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
