broadsheet new new zealand poetry

Issue No. 12, November 2013

Special Issue

Editor: Mark Pirie

THE NIGHT PRESS WELLINGTON

/ 1 Contents copyright 2013, in the names of the individual contributors

Published by The Night Press

Cover image: Masthead of the Star

Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders; the literary executors have proved untraceable.

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ISSN 1178-7805 (Print) ISSN 1178-7813 (Online)

Please Note: At this stage no submissions will be read. The poems included are solicited by the editor. All submissions will be returned. Thank you.

2 / Contents

PREFACE / 5

UNA AULD / 8

R D BROWN / 12

ALINE DUNN / 15

H S GIPPS / 16

H H HEATLEY / 17

BESSIE L HEIGHTON / 18

HONOR GORDON HOLMES / 21

E A IRWIN / 23

W J MCKELLOW / 26

PATRICIA PARKER / 27

T E L ROBERTS / 30

SHERRATT / 34

H TILLMAN / 36

IDA M WITHERS / 37

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS / 39

/ 3 Acknowledgements

The poems included in this issue appeared in the Star on the below dates:

Una Auld: The Mount, 4 August 1923 — Easter Lilies, 11 April 1925 — Star-Song, 3 February 1923 — Beneath, 24 March 1923 R D Brown: The Great Out-Doors, 10 November 1923 — Bellvue Spur, 28 July 1923 Aline Dunn: Glances, 19 April 1924 H S Gipps: After, 29 November 1924 H H Heatley: Inamorata, 11 August 1923 Bessie L Heighton: Nor’-wester, 14 April 1923 — The Old Rocker, 24 November 1923 — Anzac Flowers, 3 May 1924 — Sunrise, 23 August 1924 — Willow Song, 1 November 1924 — Memories, 22 March 1924 — Autumn, 7 February 1925 Honor Holmes: Springtime in Pigeon Bay, 14 December 1923 — Goodbye to Holmes’s Bay, 12 December 1924 E A Irwin: Midnight Over Okain’s Bay, 13 October 1923 — God’s Garden, 30 August 1924 — The Last Passage, 5 April 1924 W J McKellow: Home, 26 July 1924 Patricia Parker: The Awakening, 15 November 1924 — Winter Music, 9 August 1924 — Witch’s Hill, 1 November 1924 T E L Roberts: Mount Pleasant, 30 August 1924 — The Hills of Home, 24 April 1926 Sherratt: Maui Falls Before Hine-nui-te-po..., 24 May 1924 — Tawhirimatea, the Storm God, 9 February 1924 H Tillman: Cracroft Hill, 12 May 1923 — New Paths, 31 October 1925 Ida M Withers: A Canterbury Summer, 14 December 1923 4 / Preface

Allen Curnow, New Zealand’s renowned poet, was also famous for believing ‘almost nothing that [mattered] was added to New Zealand’s verse between 1906 and 1930’. There were, however, others disagreeing with his hard judgement and those who perhaps knew better, e.g. Pat Lawlor, J H E Schroder, C A Marris and C R Allen. Curnow’s comment, from a 1968 Queensland conference paper reprinted in National Identities (Melbourne, 1970), relates to the 1926 Treasury of New Zealand Verse and the 1930 Kowhai Gold anthologies. It doesn’t take in to account the full range of New Zealand poets operating nationally at that time. Yet Curnow’s view has maintained its authority over early New Zealand poets since his Caxton Book of New ZealandVerse appeared in 1945. Driven by Modernist tendencies and a revolt against the Romantic, Victorian and Georgian views of the period as well as amateur newspaper verses of poor quality, Curnow’s view held sway for varying reasons. Few recent national anthologists, however, have looked beyond his earlier Caxton and Penguin anthology selections in order to identify the narrowness that his ‘canon’ of New Zealand poetry conveys. In the past few years, I’ve continued to find early poets and poems of interest from 1915-30 during what I describe as the classic New Zealand poetry period. It’s an interesting time period not fully done justice to by the anthology Kowhai Gold taking in the First World War and its aftermath and encompassing the decadence of the Twenties up to the start of the Depression in 1929. I’ve now seen maybe a half of the poets from this period and there are still many more to hunt out. A closer examination of national newspapers in the National Library of New Zealand’s Papers Past digital archive reveals more poets than previously thought likely. Perhaps one of the most valuable discoveries so far (overlooked by contemporary literary historians and critics alike) is the Star group of poets of Christchurch 1922-26. (Not in Papers Past but available in micro film runs.) Recently I took a closer look at some of the local Star poets and unearthed over 200 poems from this period by nearly 40 poets operating in Canterbury, along with one or two visiting poets to / 5 Christchurch and contributors from other areas like Nelson, who took advantage of an open door policy on local submissions to the Christchurch Star. The Star was so keen on verse they ran regular doggerel columns (‘Spindrifts’ and ‘Things Thoughtful’) on top of their more serious Saturday poetry page, ‘Among the Poets’, which featured the poets I’ve included here as well as overseas poets. Their local poetry content from late 1922 seems to have stopped by 1925 with T E L Roberts still appearing in 1926. There is evidence that some of the group originally published in the Ellesmere Guardian 1921-22 before moving on to the Star. Chief among them were Roberts, H H Heatley and Bessie L Heighton. Sherratt was the most prolific of the Star poets. The Star was not a prestigious literary paper like The Press orThe Sun but was a favourite of film/theatre/arts followers and sportsmen who eagerly anticipated seeing their names in weekly write-ups. The poets of the Star do turn out to be a diverse group of varying occupations and ages and of more than amateur versifying quality. Businessmen, a farmer, a mill hand, a policeman, an actor, a sportsman, married women and spinsters, young educated women, and others were among the contributors of Star verses. Some were mere children/teenagers like Honor Gordon Holmes aged 12-13; others are well-known like Tom Bracken and Bettie Riddell. What the poems do show is a significant group of writers who took their art seriously in a New Zealand context like other poets or groups around the country well before the emergence of the Caxton Press, a national literary journal like Landfall, and the ‘South Island myth’. Their poems were at home with the local context and the places they visited and were not overly nationalist in intent. How odd Curnow’s earlier view seems when you encounter a group of writers as admirable as the Star poets. As they’ve been overlooked till now, it seems commendable to make their work available to the public again in a special issue of broadsheet. I hope you enjoy the verses as much as I did when making this compilation.

