broadsheet new new zealand poetry

Issue No. 25, May 2020

Editor: Mark Pirie

THE NIGHT PRESS WELLINGTON

/ 1 Contents copyright 2020, in the names of the individual contributors

Published by The Night Press

Cover image: Janet Charman by Max White

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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

SERIE BARFORD / 6

RICHARD BERENGARTEN / 7

JANET CHARMAN / 10

WALTER CHARMAN / 19

PIERS DAVIES / 20

BELINDA DIEPENHEIM / 23

AMANDA EASON / 25

MARGARET JEUNE / 28

HELEN RICKERBY / 29

ILA SELWYN / 31

ELIZABETH SMITHER / 33

KATE WATERHOUSE / 35

F W N WRIGHT / 38

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS / 40

/ 3 Acknowledgements

Grateful acknowledgement is made to Janet Charman for the reproduction of the following work:

Walter Charman: ‘The Blue Penguin’ is from The White Schooner and Other Ventures (Asterisk Publishing, New Plymouth, 1973).

4 / Preface

Janet Charman is one of New Zealand’s leading contemporary poets and feminist critics. She was associated with Spiral and New Women’s Press in Auckland in the 1980s. In 2008, Charman was awarded the New Zealand Book Award for Best Book of Poetry for Cold Snack. I first came across Charman’s work in the 1990s as a young student. I had bought her collection Red Letter (AUP, 1992) from the Vic Books Centre. She had a bold, uncompromising and energetic voice, which I warmed to. I continued to follow her work over the years, and as general editor of JAAM magazine I published and reviewed Charman’s work. I have met her in Auckland, several times, once having the chance to visit her at her home in Avondale. When I co-organised the Poetry Archive of New Zealand Aotearoa, with Dr Michael O’Leary and Dr Niel Wright, Janet Charman was among its supporters and sent us a copy of her father Walter Charman’s book, The White Schooner and Other Ventures, from 1973. It is lovingly printed and bound in suede leather. Janet trained first as a nurse. She has also been a receptionist, and became a tutor in the English Department of Auckland University in the 1990s. In 1997 she was Writer in Residence there. She became a secondary school teacher in the 2000s. She has had published eight collections of her poetry. In 2009 she took part in a literary residency in Hong Kong that featured in her latest collection, Surrender (2017). Her 2019 monograph ‘SMOKING: The Homoerotic Subtext of Man Alone’ is available as a free download at Genre Books (https://www.genrebooks.co.nz/ebooks/smoking.pdf). Critic Janet Wilson writes that Charman’s poetry ‘often dense, elliptical or complex in expression displays considerable emotional range extending from sexual innuendo, to the erotic, to tenderness, or a playful wit.’ This comment certainly applies to her lively poetry in this issue. It’s nice to be able to feature her work in broadsheet. As with other issues, I worked with Janet to invite some of her close friends and fellow poets to be in the issue with her. Thanks to those who sent work in for it. This is what always makes broadsheet features so special. It’s also great to be able to include here a poem by Walter Charman alongside Janet. A few contributors appear outside the feature such as Helen Rickerby, Richard Berengarten (UK), Margaret Jeune, and F W N (Niel) Wright.

Mark Pirie Wellington, May 2020

/ 5 Serie Barford

I F Y O U W E R E A T I P U T A

if you were a tiputa I’d steal you from the museum

treat and preserve you

lift soil from your shoulders with low pressure suction

divert the landslide that swept you away

swab you with blotting paper parcelled in acid free tissues

bathe you like a delicate artefact

lay you in humidification chambers rehydrate your brittle parts

tenderly lacquer your frayed edges patch gaping wounds with kozo

drape you over my shoulders slumber within your bark cloth folds

press you against my heart

tiputa – poncho-like garment made from bark cloth.

6 / Richard Berengarten

From R O U G H D I A M O N D S

To An unlock error the map however you need its may well be code. The map or provoke an itself is not the code. entirely new form The code is or may be or expression of being. hidden in the map and its The converse question is variants. And since the map who is the father of God the itself is not unique but exists Father? That is – mustn’t pursuit many exempla, some of which may of ‘ultimate’ origins always get stuck well contain errors (damn them), in an infinitely receding (and hence the ideal (i.e. ‘correct’) map has unfulfillable) search for some to be inferred from all of its ever-earlier anterior cause – models before the code like what kind of nothing itself can even begin or darkness was there to be approached and where and how let alone applied was it before with any hope Genesis i.e. of accu- the Big racy. Bang.

