After that I was ill and I lay in a bed in hospital for ten days without saying a word seeing Julian’s wings opening and closing above me until I was sick of the sight of them and all through the day hearing people talking about him and reading bits out of the newspapers about him. By the time I began to feel better he was famous and I remember when a doctor came to see me and explained I was pregnant and asked who the father was I said Julian Harp and I heard him say to the sister she needs rest and quiet. Soon I learned to say nothing about Julian. He belongs to the public and the public makes what it likes of him. But if you ever came out of a building and found your umbrella missing you might like to believe my story because it may mean you contributed a strut to the wings that carried him aloft.
(1965)
Alan Brunton, ‘Note d’un Poète’
CHAN YEN-YUAN IN THE YEAR OF THE HARE
FRESCOES THE PALACE OF GENGHIS THE SUN
calligraphy is a thing
which scores the fetch an carry of merchants
concretes the play
of kith an sib at the wedding feast
It kindles neck an crop
the divine changelings
of Nature, fathoms
recondite an subtle
wonders. The Mountains
are its prophets
Its exercise is equal
to any of the
Six Arts of the Ancients
an it saunters
cheek by jowl
with the Four Seasons’
frosty spin of the world
Clutched from Nature herself
not from human
rail and terror
(1968)
The Bomb Is Made
Keith Sinclair, ‘The Bomb Is Made’
The bomb is made will drop on Rangitoto.
Be kind to one another, kiss a little
And let love-making imperceptibly
Grow inwards from a kiss. I’ve done with soldiering,
Though every day my leave-pass may expire.
The bomb is made will drop on Rangitoto.
The cell of death is formed that multiplied
Will occupy the lung, exclude the air.
Be kind to one another, kiss a little—
The first goodbye might each day last forever.
The bomb is made will drop on Rangitoto;
The hand is born that gropes to press the button.
The prodigal grey generals conspire
To dissipate the birthright of the Asians.
Be kind to one another, kiss a little.
The bomb is made will drop on Rangitoto.
The plane that takes off persons in a hurry
Is only metaphorically leaving town,
So if we linger we will be on time.
Be kind to one another, kiss a little.
The bomb is made will drop on Rangitoto.
I do not want to see that sun-burned harbour,
Islandless as moon, red-skied again,
Its tide unblossomed, sifting wastes of ash.
Be kind to one another, kiss a little,
Our only weapon is this gentleness.
(1963)
Hone Tuwhare, ‘No Ordinary Sun’
Tree let your arms fall:
raise them not sharply in supplication
to the bright enhaloed cloud.
Let your arms lack toughness and
resilience for this is no mere axe
to blunt, nor fire to smother.
Your sap shall not rise again
to the moon’s pull.
No more incline a deferential head
to the wind’s talk, or stir
to the tickle of coursing rain.
Your former shagginess shall not be
wreathed with the delightful flight
of birds nor shield
nor cool the ardour of unheeding
lovers from the monstrous sun.
Tree let your naked arms fall
nor extend vain entreaties to the radiant ball.
This is no gallant monsoon’s flash,
no dashing trade wind’s blast.
The fading green of your magic
emanations shall not make pure again
these polluted skies … for this
is no ordinary sun.
O tree
in the shadowless mountains
the white plains and
the drab sea floor
your end at last is written.
(1964)
Te Ao Hou
Rowley Habib, ‘The Raw Men: For the Maori Battalion’
‘From where did they come then, these men? This fine unit … I was under
the impression that anything fine in the Maori had died with the advent of
the White Man.’—an Englishman not long in New Zealand
This is where they came from, the brown men.
The dark-lipped, thick-black-haired raw men, the slope-shouldered solid men.
Neat in khaki, born for the uniform.
Praised in the deserts of Tobruk, hailed in the heats of Mersa Matruh, gloried in Greece.
We salute you, sons of New Zealand, Maori Battalion.
Kia ora tatou. Kia ora nga tamariki o aotearoa.
Yes this is where they came from, the raw men,
The fearless marauders of the Middle East, the hard doers with hearts of lions,
Collecting medals like stones on Hill 209 Tebaga Gap, Tunisia.
From the pubs they came, drunk on a Saturday afternoon, and the neighbour’s house afterwards,
Staggering, stumbling, stone-tripping homewards through the half light of dawn.
From the crude-hewn back-block saw-screaming sweat-sapping timber mills they came,
Trudging to work in the early mornings, their breath rising in mists with the cold.
Yes this is where they came from, Men in Khaki,
Tigers of Tunisia. Cursing in the rains of Cairo, singing in the heats of Helwan—
With a rifle in one hand and a guitar in the other. That’s us—
And a song ever ready on the tongue. That’s us—
‘Real hard doers, those boys,’ they say, ‘But I’m glad I’m on their side. Good fighters.’