Mark Pirie Wellington, November 2013 6 / The Star Poets 1922-26

/ 7 Una Auld

T H E M O U N T

O, sometimes when the rain is swift, And stings upon my face, And wild winds send my soul adrift Beyond all time and space, I find again that surging shore, Bound by the rock-bound tide, And dream beneath its spell once more Of nothing else beside!

Or when the lotus winds sing low, From valley to high hill, And soft and slow the long hours go Till all the world is still: I see beyond the veil of gold, The gorse flings far and wide, To where the path winds, worn and old, Against the mountain side!

For rains may cut, and winds may kiss, And birds sing evermore— I only know one song I miss, One sound I listen for— To hear the pines go crooning deep Above the breakers roar, While on the Mount the thin mists creep Along the tide-swung shore!

8 / And so though life goes swiftly on, It cannot from me take The thought of that far shore whereon The great green rollers break; No matter what the years may name, My heart will keep for me, The gnarled pohutukawa’s flame Against a grey-wash’d sea!

E A S T E R L I L I E S

O, still they dwell beneath that sky— (A Man rose who went forth to die ) The twisted pathways on the hill Flower with grave-eyed lilies still, And shores are soft by Galilee As when a Voice called, “Follow Me!” Grass is as green, and birds as sweet, As when the Master trod the street, And stars look down, all silver, still, On to a dark and lonely hill, And we, who never saw Him, cry: (A man rose, who went forth to die!)

/ 9 S T A R - S O N G

When the world is very young, Splashed with blue and gold, And the birds pour out the song That is never old; Then I watch the slender trees, And the sunlit green, And sing the song of seven seas With little laughs between!

But I love the shadows deep On the tall, high hill, When the strange, small winds creep out, And the world is still. Then I close my eyes and wait, Till the white stars swing, And whisper to my breathless heart The song the flowers sing!

If you listen very hard You may hear it too— Filled with crooning, happy sounds, Wet with moon-steeped dew. Only dream a little while, When the white stars swing, And you’ll hear “within” your heart The song the flowers sing!

10 / B E N E A T H

They say it is “just a flower” I am giving you— Born in worlds of wonder Of flaming day and dew. They only see a petal, Slowly lifting up— They cannot feel the glory Enshrined in this cup.

Beyond all outward beauty The Master Hand wrought; Pale and pure and perfect, By a dream-mist caught. Gave the white of starshine, When the night is born, And the hush of little winds Just before the dawn.

Filled it with the worship-song, And left it to blow; That the sickened heart of you His deep love might know. So that through this fragrant touch You might feel Him, too— Say you it is just a flower That I give to you?

/ 11 R D Brown

T H E G R E A T O U T - D O O R S

When the glamour of the city, Upon my spirit palls, And I’m sick of paint and powder, And crowded music halls.

