Ngauranga Gorge
A little introduction, a must you see,
to get the feel of my trip of glee,
Herman Thwubblethwaite, raconteur,
The sorriest thing you have met for sure.
Resident poet of Titahi Bay,
decided on a trip one fine Wellington day,
Fired up the '64 Black and Gold Mini,
Yes, I fit in, I'm a poet and skinny.
Off I went, gear stick in action
four bald tires and not much traction,
Past that megalith down by the sea,
Te Papa, that venerated place of history.
Then past the ferry berths, none in dock
the mini hit the motorway and suffered a shock,
hasn't been past fifty K in two years or more,
so when she hit 80, it was with a roar.
Then I saw it, the left turn quite clear,
the part of the journey that filled me with fear,
but onwards and upwards a path I did forge,
and into the belly that is Ngauranga Gorge.
Watching the needle as the climb took affect,
I suddenly realised I had time to reflect,
as the needle dived back to a sedate 40 K,
I knew this would be the saddest part of my day.
Soon it began, that which I feared,
I had to shift down, to a dodgy second gear,
the shaking and rattling were worse than I wished,
an FJ Holden flew by, both occupants pissed.
The wind blew hard and swiped me aside
as an eighteen wheeler doing 90 flashed by,
I gripped the wheel hard, held on for dear life,
took a quick peek to the left, Thank God!! no wife.
The revs slowly abated, changed up into first,
if I slowed anymore, I don't know what would be worst,
So I checked my feet and running shoes there were,
imagine the site, Mini being pushed by a scruffy cur.
But the trucks were a boon, and created a drag
and I whistled a relief as I saw the car sales flag,
I knew the worst part was about to end,
and there it was, the crest around the bend.
I sailed into second, then third then forth,
and patted the old Mini with everything she was worth,
and I ventured on down that golden stretch of road,
was suddenly hit with a sense of forbode
Why had I come all this way I did think?
Was it because I was going shopping for a brand new sink?
Or could it have been a trip to Wainuiomata?
Hell, the wrong way, God I wish I was smarter.
I raged into despair again, cried for a while,
and the Mini cruised on and ate up the miles,
Until it came to me, of course that was it,
I was off to see mum in Otaki, what a bloody twit!
Picton to Kaikoura, the coast road
Picturesque splendour,
enveloped in green hills and blue waters
Picton, jewel of the sounds
stands alone in simplicity,
small town, big outlook.
I drive on, the ferry behind,
churning whitewater for Wellington
and pass the gap into Marlborough,
into the flat expanse, the Koromiko
cheese factory closed long ago, shame!
Journey on to Blenheim
a small place trying to be big, never!
supporting a rural diversity, wine and crop
cattle and sheep, and fishing too
stop for KFC in case I get hungry.
Now out on the highway, southbound
past farms and houses and people
going about their daily commerce,
down to the Awatere River and that crazed
bridge, one way, rail on top, makes me smile.
Through King Dicks town, and Ward;
little farming places where even the petrol
companies have withdrawn support,
ever onwards to the coast and the lure
of green seas and gulls flying in the breeze.
The loneliness draws in, as do the might
of the Seaward Kaikoura's, imposing
in their might so close to the ocean,
I admire the rockiness, and stony beaches
the raw power of nature not yet whittled.
The road narrows, and trucks inch past at speed
on their daily milk runs to and fro,
unlike me, cognisant of the seals
and large beds of sea kelp swimming in unison
with the rough waves and ebbing tide.
Offshore, leviathans of the deep roar
in their abundant playground,
diving to depths not measured and for food
never exhausted, Southern Wrights, Sperm,
and Orca all frolic for tourists to admire.
Through tunnels, and past railway lines etched
deep into cliffs and scree escarpments,
little towns that exist for the pleasure
of passing motorists, and life that is simple,
and their it shines, journeys' end, Kaikoura.
I have travelled that road many a time,
and always, I see the same things, but different
somehow, and I know that I will have to travel again,
that stretch of tarmac, gravel and scree, I yearn
for that road, for that pleasure, as do my kids.
The Northerner, September 1975
Hick kid on a full platform,
Palmerston North emblazoned
on a smoked stained sign,
empty cups of tea on seats
where passengers sat,
the cold at 8.30pm evident
as Mum and Dad wave me off,
Mums tears hidden by a warm smile
back to Auckland for me,
young sailor heading back to work.