That’s us. The guitars and the song. The work in the mornings plagued by the dry horrors. That’s us—
‘Poor old Rangi’s got the shakes, ha! ha! Where you been last night Rangi?’ That’s us.
Yes this is where they came from, the Maori Battalion.
From the timber mill villages, deep bushed,
From the back-block settlement fringing an isolated road
That makes passers-by ask, ‘Don’t you ever get lonely here?’
And children with bare feet walking to school in the mornings.
From the bush felling they came. The Freezing Works. The Wool Stores.
The scrub cutting. The Power Board. The post splitting.
The truck driving. The bush snigging. The bully driving.
From the City Council, bare-armed on the pavements with pick and shovel,
From the Public Works Department, with the children standing on the roadside
Laughing and repeating what they had heard their parents say,
‘PWD—Poor Working Devils!’ as the truck passed them along the road.
Yes this is where they came from, those men, Knights of the Middle East.
From the prisons and the borstals they came, from the country school and the city office,
From sulking, slouching, sullen in some alien city.
Open-neck-shirted upon the wharves, they came,
Wild in a dance. Noisy in the films. Cigarette slouching, fish and chips eating
In some billiard room. Drunk on the street, hindering the passers-by.
But always there are the exceptions. The quiet ones. The earnest ones.
The deep-thinking, serious ones. Like everything else, there are the exceptions.
Yes this is w
here they came from, the raw men.
From the singing in the bars led by a rich baritone voice—
‘Tomo mai e tama ma. Ki roto. Ki roto.’
All around they are singing. Everywhere there are mouths opening and closing,
Feet firmly apart, heads thrown back, eyes opening and shutting,
Enraptured in the singing. Always there is the singing.
In the deserts of Egypt there was the singing.
In the streets of Rome there was the singing.
Going to the war and returning, there was the singing.
Always there is the song and the guitars. Above it, beneath it, right through it all,
There is the singing and the dancing and the laughing.
(1964)
Hone Tuwhare, ‘Time and the Child’
Tree earth and sky
Reel to the noontide beat
Of sun and the old man
Hobbling down the road.
Cadence
Of sun-drowned cicada
In a child’s voice shrilling:
… are you going man
Where are you going man where
The old man is deaf
To the child.
His stick makes deep
Holes in the ground.
His eyes burn to a distant point
Where all roads converge ….
The child has left his toys
And hobbles after the old
Man calling: funny man funny man
Funny old man funny
Overhead the sun paces
And buds pop and flare.
(1959)
Erik Schwimmer, from Judges’ Report, Te Ao Hou Literary and Art Competitions
There were thirteen entries in this section of the competition and some of them were of an extremely high standard, both in thought, and in power of expression. Every story was concerned in some measure with the basic problem of Maoridom today—adaptation to a new and sometimes bewilderingly complex way of life. Sometimes the adjustment proves successful after initial difficulties, as in The Brothers by Gwen P. Howe; sometimes it involves a return to the basic principles of Maoritanga, as in Back to the Mat by Mikaere Worthington, but a Maoritanga transformed by its adaptability to the modern world, related directly to the fruitful and harmonious development of the Maori people. Somewhere, either directly or by implication, every writer insists that the Maori must learn to take his rightful place in the pakeha world, and more significant—that such a place is waiting for him.
I was impressed in many places by the authors’ control over and command of the English language, which they do not hesitate to use in a lyrical and sometimes passionate manner, which can put many of their more reserved pakeha colleagues to shame. The Maori writer seems instinctively to understand that the English language is one of unrivalled majesty and richness, not, as many pakehas demonstrate, a convenient method of shorthand. I expect—I say this in full confidence—that the next ten years will produce a Maori novelist of outstanding talent; already the ground is being prepared for him.
After much deliberation, I have awarded the prize of £10.0.0 in this section to Peter Sharples, for his story The Fledgling, which appears in this issue. It was written while the author was still a 6A student at Te Aute College. Of all the stories, it showed the most mastery over form—the understanding that a short story must move logically and inevitably to its end, without swerving to right or left, and leaving an impression of some action or experience completed. The unexpected ironical ending had the justice and rightness of the born writer. The conclusion that one must draw from the story—that Maoris are very easily seduced by the superficial side of European civilisation—is not comforting, but such things must be pointed out, and Mr Sharples has done so with a beautiful economy of expression.
(1961)
Peter Sharples, ‘The Fledgling’
Mahu Herewini said little as she sat waiting in the car beside her younger brothers Kina and Peni. Soon Nana came, then Mrs Herewini and finally her husband, and they all climbed into the Old Ford. Mr Herewini started the motor, and soon the car was roaring down the road. Mahu looked back at the old homestead which she knew she wouldn’t see again for a long time.
