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Chris Price is the author of a poetry collection, Husk, which won the 2002 Montana New Zealand Book Award for Best First Book of Poetry, and of Brief Lives, a collection of prose pieces in the form of an eccentric biographical dictionary, that is shortlisted for the 2007 book awards.

For many years she organised New Zealand Post Writers and Readers Week in Wellington, and currently teaches the poetry workshop at the International Institute of Modern Letters, where she is also involved with the New Zealand Post National Schools Poetry Award and the Writers on Mondays series.

Thanks to a residency with the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre she has been spending a month in a historic cottage above the Arts Centre in Hobart working on a new book of poems, as well as taking a side trip to check out the Sydney Writers’ Festival.

  • On Kelly Street

    It’s good to get out of the house sometimes – spend too much time at home and you can go mad without noticing.  Before I went to Tasmania, everyone told me that it was just like New Zealand. Well, they were right – but still it was refreshing to be plucked out of the morass of daily life in Wellington and set down in a cottage of my own for a month, with nothing to do but write.  

    Number 1 Kelly Street (bushranger or songwriter, the name seems auspicious) is an old whaler’s cottage overlooking the row of dockside warehouses that have been converted into the Salamanca Arts Centre.  A large sunny kitchen has a writing desk in one corner and a view across a small backyard to the city and Mt Wellington (enough of a mountain to have snow on the summit).  Just over the back fence are the Peacock Theatre, a thriving collection of galleries and craft shops, a courtyard with free live music every Friday night, a square full of cafés and a quality independent bookshop.  Every Saturday Salamanca Place hosts a great craft and food market – oh, and there’s a fine bakery/café on the corner of Kelly Street.  It’s a short stroll to the port if you want to take a cruise, and the city is in easy reach on foot, as manageable as Wellington.  Aside from Saturday nights, when the revellers pass to and from the bars of Salamanca Place just feet from your bedroom window, it’s quiet in the cottage.  All in all, the ideal location for a writer in residence.  

    It’s also refreshing to be dropped like a pebble into the pond of another culture’s preoccupations for a while – just following the evening news is a novel form of entertainment and education when you’re a spectator, rather than a fully immersed citizen.  It reminded me of some of the benefits of living in a larger culture – newspapers that can afford to treat the reader as an intelligent being, a deeper and more wide-ranging arts landscape – even the Australians’ more colourful line in crime and corruption has its fascinations.  There’s Ramona Koval’s hour-long books programme each morning to tempt you away from your day’s work, an ad-free digital jazz channel courtesy of SBS for entertainment.... With all these distractions, it might be easy to let the writing slide – but dedicated writing time is too precious to waste.

    In his Sydney Writers’ Festival event Eliot Weinberger remarked that his writing method resembles the digestive process of the sea cucumber, which takes in a large quantity of mud in order to extract a very small amount of nourishment.  Somehow I seem to have fallen into this way of working, and as a consequence lugged several kilos worth of books and papers I’d been hoarding for a year or more across the Tasman and back in order to feed the digestive tract.

    Unlike, say, researching and writing a historical novel or a biography, the business of extracting poems from ‘information’ is a chancy affair that relies on association, patience and time – it’s no use trying to write something before you’ve processed the raw materials, and you can never predict what’s going to emerge at the end of it.  Often, very little trace remains of the information you started with.  

    If you’re lucky the poem will develop a mind of its own about where it wants to go. Or you’ll write something you had no plans for at all – one morning in Hobart an essay announced itself, and soon began (as these things do) to drag all manner of things into its force field.  

    Kate Grenville says that some people become writers because they don’t think quickly on their feet.  I’m one of those, so an essay offers me the luxury of puzzling something through at leisure and in private, where I can set down and erase at least some of my more foolish and clumsy thoughts before inflicting them on the world.  It’s also light relief from the more erratic art of the poem, which seems to owe more – in its early stages, at least – to good fortune than good judgement (although that needs to be applied later).

    The Tasmanian Writers’ Centre is run by Australians so enlightened that they let New Zealanders apply for their residencies.  I hope one day New Zealand might be in a position to reciprocate, perhaps through the Michael King Writers’ Centre.  It really is good to get out of the house – and home looks better after some time away, too.