The sounds of carriages graunch together
as the locomotive takes the slack
and pulls out of the station, slowly
then building as city lights give in to
scattered splatterings of farms, dark
in the night, I sit on hardened worn
leather and wood, sparse, uncomfortable
my bed for the night, and the smell
of diesel fumes waft down the carriage
and starts to drift people off to sleep.
All the carriages are full, young, old
and all those in between, and I am in
a carriage of quiet, not my scene
for the long journey ahead, so I stand
and walk back first, back to the rear
carriages and the party buses, the "gats" out
the songs flowing with amber fluid
and the harder stuff, to fight the cold,
I sit, unfold my prize, 26 ounces
of black gold, Coruba rum, and they strum,
Fielding....
Hunterville....
Utuku........
strumming songs from the Maori Hit Parade,
Ten Guitars, Sheryl Moana Marie, and we
are all friends on the journey of night,
cold night and soon the bottle empties
warming my vocals and the freindships,
Taihape.......
and a mad dash for all to the Taihape Hotel,
fighting your way through the Ten O'clock melee
of Holden V8's and Black Power boys
crowding the pub with their ever presence,
their place, but we nightly invaders struggle
always a struggle, to do it in the 14 minutes
those who drank tea took to eat a pie
and down their Railways Cup brew,
but we all seemed to make it, tea and booze
and the rest who spent the time to snooze.
Waiouru.....
and the cold hits you, as soldiers came and went
round the vast darkness of a mountain asleep
and Ohakune, the compulsory stop
where crews changed, northbound/southbound
and the party went on, liquid fire.
National Park..........
I had never seen it , until I drove it one day,
years later on the daylight railcar,
Raurimu Spiral, feat of engineering
and kiwi ingenuity, round and round
and up and down, a splendour once viewed,
Taumaranui........
Te Kuiti.........
Otorohonga.......
towns that existed due to the very rails
that passed through them, stock towns
heartland New Zealand, but darkened by
the night trains ritual, and sleeping,
yet the party wore on as the grog dies,
Te Awamutu.......
Hamilton.........
Ngaurawahia.........
and the clickety click of bogeys on the bridge
over the mighty Waikato soon had sleep
burgeoning and the rest of the trip was
one of comfort, booze addled comfort
and to this day I look at those seats, and wonder
Huntly........
Pokeno...........
Papakura..........
places I slept through, and never met,
and then the stop, the silence, Auckland
and the early morning bustle of light and
commuter traffic, life again, and work so soon
and I have survived another trip on the train.
The Northerner, may you rest in peace, New Zealand Icon
Mountain Rail
Tucked into my tuna salad,
peered from the wide window vista
onto a northwest wind whipped landscape
of the North Canterbury Plains,
spied snow-capped peaks in the distance.
Listened to the sonata of the clickety clack
of steel wheels on a steel track, a lullaby
time flew by, soon the wide reaches
of the Waimakariri passed underneath
and rata trees and beech greened the view.
Craned my neck, left and right,
tall mountains of the Southern Divide
made this ride pale into insignificance, soon,
the little settlement of Arthurs Pass
my old hometown, way back when.
Twenty minute stop, walked a round a little,
visited the old school, the ranger station,
and the house at number two Sunrise Place,
skipped stones across a once dammed creek,
gawked at the sight in the little chapel, magic.
All aboard, and through that long, long tunnel,
slept a little, lulled by the dark, and the wheel song,
jumped alert at the other side, bright western light,
the ghost town of Otira now rotting away,
the occassional life styler, and hermit walking.
Across the broad green water enriched reach
of the West Coast plains, beech forested mountains
slipping behind, and the train rolled into Greymouth,
coastal city, flooding river, flooded beer halls,
and a population born hard to be hard, secluded.
Colin McCahon paints the Fiordland Coast
This painting
daubed
from a storm-tossed
vessel
easel tilting
to manic brushstrokes
deep verdant green mountains
mottled white
of snow capped peaks
wandering albatross
black and white
against
a frigate grey sea
bruised black-grey clouds
skirt through
drizzle falls
splashes a picture
growing.
Colin McCahon paints the Desert Road
Atop yon canvas,
"TURANGI" blazened - white.
At base, said same canvas,
"WAIOURU" bold - whitish grey,
shepherds crook of light charcoal
a few horseshoes thrown on
bold white line cuts straight up, bisects
reaches from bottom to top.
left panorama of grayish brown,
dark peaks
right vista, paua shell dark green, shrubs
and brown of tundra grasses.