When my limbs are growing weary, Of endless paving stones, And I’m tired of tram conductors, And jangling telephones.

Then I hope to wander westward, Beyond the setting sun, As the sweeping miles before me, Creep backward one by one.

When the creak of saddle leather, Replaces roaring trains, And my ear is filled with music, Of jingling bridle-chains.

Where the rugged hills unfolding, Beneath the open sky, Seem to dwarf the man-made mansions, Their puny height defy.

Where the fern-clad gorges echo, With tinkling water falls, And a world of fragrance lingers, Within their shadowed walls.

12 / Where the sunset’s blazing glory, Sweeps further up the hill, As the velvet night swoops downward, And all the world grows still.

Out there it is joy to follow, The winding trail along Where the great outdoors is calling Its endless siren song.

Out there where the joyous laughter, Rings ever true in tone, Out there you will find a kingdom, Where cities are unknown.

/ 13 B E L L V U E S P U R

Up sodden slopes of reeking mire, They stumbling reeled; the strangling wire Still held, despite the storm of shell, Hurled from our guns in angry hate; Grim barbed—it stood inviolate, While cursing comrades reeled and fell.

Through gaping lanes they hacked their way; Yard by grim yard, the seething fray; One grating grind of lunging steel, Striving for footholds in the slime, The thinning ranks, time after time, Repulsed—reform—then backwards reel.

Grim-visaged men with reckless eye, Bite on the reddened steel and die, Their gallant hearts forever still; Unshrived—alone—their only knell, The dense barrage of shrapnel shell, That searching sweeps the shot-torn hill.

As daylight fades, the throbbing note Of distant guns grows more remote; The struggling ranks of brown and grey; Crouch in their holes like beasts in pain, To lick their wounds, until again The breaking dawn renews the fray.

The rising moon with timorous gaze, Searches the shadows with her rays, Where twisted shapes of fallen lie; And cold bleak stars their vigil keep Where—wrapped in everlasting sleep, The night winds croon their lullaby.

14 / Aline Dunn

G L A N C E S

Two human beings, A girl—a man Across the street ’Twas just a span.

He glanced, Poor man, poor man. She glanced— My tale began.

From glances it Became a stare, She haughty, He with an amused air Waited her passing Through the Square.

So for days, For weeks, This comedy ran, Love looks Between this maid and man.

And then a friend, With happy thought, Together maid and man He brought.

I’ll not draw out, With doubt and strife, But merely state They’re man and wife.

/ 15 H S Gipps

A F T E R

Storm-tossed, on billows dark, Facing the gale alone; Undaunted, plough the foam, my bark, And battle on!

Oft-times the storm clouds lower Black, in a leaden sky; No sextant marks the noontide hour To eager eye.

Over thy straining decks The angry surges sweep— Little of pity ever recks The raging deep!

Yet will the wind’s sad wail Give place to music sweet; No more the fury of the gale Against thee beat.

Where, ’mid the seething foam, On yon wild billow’s crest, Fearless, the sea-bird finds her home— And floats at rest.

There, when the piercing blast Its last keen shaft has spent, Th’ unruffled blue shall sleep at last, In calm content!

Then, thro’ the rising gale, Or when the storm is gone— Speed, ’mid the ocean’s varying tale, My bark, speed on!

16 / H H Heatley

I N A M O R A T A

O fly to me my own sweet love, Why longer wistful tarry; The stars which spangle heavens above, Proclaim that we shall marry.

The daphne with its fragrance sweet, O’er sylvan walks far reaching, Bids thee to come where violets greet, All Nature is beseeching.

Come where the golden primrose gleams, And grids the fields all over; Meet at the vale of sil’vry streams, And walk with me, thy lover.

Down where the sweetest song-birds sing, We shall sequestered linger; With joy I’ll bring the choicest ring To place upon thy finger.

Sweet in the morn when daisies ope, My call is ringing clearly; O why defer my longing hope? I love thee. O so dearly.

Be thou with me in ev’ry dream And heart to heart on waking; Let thy refulgence round me gleam, I’m thine, all else forsaking.

/ 17 Bessie L Heighton

T H E N O R ’ - W E S T E R

Over the snowy hills I fly, down to the long, white street, Leaping round o’er its dusty curves, joyous and young and fleet, Tossing the trees till in crimson rain the leaves come whirling down, Madly over the fields of corn I dash till I reach the town. Banners of dust-like mist I raise, and bear before my way! Never a bairn but shall lose its hat beneath my wand today! City and country, hill and vale, yes, even the sapphire sea, Will, one and all, ere twilight comes, have tribute paid to me.