/ 7 Now Meillet sliding was right – around my a language is mind, surfing un système où tout and surfacing into se tient. Chomsky words, patterns that too – a language is a eventually come out as finite mechanism capable poems do keep on getting of generating an infinite set made as entirely new, i.e. as of sentences. Pity though about as-yet-unsaid utterances. his drab word ‘mechanism’ How miraculous then for how close to angelic is language among is language in its out- all other miracles pourings of utterly that this I lives, stupendous and with, through, unpredictable within, to, surprises in from. poems.

8 / Over What the blue Matters bay lights go above all is out one by one. what the heart You walk back into tells us to be and do. the house from the fine- This can be quite simple. white-sanded beach. Nothing When choice occurs, pause in or belonging to this movement to listen. Wings on wind, speaking is capturable cinematically. Only these as they thrum, tell. So move from the words (waste, shells, shards of the particular to the general and back real?) still exist to contain, pour again, in an arc, whorl, zigzag, out, recapture, restore, and spiral. And from breath to reconstitute whatever you wrist-pulse to heartbeat (another you?) may have and then back (ever) in one way or other to breath. And drawn out of so encircle the sea Destiny.

/ 9 Janet Charman

B E C A U S E D E S I R I N G

to use your sacred taonga and make new meanings

as in the gestational when the unknown becoming infans receives & takes from their unknown becoming m/Other

yet she as the originary source retains completely her own subjectivity

do you acknowledge this as besidedness? that is neither parasitic nor symbiotic and not colonizing

Note: Technical font constraints preclude the inclusion of macrons for Te Reo in Janet Charman’s poems in this issue - Ed.

10 / R A N G I N U I if ever i went after her Rona would drench me from her taha though now and then depending on the time of the month she fills it with moonshine and asks me in once she said you’re separated too aren’t you? as if for her that made it better Rona and my ex grew up together our children i told her blame themselves but their mother and i know it was more too many too young she always had her own plans high five to that said Rona our boys have started sending me up weird stuff but amongst it there are usable fragments i keep them in a black hole an inassimilable vortex that Rona refers to as your shed the best of their junk i can reconfigure as a car that drives away the light years and orbit by orbit i am also working on Rona to come with or is she working on me?

/ 11 the children if they notice my emptiness will still have their mother to fight over or they can want me and look out for us but i won’t be back

12 / T H E H O L Y G H O S T A N D T H E L O S T B O Y S that whakama Pakeha chick in the 24/7 Wendy’s is always eating buttered toast hungry hot with her coat open milky star patches showing on a ballooning blue nightie draped so nobody sees quite what shape she’s in since her baby’s been uplifted e Kare we say why did you let that happen? those big men with pink hats creased like cunts took my little boy into their prayers then they opened that fire door and pushed me in here meant to be over it

Hine sits down in the booth beside her old mates if Mere but knew they go way back those were your brothers Kare following your father’s orders but long before they left you here we had another bro who decided he could live forever by re-entering my tuhinga

/ 13 also unasked a process meant to usurp my voice but in our story for his impudence i locked him out of existence

remembering Tatahore cracks up you’re not alive here Mere he tweets then that flirt Piwakawaka spreads his feathers interrupts Mere he says you’re not dead

14 / A P A R A L L E L R E A L I T Y C H E R Y L W E S T

Cheryl West is offered a smoke no thanks says Cheryl i quit at their housewarming Wolf wants to hoist Cheryl onto the hand basin for a fuck Cheryl says really? is that all you’ve got? but call me if your writers ever make a C for lit.

