enjoying the poetry of Hone Tuwhare
HOTERE
Ka tohu mai koe e toru rāina noa iho
rāina tūmāhoe i tino āta whakairotia
ka pokia ki roto i te puna peita pōuri
Āe koe he matekai te mea e kitea ana:
koia, ahatia i pōrukuruku aku karu
ki runga, ki tua kia titiro ki roto i
ahau, tau kē au ki te tīmatanga
o tō korekore, kia kī rawa atu ahau: e mara!
e hoki anō tāua ki te kai kūtai
Inā rā, me tino wānanga e tōhoa, e mara
Ina tāke rāina pae koe
ki ngā rāina tūmāhoe, anō nei ko rātou kei te
haere mua, hoki muri, wiriwiri, pahū ngaru ana
rite tonu ki te ngahoronga haupū kaari
hoianō tāke he ngunguru, he me: koinā, mēnā
ehara i te kore kai, he hākari nui whakaharahara
Me rōra moki anō tōhoa, e mara
Engari koa, ka tineia e koe he porohita ārani whakahirahira
ki runga i te papa-whakaaro pūpara
me rūrū tōhoa i taku mātenga, ka mea: auē e mara, he aha kē
te taonga nei te aroha
Koia, kua aukatia au e mara, kua tāia
trans. Patu Hohepa
Hotere
When you offer only three
vertical lines precisely drawn
and set into a dark pool of lacquer
it is a visual kind of starvation:
and even though my eye-balls
roll up and over to peer inside
myself, when I reach the beginning
of your eternity I say instead: hell
let’s have another feed of mussels
Like, I have to think about it, man
When you stack horizontal lines
into vertical columns which appear
to advance, recede, shimmer and wave
like exploding packs of cards
I merely grunt and say: well, if it
is not a famine, it’s a feast
I have to roll another smoke, man
But when you score a superb orange
circle on a purple thought-base
I shake my head and say: hell, what
is this thing, called love
Like, I’m euchred, man. I’m eclipsed
(1970)
Hone Tuwhare