T H E O L D R O C K E R

I see the old, red rocker, Where very long ago My mother used to rock me Within the firelight glow, And from the past comes stealing The well-remembered strain, She sang to me each evening, A tender, sweet refrain.

Within that old red rocker, Each eve I sit and sing. The same old song to bairnies Against me murmuring In infant croons the chorus I crooned so long ago: When mother used to rock me Within the firelight glow.

18 / A N Z A C F L O W E R S

Lilies for a maiden’s breast, Roses for the gentle bride; Azure stars,—forget-me-nots, For our loved ones sundered wide.

Poppies for the mighty dead, May they ever redly glow, Emblem of the hero blood, Which o’er Flanders Fields did flow.

S U N R I S E

Crimson and gold in the eastern sky, Flooding the world with a glory bright, Sunrise is waking the bird on high, Sunrise is chasing the skirts of night.

Wonderful hour when a ruby flame Circles the earth with a dazzling sea! Tender and low through the daybreak’s frame, Bird trills are whispering their love to me.

W I L L O W S O N G

The willow tree is singing to the stream; I heard it from my window all the night; It sang of something misty as a dream, A secret dewy sweet, and rainbow bright.

No human ear will know the whole refrain; Its secret draws from realms by us unpressed; And yet each night I wait to hear again, The song which leaves its sweetest part unguessed! / 19 M E M O R I E S

Sing while the purple dusk is softly falling, Sing of the days long gone and yet so near; When through the grass we heard our mother calling; (Her tender tones I still can gently hear!) “Come in to bed my little bairnies dear!”

Sing of those evenings; sing them back with sweetness, That in the past I was too young to know; Let all the love which made their full completeness Beneath the medium of thy music flow, Thus, once again, will live the long ago!

A U T U M N

Listen! Tender feet are stealing Lightly o’er a balmy earth: One is near whose sweet appealing Gives the Easter-lilies birth.

Autumn! Queen of scarlet creeper! Empress of the red and gold! Dry thy tears for Spring, fair weeper; Gifts unknown does Autumn hold.

Ruby eyes and pearly mornings, Diamond dew, and silver rain: See each gem her crown adorning, As she floats o’er hill and lane!

20 / Honor Gordon Holmes

S P R I N G T I M E I N P I G E O N B A Y

I’m glad that Spring is here again, and that it has brought back The daisies and the dandelions that are flowering on the track. The cuckoo on the tree-top, and the lark upon the wing, The bushy manuka’s white flowers, where tuis love to sing.

The grey warbler is building, and very hard he tries To hide his little pear-shaped nest from cuckoo’s prying eyes: The bell-bird sucks the honey from the kowhai’s golden cup, And everywhere on every hill wild flowers are springing up.

The kingfisher is busy now, he has no time to shriek, For he is digging out his home in a bank beside the creek. I know beneath a hawthorn hedge a quail has built her nest And fourteen pretty eggs are hidden there beneath her breast.

A fantail’s made her nest in a little tree of green, And in it there are four of the sweetest eggs I’ve seen. The busy little white eye keeps the roses free from blight, But when the fruit is ready he is there from morn till night.

The prickly old bush lawyer has his starry blossoms sweet, While the pretty little wind flowers wave their white arms at his feet. The hedge sparrow has built her nest in a macrocarpa tree, And in it snugly hidden there are blue eggs, one, two, three.

The chaffinch sings his happy song of welcome every day, He sings about his little nest made out of moss and hay. Goldfinches with their caps of red and coats with golden lines, Are building in the pear trees, in the hedges and the pines.

Down at the heads on a rocky point a seagull’s eggs are lying, She does not make a careful nest, she’s far too busy flying. She cracks a cockle on the rocks, she darts into the bay, She rises with a little fish and then she flies away.

/ 21 A fresh nor’-east blows down the bay, let’s sail away together, I’m glad that Spring has come again and brought the sailing weather.

G O O D B Y E T O H O L M E S ’ S B A Y

The summer sun shines brightly upon the sapphire seas, And on the white winged fishing boats which speed before the breeze: The lambs run happily about among the rocks and ridges, While the kingfishers look all around, from tops of trees and bridges.

The tuis on the treetops build, the seagulls on the ledges, The goldfinches, with sticks and straw, build nests among the hedges; The creeks run gently down the hills, like many silver lines, To lose themselves among the clumps of manukas and pines.

The ribbonwoods and totaras upon the hillside stand, They overlook a sleepy bay of shells and golden sand. The black pines and the ngaios on banks and steep cliff grow, The cloudless sky above their heads, the splashing sea below.