Cheryl gets offered work as an independent contractor no sick pay minimum wage or holidays junk offer she remarks let’s organize the police officer at the test yells you stupid cow you’ll end up in jail but Cheryl cuts the wire and runs onto the field finances are tight when you’re blacklisted yet while it’s still dark Cheryl gets up to work on her script

Pascale come here Loretta you two little rascals she says and then so men can’t burn them Cheryl slathers her pale daughters in sonscreen

/ 15 Pascale wants to be somebody else Cheryl sings out i felt blonde like that but then i registered my dark roots bass voice

in the suffrage petition Cheryl finds the signatures of her great grand aunties and gets their names inked into her breasts

for when she’s suckling or in surgery or they expect her to perform with her top off

I N B E S I D E D N E S S

while we’re here let’s be clear that Te Rauparaha’s Ka Mate Ka Mate actually tells the passionate truth of a woman’s generative strength our agency with respect to life & death

16 / F O R R E A S O N S O F A U T H E N T I C I T Y there are no cheques in my texts or typewriters i leave out tigers elephants swimming recreationally in rivers coastal property is verboten as is orange roughy and any suggestion of consensus from The Insecurity Council of the United Nations also superseded are nuclear disarmament treaties Palestinians and terakihi instead i put in the eternal verities plastic hangovers personal AI devices episiotomies breast feeding and its detractors the deformed feet of ballerinas marginal items death me stretching luxuriously as you lip read my body of work i also mean in future to represent the repellent undercurrents on closed sets

/ 17 and that strategy whereby an artist with a desire to become The Hero-Genius – who is male-by-definition must extinguish a woman cf. #Me Too as a thing of no human significance

so enabling his secretive expropriation of her feminine generativity to be made over as the symbolic energy of his Genius-Hero-creativity

but recognising this tactic from the longlist of masculine Genius-Hero pretenders who will we mihi?

can i see the shortlist of patriarchal privilege resisters?

and finally in abeyance from me the kakapo in the kauri trees and bees

18 / Walter Charman

T H E B L U E P E N G U I N

Six years in the thrumming Unit Commuting Taking, in the carriage the side Nearest the harbour Hoping – “Today, tonight, I may see The Northern Blue Penguin.” Buoyed by the prospect I endured The clerical ghetto – On still water I thought to see The slight chevron Of the small head – swimming, At the water’s edge perhaps The insouciant blue-suited little one Hurry across the sand to his home

Admire his survival In that vast environment, Shrugging aside the Sea’s Contumely, Making a good life: Food, security. Admirable bird! The State Services Commission Would have commended him – Politically inactive Living on a few sprats And Invisible! Politicians could not count him – They could revile him, He would not care – And the Association would not defend him.

/ 19 Piers Davies

V A R I A T I O N S O N A F O U N D P O E M

written on the wall of an abandoned building

“A city with no past Is a city with no future”

1 Auckland C.B.D.

The building owners incensed with this invasion of their property rights obliterate the reproach with fresh grey paint. Amnesia returns as the building continues to decay.

2 Herculaneum, Bay of Naples 79 C.E.

Awaiting evacuation women and children cluster in the seawall shelter the men spreading out on the beach in front eyes upon the horizon as the ferocious surge 500 degrees centigrade of heat and ash accelerates across the bay – eliminating them all.

20 / 3 Arney Road, Remuera

Yesterday: for 120 years this house fitted the fold of the ridge.

Today: It’s sliced and cubed elevated on stilts.

Tomorrow: Gone?

4 Motutapu circa 1400 C.E.

At the extreme edge of the ash flow footprints petrified – a man running.

5 Te Kupuke/ Mount St. John

Grey water-coloured layers of cloud mirror the terraces and ditches stepped into the maunga.

6 Maungarei/Mount Wellington circa 1970

Working within the grid inching through the midden scraping out mounds of seashells and a single fish skeleton we know what they ate but what did they think. / 21 7 Crocus Place, Remuera

After they removed the asbestos a mega digger arrived and rearing up like a startled stallion crushed through the house cascading down wood plaster and glass trampling on the debris

all that was saved: a plywood door and two small window frames.

8 The New Herculaneum

We know something of their lives plenty about their deaths in the linear cemeteries of grid-locked cars as the heat surged and the ash formed a crisp batter enveloping their limbs.

22 / Belinda Diepenheim

D A Y O F S T O N E

What is there but water and land? When I stand on the lip of a river my feet tell me not to ask questions. We climb up and out of a valley where the shadows are white ice.

See her head with its fur hood stark against the blue. See how we reach a height and look across at everything before entering the cave where membranes open to us, take us down into cold tunnels.