Black and white of waiting police cars.
Colin McCahon paints the MacKenzie Country
Just a line, there,
yes, the Southern Alps rise
in helter skelter arcs,
a swift blue sunrise paints
hues of green on a snowline square,
Lake Tekapo, deep purple in Maori
floats on a windswept vista of grey dust,
The Nor'west arch a mottled brown,
in skies romantic azure.
Stone cottage, ancient by man's terms
opens a rustic door to a time past,
and skeletal remains die where they stand
a brushstroke of rare power, a word or two
sceptics acclaim it's grace placed where it is
amongst statuesque beauty horribly depicted
by a true master of the New Zealand surrealist.
Tama Iti, you are not Ngai Tahu
leave well alone, this is raw
a testament to the deep southern land
rich antiquity boiled with modern paint
and an eye for the future, the dollar,
yes, Colin, you have done it again.
Colin McCahon paints the Auckland Harbour
Minimalist views
from the peak of Rangitoto, I guess,
looking down the written Maori
of the Waitemata Harbour,
sailboats, grey/blue, blue/green
scatter words peacefully askance.
Barbed and number eight
silver wired framework
of the main span, the Bridge!
and the speckle of ruby reds
as tail lights pass over.
A white/grey needle pokes into
a sky green with splotchy cuts,
swarthy strokes of fluffy cotton
thread the eye in the sky,
how fitting, all sown up.
Bullocking browns and blacks
etch a canvass, to the left,
buildings rising from chaos
and pale yellow lines dart hither and yon;
detritus going home.
To the right, a cut across the vista
shards of another life,
blues, greens, reds, houses, the Shore
and sandy coloured stripes of beaches
spilling free of deadwood.
Bent on revenge,
the painter cuts the scene
and pieces them together at random,
yet still, the splodge that is Auckland,
is recognisable.
Tarantino meets Kubrick over Los Plata
Strange title for a soiree,
a little walk down memory lane,
two tuxedoed gentleman
waltz gaily by, a glass of chateau 69
spills liquid vapour to a blank canvas.
Lick the ice cream stick,
chocolate melts and runs languidly
across your fingertip to a gaping maw,
seeds of half grown grapes languish
in a spittoon at DryGulch.
The rust on the Chevy’s window
signals moonlight on a wayside in New Mexico,
the rains have been absent for months now,
scorpions run for shelter, the onset of
another F14, on another bombing mission.
Drags you back to life's passion play,
the thoughts of bombs going off,
a scorpion stinging your vagina, hot lust,
runny chocolate and spilt wine erotica,
yet the thought of that moonlight lingers.
You lie there, awake, aware, awry,
tears stream like the river Ganges
in a monsoon deluge, the dead for all to see,
carry out funeral rites near your pinz nez,
seems the right thing to do in relationships.
Red Wine upon a White Table Cloth
Chablis
War on,
always a rattle of death
somewhere.
Whore on, rape and pillage
the minds of the few.
Burgundy
A cop holsters his smoking piece,
one round in a local schoolboys' heart,
his coke stash scattered on the sidewalk,
four thousand dollars blowing
in the wind of deceit.
Who is stealing the minds of the young?
Pinot Noir
It's dark in here, night;
who stole my innocence?
took my pride and joy, my mind,
gave it to the enemy, I wonder?
Spill the mass upon broken glass.
Cabernet Sauvignon
She gave up her right to be human
when she acquiesced to his morals,
gave birth to an unwanted mignon.
They lived happily ever after, for a
few months, 'til he found another.
The Lounge Room Pavarotti
Ordinarily I wouldn't do it,
though sometimes,
for some reason,
a Pavarotti-like animal inside me
screams his joy.
There are times,
with windows open for a summers breeze,
I walk through the lounge
and the animal roars,
startled curb crawlers turn
not to listen, but in fear.
Ave Maria is the usual suspect,
or an Italian version of Danny Boy,
but lately, a startling change,
rapping in bass baritone
to In the Ghetto, by the King,
these times I try not to laugh.
Old Rose next house over,
the eighty year wonder lady,
knocks on my door,
asks me to turn the stereo down,
I burst into a tenor rendition,
"Don't bother knockin', the house is a rockin' "
she runs in a demented hobble.
Last night I woke myself up,
seems I was snoring in A Minor,
in tune to White Wedding,
don't know what was worse,
the key of A Minor,
or the nuptial premonition.