The purple misty hills look down upon the happy Bay, So will they stand and still look down when I am far away; So will the sails spread to the wind, the breeze blow fresh and fair, The sailing boats slip down the bay, but I will not be there.

The birds will build another spring, the cuckoo come again. The kowhai throw its golden glow o’er grass and leafy lane, But our dear happy childhood’s home, by valley, hill and sea, Will never more be seen again by Peter or by me.

22 / E A Irwin

M I D N I G H T O V E R O K A I N ’ S B A Y

Blackness above and moonless sky, And panoply of nimbus cloud; Darkness has pitched his nomad tent on high, And o’er his landscape bed has drawn his shroud. No gentle star obtrudes her trembling light, And challenge flings to the o’erbrooding night.

The hamlet lying in the dark— Save for a gleam that scars the night, Where, hap, some suff’rer waits for Charon’s bark, Or watches wearily for morning light— The ceaseless plashing of a broken rill, And mystery of darkened flat and hill.

The beat of unseen waves below, And out at sea a ghostly grey; Night-flying seabirds shrilling as they go, And phosphorescent gleam of fish at play; And flowing tide with ever-grasping reach, And rippling laughter, creeping up the beach.

/ 23 G O D ’ S G A R D E N

As I was going south I spent A day at Timaru; Few whom I met remember’d me; Few whom I met I knew.

I walked alone to that sad place— The Garden of the Lord; The graves lay thick where oft I’d play’d Upon the virgin sward.

With book in hand I noted down The names on many a stone Of old-time friends whom, years agone, Our family had known.

And some had died in youthful morn, And others at high noon, And some at ev’ning; now they sleep Beside the salt lagoon.

Emotion stirred; a tear-drop fell, As these dear names I scann’d Of Childhood’s intimates now gone To swell the Deathless Band.

Wast fancy? Did I hear again My mother’s restful croon? Father and mother long have lain Above the calm lagoon!

24 / Nearby, the breakers on the beach, With ceaseless pitch and surge, Sang like a sympathetic host A melancholy dirge.

The sun went down and in his place There rose a pallid moon, Yet still I linger’d near my friends Beside the grey lagoon.

T H E L A S T P A S S A G E

Let my bark gently sail into the bay— I would not that it flew before a gale— For gales have blown in plenty in my day, And now my boat is old and very frail.

Let there be no long ling’ring ’twixt the quays Whence I depart, and whither I would come, But a fair passage, with a following breeze; So I would make the longed for Port—and Home.

Let there be no wild tossing on the sea, Without a sight of land behind, before, A brief goodbye, and then Eternity, And old-time fellowships for evermore!

/ 25 W J McKellow

H O M E

We’re home again, the heads are passed, The harbour shores slip by, Upon the staff beyond the point Our coming signals fly; The resting ships creep into view, With rust upon their hulls, The launches dance upon the waves Beneath the wheeling gulls.

We’re home again! We’re home again! In stately majesty, The brown hills rise, the tussocked hills That watch beside the sea, Strong outposts of the smiling plains That stretch so far below, Where willows nod beside the streams, That soft and tranquil flow.

O! we have roamed the tropic Isles, Beneath the scorching sun, But here our thoughts have ever turned As each new day begun, Let they who will dream years away, Beside the drooping palm, For us no place in all the world Can have our homeland’s charm.

We’re home again, the gongs ring “stop.” We crowd the steamer’s rail, They’re hauling in the gangways now; They’re swinging out the mail And soon our feet shall press once more This land we call our own, We’ve wandered far, yet only found The fairest place is home. 26 / Patricia Parker

T H E A W A K E N I N G

The Spirit of Springtime paused today Above the dreaming hills. Tho’ slumb’ring deep They seemed to sense the close of Winter’s sway And trembling stirred and thrilled beneath their sleep.

They did not feel her from above them bending; They did not feel her presence in the air; Nor kindling love from her warm heart descending, As tenderly she touched their tawny hair.

Her golden tresses with their locks did mingle, As e’er their couch she bent her radiant head; Her nearness made their icy pulses tingle, Tho’ still they slumbered, in their barren bed.

Her sweetness and her fragrance were enthralling; Her balmy breath fell warm upon their brow As, wrapped in dreams, they heard her spirit calling, “Awake, dear hills, awake! ’tis springtime now.”

She melted Winter’s icy bonds asunder; And loosed the frozen life-blood of the rills, Unclosing eyes all dewy wide with wonder They slowly woke to life—those dreaming hills!