Fire gutters in the twists and turns between land and death. Fire rests as a quiet coal inside a curved goat horn. We are speaking with bones by touching rock walls. I am a steady drop of rain,

I am a wind in boughs and leaves. We are pulses in the folded land skin on stone, don’t leave me here alone, I may never find my way back, to the orange heat of our hearth.

/ 23 H E R S M A L L D A U G H T E R

This bus from the outskirts of Rome to the Termini is crammed. I’m beside a woman with hair like a foamless wave, black coat, her small daughter perched on the ledge behind the driver. Passengers are in a conversation rapid as a bee swarm.

People here kiss their children as if they are honey coated, lips to hair, to upturned face. The woman’s lips touch the inside of a small arm, specifically the soft left side’s muscle, then the neck where it meets the shoulder, unresisting, she

leans in for the animalistic need to smell, briefly, the baby no longer suckled; earth, sweat, liquorice, quick pulse warm beneath the hand at the place where the fontanelle beats as if a moth was restless, lifting, striving up towards a moon, a scent, heat left by a gravid sun.

24 / Amanda Eason

A B O U T A T R E E

I

Like those before us who broke this land — planting fragrant gorse reminiscent of Cornish cliffs — we also plant Home for somewhere else.

Three centuries after Aotearoa’s misnamed for Abel’s flood-prone sea-land we’re seduced by the gaudy trappings of foreigners.

Not beads and blankets. The plush lawns of 1960s McAnnalley Street are bedecked — Brazilian jacarandas spun with blue floss so fierce it stains the air between.

Sacred Chinese gingkos showered in thousands of golden fans. American liquid ambers, their autumn leaves deeply cut ruby glass. We plant exotics to be, well ... exotic.

II

Natives are weeds. Where’s the fun in a plant that grows itself?

Wind sturdiness — check. Drought tolerance — check. Frost hardiness — check. No green thumb required.

The rubbish farmers are paid to clear. Endless shades of ruddy green! Anything’s better

(as cliffs fall to the sea) especially Radiata. How else are we to make hills pay?

/ 25 Tui, warbler, woodpigeon — no money in them. Plump kereru no longer even allowed in pies!

III

When we swap the suburbs for Franklin County our ten acres are bitten down to dirt — the back bush block grazed clean of seedlings. Our bums comfortably fit the scoop ends of nikau fronds — grasping feathered stalks between our legs we race down muddy slopes past moth-ravaged puriri too twisted to tempt the saw.

IV

Age ten, I consider presents carefully. Mum, I say — a tree will last.

I fall for him at Manurewa Hardware Store, just up past the lights on the Great South Road.

Feet in a bucket, his soft sea-urchin needles are glaucous blue-green — almost milky.

His branches, curved to hold a weight of snow fall in eyelash sweeps from his fairy tip.

V

Thirty years later a lumberman looks over the property — his eye lights on that fir.

Just the ticket for the billiard room. Mum’s careful how she tells me —

26 / Douglas cut & dressed. But I don’t mind really. Our birds couldn’t access his sticky cones and mum’s protected the bush. It’s so close with saplings you can’t pass.

A strong red beam leans over my brother and his mates as they sink the 8 ball.

/ 27 Margaret Jeune

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

I am sure that a robot can write better verse than me After all a robot can be programmed Words can be fed into it for it to arrange Maybe the poems will emerge a little stilted And maybe they will lack humanity, foresight and wisdom But does that really matter in 2020? When such qualities are ignored anyway on the world stage Where false news abounds And climate change is ignored Until it is almost too late to rectify Maybe the robot’s poems will emerge More like adverts or ditties Set to repetitive music Limited by the constraints of their programmers Will that be the poetry of the future? Subliminal poetry Lurking just below our level of consciousness Brainwashing us

28 / Helen Rickerby

H O W T O K E E P L I V I N G

Babies are washing up on the shores of paradise and J is throwing in the towel and the bath after it, for good measure and I know that despair or madness are the only logical options, but when it comes down to it I hope I will choose hope

A carriage horse wore blinkers to keep it from shying a hooded falcon will remain calm

M told me she would choose stupidity and happiness over brains but I think she was lying

/ 29 A G A I N S T P I T Y

The only logical response to reality is madness – perhaps that’s what Nietzsche knew in the end or perhaps it was just syphilis

If you don’t have God telling you what to do anymore you have to find your own path or find someone else to put in God’s place