    Details of the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre, including its Island of Residencies programme, can be found here. Applications for the 2008 residencies close on 31 November.  



  • Song Lines

    The composer Edgar Varèse defined music as ‘organised sound’.  I’ve been thinking a great deal about the relationship between music and poetry lately – not just because the book I’m currently working on takes a strong interest in music, but also because, as part of this year’s New Zealand Post National Schools Poetry Award, one of the finalists will have their poem set to music by a member of Wellington’s current musical cool-school, Barnaby Weir.*

    A poem too is organised sound, and I wonder if the reason some people fail to connect with poetry at first is that they haven’t yet  ‘tuned in’ to the music of the words.   Encountering the poem on the page, we are (often) reading the score for a vocal performance.  The qualities of rhythm, metre, cadence and melody are common to both music and poetry, and we say of the poets and musicians we admire that they have a ‘good ear’. There is even some neuroscientific evidence that musical training may also help with language, by improving the brain’s ability to differentiate between rapidly changing sounds.

    The musician knows how notes relate to each other in a particular scale; they can hear when their instrument (or voice) is out of tune with other instruments, and can hit notes accurately.  The poet plays the melody of vowels and consonants, and manipulates the rhythm and tempo of the syllables, phrases and lines, as well as the pauses between them, to create – and frustrate – expectations in the reader or listener, producing the same kind of tension and release that we find satisfying in music.   

    So the songwriter who sets a poem to music faces the challenge of fitting a piece of already organised sound to a schema of their devising.  Not so hard to do with a poem that has a regular rhythm and rhyme scheme: listen to Dave Dobbyn’s contribution to the Baxter album, Song of the Years, which seems to fit James K Baxter’s poem like a glove.  But a lot of contemporary poetry has a less predictable approach to form, and with this kind of work the musician may need more leeway to modify the original in order to create a pleasing song, whether by inventing a chorus from a line or two of the original or by cutting and pasting elements to make a new work.  

    The more mysterious trick is creating an arrangement that doesn’t somehow ride roughshod over the poem’s original intent or spirit, as well as its music.  For that, I suspect, it takes a good ear for what the words are actually saying.

    *The finalists in the 2007 New Zealand Post National Schools Poetry Award will be announced on 24 July. 

    Chris Price plays percussion on Hinemoana Baker’s adaptation of the poem ‘Where Shall I Wander’ on the album Tuwhare (Universal, 2006).

  • Festival Lives

    One of the pleasures of a writers’ festival offering over 300 events is that connections proliferate; each audience member can join the dots to make their own personal map of ideas and experiences.  I’m currently contemplating a kind of ‘biography with digressions’ on a more ambitious scale than Brief Lives (pictured), so my map of the Sydney Festival is dominated by biography and memoir and their corollary, memory.  It’s a salutary reminder of the difficulties biographers face that do not generally trouble the novelist or poet.  

    Hazel Rowley, author of a joint portrait of de Beauvoir and Sartre, talks passionately of contending with the ‘custodians of the legend’.  Historian Inga Clendinnen resembles a sharp-eyed raptor at the lectern as she begins with the bracing assertion that ‘I think biography is almost impossible, and autobiography supremely so.’  She reminds us that the biographer must deal not only with the family, but with the fan club, citing her own satisfaction in hurling Carole Angier’s biography of Primo Levi across the room because it accorded so poorly with ‘her’ Primo Levi.   

    Rowley says cheerfully that biography requires detective work, sociability, travel and research; Brenda Niall (who will visit Wellington later this year) points out that the prerequisites are cash, patience and time.  Clendinnen feels the greatest danger is falling out of love with one’s subject; Patrick Marnham confesses he fell out with Oppenheimer over an apparently minor thing, his gratuitous bullying of students.

    The danger I feel most keenly is the one plaintively expressed to Clendinnen by Mark McKenna, currently working his way through the voluminous papers of Manning Clark: ‘I can’t seem to stop myself wanting to see it all.’

    Pause for thought.  Do I really want to shackle myself to documentary evidence, to have my life and meagre funds swallowed up by airfares and research before a word can be written?  Wouldn’t it be simpler to stick with making it up?  

    Ah, but I’m in love, at least for now. We’ll see what love can do.








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