/ 27 W I N T E R M U S I C

On a leafles bough ’Gainst a sky of grey A brown bird trilled His roundelay.

Above the sound Of falling rain Rose rich and clear His sweet refrain.

No sun o’erhead, No vault of blue, Just weeping sky Of leaden hue.

Dull dreariness On hill and wold, Bleak cheerfulness Of winter cold.

Undaunted songster! Doubly dear Are thy glad notes When winter’s here.

28 / W I T C H ’ S H I L L *

Along the white and winding way That leads from peak to plain, In slumb’rous calm of autumn day, My steps wend once again.

Slopes here and there—all newly green Where fiery flames have run Their curling course from vale to spur— Lie smiling to the sun.

From thirsting slopes parched brown and bare The mild-eyed sheep trail slow By narrow, well-worn paths that lead To where fresh pastures grow.

Above me towers a rampart high, With steeply-frowning face: Did Nature’s hand thus pile to guard The Spirit of the place?

Far, far below the brown hill’s crest, Lapped by blue waters deep, Part kissed by sun, part wrapped in shade, Rapaki lies asleep.

*A Canterbury war memorial

/ 29 T E L Roberts

M O U N T P L E A S A N T

We wander where the hills are high That skirt the sounding seas; The sun of morning floods the sky, Nor moves there scarce a breeze, Young winsome Spring is even now Disporting as we go; Her mantle sweeps about the brow Where first her favours show.

And we pursue our winding way Well up toward the crest; Beneath us lies the purple bay. And far away to west Is stretched the plain with widening sweep To where that range is set, Whose rugged heights the land lines keep Where east and west are met.

How fair are they those peaks that raise Their white above the brown, As viewed across the greens and greys That wind about the town. It is the sight our fathers faced When crossing long ago, Save that for them had not been traced Those lines down there below.

30 / What feeling must have stirred them then, When on the ridge they stood, To view their goal—those vanguard men, And saw that it was good. It is a sight beyond compare, Set in tranquillity, That glorious panorama there Of mountain, plain and sea.

When others boast of scenes and sights And wonders far away, Invite them out unto these heights That they may here survey That which but few unmoved behold, In clear blue ether shown As now it lies, soft swathed in gold, That great grand scene our own.

/ 31 T H E H I L L S O F H O M E

A blush of rose is on our hills, The sun is at the set, The portals of the west are swung, And many clouds have met To fare him well and see him through That shining gateway rolled, That gateway with its closing bars Of amethyst and gold.

How often have I watched him there, In boyhood long ago, A furnace on the mountain tips, A fire among the snow. It was but yester, so it seems, And many mem’ries come, As here I stand, grey headed now, Among the hills of home.

The mako lifted forth her song, That floated far away, A vesper for the feathered world, A requiem for the day. But never comes her music now, From all the dales around; Her note is gone, that strange, wild note, And once familiar sound.

She passed, and we who loved her then Would it had not been so, And long to hear her twilight call Our children do not know; But gone’s the home and, too, the flowers, And our first loves with these; Beneath the hills by Skylight Stream Alone remain the trees.

32 / We planted in our childhood there, Neglected now and old. Like battered frame with picture gone— A story that is told. We romped around their youthful forms, We danced within their ring, And there we felt the joyous thrill When love is at the spring.

Still softly flows the stream as then, The rocks we scaled are there, Our bathing holes and fishing pools Are still as then they were; We paddled here with burnt brown feet, And here we learned to swim, And there on rude korari raft That stretch we dared to skim.

How near to Nature’s heart were we Who were the first to roam As children quite unfettered, free, Among these hills of home. The spell of childhood grips me now, The span of years is crost, The scents of sweet wild flowers come down, And all the man is lost.

Scargill

/ 33 Sherratt

From P O L Y N E S I A N L E G E N D S ( G r e y )

Maui Falls Before Hine-Nui-Te-Po, Goddess of Death

Up ’mid the tow’ring mountains White with snow, Up where the swirling white mists Softly flow, Up ’mid the dark cold peaks and Caverns deep— Goddess of Death was lying, Fast asleep.

None had her cold dominions Ever sought, None to her gloom steeped bound’ries Had been brought, Never was need for her at Watch to keep— Nothing disturb’d her long and Peaceful sleep.

Up from the world below To this white realm of snow, Maui came stealthily To conquer Death; Sturdy and bold was he, And from all fear was free— He would fight fearlessly To his last breath.

Goddess of Death awoke, Ere Maui made the stroke That would have freed mankind From Death’s great pow’r. Maui was slain instead, First of the sacred dead; Honoured and great was he To his last hour.