It would be her first trip away from home and her family, and she was sad to leave and frightened at the prospects of the future. Soon she would be in the city, in a new world, the Pakeha world.
Mahu was eighteen years old, well built, attractive, and carried the tan of her racial inheritance in her Maori features. She had attained University Entrance at the village High School, and was now off to Auckland to study Anthropology. She had not really wanted to go, but the persuasion of Mr Crane, the headmaster, and her father’s wishes had overcome her reluctance.
The car pulled up outside the bus depot, and the family climbed out.
‘I’ll take your bags to the bus-driver, Baby,’ said her father, for that was the name he had always called her. ‘You say good-bye to Nana, Mum and the kids.’
‘Be sure to work hard, dear, and do be a good girl,’ said Mrs Herewini. ‘Don’t forget to write often and—Peni! get your muddy hands away from Mahu’s dress.’
‘I’ll write every week, Mum, and I’ll be a good girl, you needn’t worry about that,’ said Mahu, tears forming in her eyes.
‘Good-bye, dear. Be sure and come back to see us soon, my girl,’ said Nana, slipping a crumpled five pound note into Mahu’s hand.
‘And I’ve put the woolly socks which Auntie Tuku knitted for you in your bag, because I know how cold Auckland can be,’ continued her mother.
‘And dear, don’t forget to change your underwear often, and oh yes! I forgot your toothpaste, so you’ll have to buy another tube as soon as you arrive in Auckland. But do look after yourself, Mahu, you’re so young, and be careful of some of those Pakeha men in the city, and don’t walk around at night. You’re a lady now.’
‘Come on, quickly now,’ called her father from across the street, ‘the busman is waiting. Kitere Pepe.’
She hurried over into the bus, took a seat by the window, and gazed out at her family. This time she could not hold back her tears, and as the bus drove away amid the sad farewells of the Herewini family, Mahu could only raise her hand and nod her head in reply.
There were others on the bus bound for the city too, and with the farewells of her own family, she could hear the shouts and laughter of the others.
‘Bring back a neat Pakeha wife Tom, but make sure she can cook kai!’
‘Don’t forget your father’s saddle Manu, and bring back some lollies for the kids.’
‘You fellas behave yourselves and don’t drink too much of that beer stuff!’
Soon the bus was speeding over the hills bound for the city, the new city, the Pakeha city.
Mahu watched outside as the countryside shot past her window. She tried to imagine why she was leaving this peaceful Maori settlement for some strange Pakeha world. She saw some men planting kumaras in the hot sun, children playing on their horses, free and happy, and some others swimming naked and unashamed in the river. How heavy was her heart as she said ‘Haere Ra’ to her old life.
‘Tena Koe, Mahu.’
Mahu spun round and saw her old friend Jimmy, from the village, sitting in the seat next to hers. Amidst the grief of parting she had not noticed the dark good-looking boy beside her.
‘Tena Koe, Hemi,’ she replied, surprised but pleased to see someone she knew. ‘E haere ana koe ki whea?’ she asked, hoping he would be going to the city too.
‘To Auckland, to work,’ came the reply, and soon the two friends were talking eagerly about this big city, comparing the opinions they had heard from others.
‘I am going to work hard!’ said Jimmy, with an air of determination, ‘and gain a position of importance amongst the Pakeha, and show the Maoris that we still have some leaders.’
‘Kapai tena, Hemi,’ Mahu replied. ‘I too am going to study hard and show the Pakeha what a �
��back-block” Maori can do.’
And so the conversation carried on, and the bus continued and the big city drew nearer and nearer.
The bus stopped with a jerk and Mahu woke from her sleep. She had dozed off during the trip, and had dreamed that she was eeling with Peni, and her father. At first she did not know where she was, but when she saw Jimmy beside her she remembered. He whispered softly to her. ‘Look, Mahu. Look out of the window.’
It was almost dark and Auckland had all her lights glowing. Mahu stared in bewilderment, her eyes transfixed on the strange surroundings. Buildings taller than kauri trees, cars and buses all new in appearance, and the people, there were hundreds, some walking, some running and some standing almost everywhere. Frightened, yet deeply excited, she climbed out of the bus.
A Maori girl about her own age walked quickly towards her. Mahu looked at her clothes and pretty face. She wore those tight black Matador trousers, which Mahu had heard so much about, low heeled pumps, yellow sockettes and a bright lemon sweater. Her hair was pulled around into a ‘horse tail’.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘my name is Pani. Are you Mahu Herewini?’
‘Yes,’ was all Mahu managed to say.
‘Good, then come with me. You are staying at our Hostel. You’ve never been to the city before, eh? Well you’ll like it here, just wait until you meet the rest of the gang. We’ll get you some clothes, and then we’ll show you what fun is. The kids are just dying to meet you. We always ….’
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 82