Human, all too human

Nietzsche died young, and spent most of his life dying

The philosopher against pity saw a horse trip, perhaps overburdened and he fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around its neck

30 / Ila Selwyn

A R E Q U I E M F O R P E T E R a year before stumbling into the arms of Peter on a visit in 1982 to my sister’s ashram escaping from the pressure to follow their path i take the concrete sidewalk to Redondo Beach as far as i can see north or south white sand rolls away towards the horizon a view to die for you might say endlessly to the west the overwhelming ocean rollers sparkle in the sun batter the beach pummel rocks to soft sand behind me to the east the uninterrupted urban sprawl of greater LA not a tree in sight no fluttering leaves just tall skinny poles topped with pom-poms my sister and i come from the same tree roots her buds blossom in bitumen and concrete mine shrivel and die without the woods and water in Canada or the bushy wet tracks of New Zealand

/ 31 i cannot breathe like Peter, i need trees and water to flourish eventually the asbestos loots his lungs but can never steal his smile before he goes, Peter says

French Bay Yacht Club water trees perfect his two cousins drive down from Whangarei call a Karakia as we carry his coffin outside a wonderful wild wet windy send off

In memory of Peter Selwyn, 1935-2019

32 / Elizabeth Smither

M Y A M E R I C A N C H A I R

Two clerks sat facing half my desk (someone sliced through it and sold it twice) an heirloom from another century that found two clerks with lowered heads over an expanse of wood and leather and for both clerks this splendid American chair.

I forgot it was designed for someone with legs like Honest Abe when he lifted his pen to write a declaration or sign a law his back didn’t ache as he bent forward he sent its wondrous curled spring whirling when a slave was freed, a plantation owner converted from such prissy genteel manners that made women dolls, secretly imbibing, but my legs are shorter, my back sore after years of balancing on its rim my arms out of position on the desk too high for comfort but still how I loved my American chair and how sadly we parted. I gave it to my gardener who carried it like a giant crab against his chest and suggested (since I write, I sign it).

/ 33 T H E B L A C K S U R G E O N

for Lynne Butler

When you knew your surgeon was from Nigeria with a soft voice and beautiful black skin you went to the beautician for a full depilatory facial and then to the hairdresser for a trim.

‘I feel beautiful,’ you told me, despite the operation being complicated and the anaesthetist telling you you would be unconscious the whole time you felt the surgeon might say a few words

at the beginning before the cap covered your new springy curls that you wouldn’t look like one of those dudes inspecting a factory in a high viz vest

but someone from a fairy tale: The Sleeping Princess. There would be a moment for your wonderful wit (the awe of your friends) to reach the surgeon in his black beauty before he reached for the scalpel.

34 / Kate Waterhouse

B L A C K S W A N S in the lee of Meola reef they have gathered on the mudflats sucked by a new moon tide to speak in swan, not mute notes fluting out across the low slung harbour winter is their time orchestral wings curlicue trail of white flamenco feathers amongst whelks and crabs musically they come and go their scarlet heads dipping to beds of eelgrass as the tide refloats old boats in

Coxes Creek, the water toxic eelgrass coming back despite it, science proves what swans know not mute, here on the new moon tide in black tights and practical webbing they make their gentle promenade along the reef, the farthest reach of a long gone volcano, lava black as feathers forgotten under the mangroves

/ 35 J A W O Y N C O U N T R Y

On the radiocarbon dating of rock paintings in south west Arnhem Land, June 2012

In 1964 Dad hitching back from England made the last leg a crossing of the Territory his clothes red as the road north of Katherine that was to become my name the same path taken by the first people along the coasts of Asia to cross a neck of sea from Sunda to Sahul what were the Jawoyn then making for their children and is it here in 28,000 years of ochred history more depending on your choice of radiocarbon dates a fragment of charcoal unlocking today what Jawoyn stories told although not in so many words an expert calls it the Louvre of rock art forty four thousand works in the silent gallery of Nawarla Gabarnmang and with such cacophony in the world no wonder painted voices weren’t heard

now science is required to amplify give digital existence yes the Jawoyn need an eye on the future and don’t we all viral upheaval in Europe wars in the cradle of civilisation the ashes of a great fire fall on a global economy but 35,000 years ago not long after the last Glacial Maximum

36 / the Jawoyn were sharpening stone at Nawarla Gabarnmang before anyone else thought of a ground-edge axe did their men hunting the Pleistocene desert hold these paintings in their minds until ochre, charcoal and sandstone came together in the x-ray images of fish reptile man of other things lost to be found here in Nawarla Gabarnmang the place of the hole in the rock.