34 / Up ’mid the tow’ring mountains White with snow, Up where the swirling white mists Softly flow, Up where the dark cold peaks are Headstones all— Goddess of Death sleeps not, but Waits for all.

Tawhirimatea, The Storm God

Out in the west see the clouds swiftly massing; Feel the chill sting of the wind that is passing; Hear the wild gulls as they wheel in the sky, Warning us mortals with dolorous cry. God of the tumults, Tawhirimatea, Father of storms, with destruction, is near Seeking anew his great vengeance of old, Smiting his brothers with tempest and cold.

Dark is his face in the sky with his wrath Flashing, his eye, as the lightning springs forth— Threat’ning and deep comes the thunder, his voice— Shrieking, the winds, in their mad flight rejoice. Great is the pow’r of the God of the storm; Awful, his wrath, in its terrible form, Wreak’d on his brothers for tearing apart Rangi and Papa, those dear to his heart.

/ 35 H Tillman

C R A C R O F T H I L L

Across the Plains, Waimak’s sheen alone, Breaks the blue haze to where the foothills cower, And lowly lie before a great white throne. There, cold, majestic, tense with prisoned power, The Alps survey their realm. Before my eyes In splendour set are seats of ermined state, And crystal giant gems of wondrous size. Their furrowed facets, gleaming glaciers great; But what avails this glory, if again The city’s streets I tread, and still to find My love not broadened by the breadth of plain, Nor feel the mountain calm within my mind? If still to feel the fever, fear and fret And find my troubled thoughts are with me yet?

N E W P A T H S

The blind, the deaf, the halt, ever they cry, Ever they’re calling: “Lo! The narrow ways We keep are those we know; and all our days We’ve trod these paths; they’ll do until we die: We know their rise, and what beyond doth lie. You say our ways are wrong, but shall we find As good again? Strange paths are apt to wind; No song, no light we know, no help seems nigh.” And so they keep straight on; all to their lights; All those who cannot see, all those who lack; The blind see not the light upon the track; The deaf no angels hear; the halt fear heights; But light to see, and music, hands to guide, Are on new paths, and all the ways are wide.

36 / Ida M Withers

A C A N T E R B U R Y S U M M E R

Today is as one fair and fragrant rose, Whose beauty fades from memory of men, Lovely, and yet not much more so than those, That bloomed before,—anon, will bloom again, Fragrant, indeed, and shortlived as the rose, That scarce has reached its beauty’s heyday when, Cooling its brow on the breeze that blows, It falls, a heap of dust, to earth again.

A wond’rous day, indeed! And now ’tis done, Behold the archway in the rose-lip’t West! The Arch Triumphant of Apollo, gone In golden splendour, to his golden rest, The many flowers thrown upon his way Are scattered, still, upon the fading sky, Roses of cloudmist, red and pink and grey, In still, soft-tinted, fading masses lie.

And to the South, where, grim, the mountains stand, On guard above the windswept, sun-kissed plains, The softened haze of summer wraps the land, And tinted shows, where sunlight still remains, And sweet the wind that up the valley blows, With gorse-breath laden, from the fields beneath, Where gilding all the land, the gold hedgerows Marking the acres, scent the north wind’s breath.

/ 37 Full sweet may sing the nightingale forlorn All moon-inspired in leafy glades afar; But not so sweet as sings the lark at morn, Nor are his notes sweet as the thrush’s are, When, solitary, at the close of day, With grateful heart, he sits, and bursting throat Singing of summer, in his own sweet way, On many-humoured, liquid, trembling, note.

And as the plains’ intoxicating breath Gives to your soul forgetfulness and rest, So shall the gorse be wove into a wreath, And on your heart its fiery image prest, And other lands may speak of this as ill, And tempt you with brave words, and sweet refrains, And go you may, but come again you will, Back to your own loved Canterbury Plains.

