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
skeptics
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.
Ngauranga
Gorge
A
little introduction, a must you see,
to
get the feel of my trip of glee,
Herman
Thwubblethwaite, racontuer,
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.
Then
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.
Then
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, don't know what would be worse,
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 'round 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!
A
Lakes Muse
Taupo.
So
huge, immense!
Imagine
your size as volcano,
whence
you thrust,
shadow
of your former self,
nestling
calm waters,
spilling
your guts
into
Waikato umbilicus.
Rotorua
Hell you
stink!
Yet
your legend stirs mystery,
a
taniwha washes ashore and builds
a
monstrous cityscape,
e'er
still, fog swarms
your
calm exterior.
Must
you be the smell?
Waikeremoana
You
with the long name,
A
Urewera jewel
hidden
in green abundance
Tuhoe
make you home,
with
rushes and cottages
of
thatch and thrown together materials,
Holidays
baches, red.
Rotoiti
Nelson
Lakes, where are you
pakeha name, maori place
pakeha name, maori place
in
your face reason for going
bees
and mites, sandfly bites,
stuffed
stoically amongst green mounts
and
trees; Beech, Rata,
and
some kid etches his name.
Pukaki
See
bare skinned pakeha bathe,
the
aquamarine pulses blue/green
from
snow melt,
cold
waters cooling swimmers and boaters
who
use it's unnatural existence,
damn
the Dam, thanks.
Wakatipu
Lightning
strike shaped moment
in
inescapable mountains
of
grey granite and white tops,
in
the zip zap of the mid section,
Queenstown,
crusty tourism,
farms
and ski slopes batter it's length,
with
a cold southerly etching
time
into its sides.
Te
Anau
Heck,
you're big!
Why
doesn't anyone live there?
oh
yeah, national park on your borders,
bloody
governments!
Manapouri
Dead
and dying,
no
disguising the rot of your surroundings,
raised
to accommodate a tunnel,
power
to those that don't need it, money
and
a lake dies and lives, yeah!
A
stump pushes up from the depths
once
mighty totara, holes a boat.
The
Backyard Swimming Pool.
Party
last night.
What
is that brown thing floating atop
green
and putrid water?
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 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.
Paremoremo
in passing.
Ambling
along the Albany/Parry road,
normal
country fare, trees, paddocks,
and
stock alongside houses many,
then
it's in your face, huge and ugly,
battleship
grey of cement walls
and
razor wired fences sixteen feet high.
In
through the security gates, checked for ID,
back
to work, another eight hour shift
with
those that the courts deem unable to fit
in
societies plans for whatever reason,
down
the locked corridors and chained cupboards,
to
the real hub, the heartbeat, the cells.
Then
it hits, you, every new day, the stench
humanity
rotting away over time, a long time
and
for some they rot cause they won't conform,
the
stink gets into your clothes, your wife smells it too
smells
everything you smell and retch at,
like
Rotorua, you get used to it, quickly.
March
of the racketeers, up the centre line, checking,
eyes
peering back, the occassional "gidday boss",
always
checking, what they do, what they say,
whatever
and whenever, it is checked, and rechecked,
no
escape on your beat, none from your block,
and
you march on, and on, checking again.
Then,
as soon as it began, it's over and you head home,
safe
in the knowledge they are still locked away,
safe
in the surety your wife is ok, you rang her
before
you left, it was routine now,
the
rear vision mirror reflects grey splodge,
you
know you will see it again tomorrow.
A
Landscape Painter paints the Cook Strait
Wide
expanse of turgid waters, blue
deep
from cut of sub antarctic current,
cutting
into seabed rugged from earthquake action
and
the terrain above mirrors below.
Seaward
Kaikoura's frame a southern vista
dark
granite black and white snowed,
the
frame stretches west and is smaller
but
no less impressive, Marlborough.
Spread
around to those rough hills
an
area rich in sea life and the likes,
the
Sounds, deep water passes and islands
married
to each other in time, and useful.
A
cut, a way for boats and ferries to ride,
Tory
Channel a way inside to this other world,
a
whaling station disused, rots away this day
and
ever, a reminder of things that once were.
An
isle stands sentinel to the western end,
Stephens
Island, a lighthouse to light the way,
and
across raging tidal cross references, east meets west
boats
and whales traverse the gulf that is the Strait.
The
northern extremity, bush clad in gorse,
high
hills with radar antennae, for planes
not
ships, and the aerials for radio and TV
and
a propelllor launches many volts, no plane.
Behold,
a city, sprawling amongst the roughcast
southern
bays of it's spreading monstrosity,
Karori
Rock lights a path past nuggety rocks
a
nor' west wind roars in and planes weave an approach.
A
gut, a vagina of commercial importance,
Wellington
Harbour entrance, ferries, fishing boats,
and
anything that needs to get in and out,
Wahine
missed the point and drowned a few, it's tough.
Pencarrow
Light, in the roaring southerly blasts,
she,
the lower of two, is covered in swell and wind,
Further
round to the east, Baring Head, then Cape Turakurae,
guarding
the eastern entrance to Palliser Bay, another province.
There
she is, across the vast expanse of fishable bay,
Red
and white sentinel, standing for all to take heed,
Cape
Palliser Light, warder of night, and Cook Straits
eastern
and northern bodyguard, be warned all who enter.
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