/ 37 F W N Wright

T R I C A R B O X Y L I C W R I T E S X X I a

{3535}

Rivers in the sky, rivers on the land Rising from the forest ; rising from the ocean ; Made an Australian continent For paradisiacal a tenant.

Create a landscape bland Rivers in the sky, rivers on the land ; In places where do waters blend With inland seas and a monsoon.

Humans as first arrivals saw The ultimate seesaw : Ecology in balance rather than commotion.

By mankind’s use of mischief blind Was paradise disrupted soon ; When fire reduced to desert forest, To harshest living life the fairest.

Rivers in the sky, rivers on the land Rising from the forest ; rising from the ocean ; Are not to be recovered eft By industry or science deft.

38 / T R I C A R B O X Y L I C W R I T E S X L V I

{3558}

This capitalism says ; That children have no rights ; That nature has no rights. This as injustice every human sees.

But capitalism says ; With forests burnt; and heated seas ; Make hay over last rites For biosphere of sea and land. Have money banks : to lend.

This capitalism says ; That children have no rights ; That nature has no rights.

{3560}

Industrial waste has overwhelmed The world of human being ; Too often by good fellow helmed ; Whose bounty nature’s own exhausts.

Industrial waste has overwhelmed Robot consumer under hollow helmet ; To rule of surplus value bowing ; When no such iron rule exists.

Industrial waste has overwhelmed The world of human being.

/ 39 Notes on Contributors

SERIE BARFORD was born in Aotearoa to a German-Samoan mother and a Palagi father. She is published in print and e-zine form. RICHARD BERENGARTEN is a distinguished UK poet. His recent collections include Manual, Notness, Changing and Imagems 2. JANET CHARMAN is the featured poet in this issue. See preface on p.5. WALTER CHARMAN (1912-1991). As a boy Walter lived on his family farm at Northcote. During the depression they lost it all but a small holding of 7 acres. As an adult he moved around the country with his family eventually settling in New Plymouth, Taranaki and on retirement returned to Auckland’s north shore. Janet Charman is his daughter. PIERS DAVIES is a long time poet, co-coordinator of Titirangi Poets, writer of feature films including Skin Deep and The Cars that ate Paris and sometime Poet Laureate of Haringey London. His latest collection of poems, Force Majeure, was published in 2019. BELINDA DIEPENHEIM grew up in Wellington, but now lives and writes in Ashhurst. She has published in a variety of ezines and magazines including Landfall and Sweet Mammalian. Belinda’s book Waybread and Flax was published by Steele Roberts in 2015. AMANDA EASON is an Auckland teacher with four poetry collections. Her work has been widely published in magazines and anthologies here and in the UK. She edited the anthology: Paper Planes (2016) and co-edited Cutting Through (2019). She co-coordinates Titirangi Poets. MARGARET JEUNE lives in Brooklyn, Wellington and works for Whanau Manaaki Kindergartens. She is the author of Flight Paths, Upbeat: Selected Early Poems 1969-1987, My Sketchbook (children’s poems) and a photobook. In 2020, she appeared in the HeadworX anthology Three Poets. HELEN RICKERBY lives in Aro Valley, Wellington. She runs Seraph Press. Her fourth collection of poetry, How to Live, has been shortlisted in the poetry category of the Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. ILA SELWYN has produced two poetry collections and a few chapbooks. She completed the MCW with First Class Honours at the University of Auckland in 2014. ELIZABETH SMITHER is a celebrated New Plymouth writer. Her latest collection of poetry is Night Horse (AUP, 2017). KATE WATERHOUSE is co-editor of Motherlode, Australian Women’s Poetry, 1986-2008. Her poems have appeared in journals in Australia and New Zealand and her first collection was Keep Breathing in 2006. F W N WRIGHT is the author of the epic poem The Alexandrians and co- organises PANZA (Poetry Archive of NZ Aotearoa) in Wellington. 40 /