38 / Notes on Contributors

UNA AULD (nee Currie) (1904-1965) was a prolific contributor of verses to the Star. Widely published in Australasian papers and journals, she also wrote stories and her verse was anthologised afterwards in Kowhai Gold (1930), A Gift Book of New Zealand Verse (c1931), New Zealand Best Poems (1930s), New Zealand Farm and Station Verse (1950) and Bill Manhire’s 100 New Zealand Poems (1993) and 121 New Zealand Poems (2005). She moved to Sydney in 1949 and lived there till her death. She published a fiction book, Dr. Duncan’s Tropical Nurse, in London, 1963. R D (ROBERT DOUGLAS) BROWN (1887-1966) contributed verses to the Star including his WWI poem from Christchurch in 1923. A Lance Corporal initially, he rose to Sergeant in the NZEF, 26th Reinforcements. Before and after the war, he worked as an accountant in the Hawke’s Bay. Brown was Mayor of Hastings 1957-60. ALINE DUNN b. 1893 New South Wales, Australia; d. 1979. She contributed verses to the Star and was a well-known theatre/stage show actor 1915-25. H S (HENRY STANSFIELD) GIPPS b. 1865 Midlothian, Scotland; d. 1944. Gipps was a settler at Wakapuaka, Nelson. He contributed verses to the Nelson Evening Mail, the Christchurch Star and the Evening Post “Postscripts” column. H H (HENRY HERBERT) HEATLEY b. 1868? d. 1946. Heatley contributed verses to the Temuka Leader and Ashburton Guardian (1890s), Ellesmere Guardian 1921-22 and the Christchurch Star. He had a varied work-life as a member of the Geraldine and Temuka Land Board in the 1890s, then an Ashburton sales manager, and later a commission agent and city council employee in Christchurch. BESSIE L (LANGLEY) HEIGHTON (1884-1959) was a live wire of the Star group. She contributed verses to the Ellesmere Guardian 1921-22, the Star, New Zealand Railways Magazine and The Wooden Horse. She published a book Poetical Posies (1946) and is included in the anthology Eight Quills (1950). Her papers are held by the Turnbull Library in Wellington. HONOR GORDON COSTER (nee Holmes) (1911-1953) contributed verses to the Star from ‘Holmes’ Bay’, Pigeon Bay, Banks Pensinsula, winning the children’s poem competition in December 1923 and December 1924. She moved to Auckland and attended Epsom Girls’ Grammar School and Pukekohe Technical High School. She lived in Auckland till the end of the Thirties. She married James Alan Coster in 1938 and lived in Northland. E A (EDWARD ARTHUR) IRWIN b. 1873 Cumberland, England; d. 1941. Irwin, a police constable, lived at Lyttelton where he contributed verses to the Star. / 39 W J MCKELLOW (full name William James Aubrey McKellow) contributed verses to the Star from his residence at Avon Road. He worked as a machinist. He died in 1939 aged 52 years suggesting his birth date was around 1886/7. PATRICIA PARKER was a prolific contributor of verses containing spiritual qualities to the Star. Details are so far untraceable on her. T E L (THOMAS EDWARD LLOYD) ROBERTS b. Sefton 1873; d. 1952. Roberts was one of the leading poets of the Star group. He contributed to the Ellesmere Guardian and the Star and published Rimu and Rata (poetry, 1920) and two collections of memoirs about his time in Seddon and Motunau. A farmer and well-known rural figure: Waipara County Council 1914-17; Exec. Member Farmers’ Union; Pres. Waikari Valley Sheepowners’ Assn.; and Sec. Meat Producers’ Union; he visited Britain and France in 1905. His memoir Motunau, or The Hills of Home (1946) was reprinted in 1998 and is considered a definitive history of Hurunui. SHERRATT (full name Alfred Stanley Sherratt b. 1891; d. 1977) contributed verses to the Star from Kaiapoi where he was a mill hand. In particular he wrote an early series of poems based on Maori legends/myths from Sir George Grey’s Polynesian Mythology and Maori Legends. He later worked as a clerk in Christchurch. H (HARRY) TILLMAN (1882?-1957) was a well known sports writer, sportsman, expert on civic beautification and a 1923-25 contributor of sonnets to the Star. He edited the Canterbury Rugby Record and wrote the book Great Men of New Zealand Rugby (1957), which appeared posthumously. He is included in Ron Palenski’s 2013 rugby poetry anthology, Touchlines (NZ Sports Hall of Fame). IDA M (MARY) LOUGH (nee Withers) (1903-1985) contributed to the Star from Duvauchelle’s Bay, Banks Peninsula. ‘A Canterbury Summer’ came second in the ‘Canterbury Summer Poem Competition’, December 1923, won by Una Auld. Educated in Canterbury, Ida lived in Auckland in the early Thirties where she was a music composer and piano soloist. Her verses appeared in Australian and New Zealand papers and journals and in the anthology Kowhai Gold (1930) and some of her children’s verses were published by Oxford University Press along with her 1937 children’s fiction book, Long Ago in Rouen. In the 1930s she lived for four years in England and France. In France, she was a governess. She married John Harold Welsh Lough in 1947, who died in the J. Ballantyne and Company department store fire three months later. Ida lived in Christchurch where she was a well-known tapestry weaver.

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