in-crowd: my place. There’s just me, just.
I am notorious for lunching.
Meaning, having lunch.
It’s sunny, as it often is. A few
cumulus clouds
jostle above Mt Ida, press against
each other,
big breasted like geese. Traffic’s sparse in Ōtūrehua. Fumes? What are
they? You mean four-leggeds’ flatulence?
The nor’ wester’s
the best Expelair known to
humankind.
I’m in with me. I interview myself
and come up with
a string of witty asides and insightful
observations:
about wethers and weather, fine
wool and gulls
that peck the eyes out of lambs,
about the lack of water
in the wells. And I sing the wonders
of the fantastic
dream coat sunset over the Old Man Range
last night.
I’m very Ida Valley where Barry goes
by in his ute
With dogs on the back: “Get down,
you bastards.”
Then half an hour later there’s Grim
in his belching big truck, cartin’ supper
up to Hawkdun Station. No one here’s
got a groomed face or a non-crush suit;
no one’s well-known outside the district.
Bikini-clad models don’t turn up for shoots
on Rough Ridge. But my coffee’s good.
Blue Mountain something-or-other, plunger-style.
I am at the peak of my semi-retirement,
my powers undiminished, my charms undeniable.
My rise, when it comes, will be steady, steady,
and impressive. I will fire up. I will shine,
like the moon above Blackstone Hill.
I shall be a sparkling star in the firmament
When I have gone west for ever. But before that
I will be invited to lunch with celebrities,
no-hopers masquerading as somebodies
in the Big Smoke, and I shall reply politely:
Sorry, too busy for now. Mushrooming
every day, and the brownies are smashing
cicadas on the Poolburn Dam. Maybe some
other time. Why not come and see me
in Ōtūrehua*, if you’re ever down this way.
*Ōtūrehua is made up of the words ō (place of), tū (to stand), and Rēhua (the star Antares). It translates to “Place where the summer star (Antares) stands still.” Having had the great fortune of spending ten whole days in the place last December — I can confirm two things: the place is full of great humans and the summer star stands still indeed.
