About two years ago I was lying in bed unable to eat or move when I got a call from the Auckland City Art Gallery inviting me to do some kind of poetic performance in the middle of the Frances Hodgkins exhibition. Despite feeling somewhat indifferent towards her paintings, and having no notion of when I would return to the world of the living (would it take weeks or months?), I agreed to do some poetry for Frances.

I gathered the reproductions of Frances about me on the bed and found, even in this second-hand form, the paintings resonated in new and insistent ways. If a good poem shimmers (or shivers?) in its musicality, vulnerability (I am thinking of the emotional aftertaste), intelligence (I am a sucker for thoughtfulness), and ability to keep one’s attention in a deliciously drawn-out moment, then so too can a painting. As the weeks in bed blurred into more weeks, I fell in love with the paintings of Frances.

When I could scarcely eat more than a sip of soup, I found sustenance and refuge in a diet of paintings and poetry. All the latest New Zealand poetry books joined the reproductions of Frances and out of this prolonged contemplation grew the idea for a new collection: an autobiography in the light of art. I felt overwhelmed by how good the latest writing was; how Bill Manhire’s poems had “lifted” off the page in an exquisite interplay of musicality, vulnerability and intelligence (I am not sure whether these terms are “in” or “out” but together they ignite a transcendental effect that holds my attention perfectly). Michele Leggott’s beautifully layered Milk & Honey was an equally fine repast as was Anne Kennedy’s The Time of the Giants, Murray Edmond’s Fool Moon, Ian Wedde’s Three Regrets and a Hymn to Beauty, Anna Jackson’s The Gas Leak, Greg O’Brien’s Afternoon of an Evening Train, James Brown’s The Year of the Bicycle and a return to Jenny Bornholdt’s magnificent Summer.

Out of this reading of Frances and the poets, my new collection grew, but as I wrote I couldn’t imagine the writing becoming a book; in my state of hunger I knew that I was writing for the sake and pleasure of writing and that that process was personal, intimate and necessary. I no longer wanted my writing to cross the threshold between the private and the public. This choice, at that moment, was liberating.

But now, two years later, I hold the book, Making Lists For Frances Hodgkins, fresh from the printers, in my hand. On the cover, The Styx, a divine photograph by Deborah Smith of a young woman (not me!) in a red dress and gumboots standing in the skeleton of a boat in the mangroves. I can almost smell the mud and hear the squelch of the mangrove creatures. This is an image, strikingly designed by Athena Sommerfield that also rings out with musicality, vulnerability and intelligence. I feel like I have crossed all manner of writing rivers (of doubt not hell!) to get to this point and it feels good. Yet ironically, after my sojourn within the confines of the private, I have made public, secret thoughts. This both startles and amuses me.

Last Tuesday I launched the collection at Parsons Bookshop in Auckland where there is a fine array of art books along with an exemplary stock of New Zealand poetry books. Go there to check out the backlist of your favourite poet or discover grass-root publications that bring new voices to our attention. I didn’t want to have anyone cracking words over the book… I wanted to launch the book with a song, so Callie Blood and Wayne Bell from The Darlings played two songs from their new album, The Cicada Sessions. With the wall-to-wall books and the carpet, the space was ideal for an acoustic rendition. To simply hear voice and guitar sent shivers down my spine.


Letter to Jenny Bornholdt

When I was contained by bed
I lived in the airy poems

and the wonder of the ‘French Garden’
each day was a tonic.

A small plant sprung up
in its rhyme
and gave off the scent
of melancholy

a sweet joy
then basil or garlic.
Sometimes in my wanderings

in the muffled sky
and steep slopes of your poem

I pictured myself writing.

(from Making Lists)