The Darling North

The Darling North

by Anne Kennedy
     
 

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In the seven long-ish poems of her new collection, multi-talented writer Anne Kennedy explores past and present, here and there, north and south, earth and paradise, hello and goodbye. In unfolding couplets, ‘The Darling North’ engages with a woman’s past, her lover, her new landscapes, exploring the results of yearning and directional

Overview

In the seven long-ish poems of her new collection, multi-talented writer Anne Kennedy explores past and present, here and there, north and south, earth and paradise, hello and goodbye. In unfolding couplets, ‘The Darling North’ engages with a woman’s past, her lover, her new landscapes, exploring the results of yearning and directional possibilities on the shores of the Hokianga. F. E. Maning and Seamus Heaney hover in the background as touchstones. ‘Hands On’ reconfigures the Little Red Riding Hood, Three Little Pigs and the Gingerbread Man stories; while other poems touch on a lost wedding ring, a significant birthday, remembered hills. Finally Kennedy offers two long poems about the dislocation of migration – a loose sequence of here-and-there sonnets that deal with the upheaval of a family move from New Zealand to Hawai‘i; and a final poem, ‘Hello Kitty, Goodbye Piccadilly’, in which the change and disturbances, effort and turmoils of adjusting to ‘Paradise’ move towards acceptance and belonging. Though separate and various in tone and form, these poems wave and tip their hats to one another – adding further pleasures to this sparklingly original collection by one of our most interesting writers.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"[Anne Kennedy] is one who surely will continue to find words for specifically located discoveries that cross cultures, providing ‘a new way to translate suffering / into another beautiful thing’.”   —Cynthia Franklin, Contemporary Pacific on Sing-Song

"[Anne Kennedy] is one who surely will continue to find words for specifically located discoveries that cross cultures, providing ‘a new way to translate suffering / into another beautiful thing’.”   —Cynthia Franklin, Contemporary Pacific on Sing-Song

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781775581772
Publisher:
Auckland University Press
Publication date:
09/26/2012
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
96
File size:
2 MB

Read an Excerpt

The Darling North


By Anne Kennedy, Silver Image Photography

Auckland University Press

Copyright © 2012 Anne Kennedy
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-86940-761-2



CHAPTER 1

THE DARLING NORTH


I have now all New Zealand before me to caper about in; so I shall do as I like, and please myself. I shall keep to neither rule, rhyme, nor reason, but just write what comes uppermost to my recollection of the good old days. – F. E. Maning, Old New Zealand


    A Land Court

    I woke in the morning when the clock dusted its hands
    after an untidy night-time. Lips fluttered

    travel plans into my back. My ribcage reverberated
    like a cello. He had land so I called him Maning.

    We were going up north, the thing to do
    down here in the hemisphere.

    I'd never looked at landscapes, only heard them,
    which was safer, the ear a sieve for

    devastation. I liked hubbub, how our apartment
    undid the city like a corkscrew. A globe

    webbed with lat. and long. and the tracks of former lovers
    quivered in one corner. Every so often Maning or I

    gave the Tropic of Capricorn a flick, exposing
    the soft underside of the other, and the South Seas.

    It was a disused schoolhouse in the Hokianga, a hang-out.
    I'd been nearby, remembered mudflats, flatness,

    nothing much, soundtracks mostly.
    I had a compass. I'd had a friend (she moved to England)

    who said you should always sleep pointing due north.
    It sounded feasible. Finding her waterbed too big to shift

    she slept crosswise, fitfully, due to the uncomfortable overhang
    of her ankles. Maning and I favoured a clock tower.

    All through the night bells rang changes. Half-waking,
    I felt them in my heart and in my lungs. In sunlight

    I lay close to the coiled hairs on his legs, degrees
    Celsius, a cast in my eye, and I lived there

    small, below decks. I liked the hardness
    of his thighs compared with my own. They were landowners,

    his people, crops, sheep, but what I discovered was
    if there were no women in the world

    he would starve to death. That's how the line
    would die out. He was an artist: ideas, paint.

    I once toppled through a sliding door he'd just cracked
    a nut in. It jumped off its hinges. We lay on the bed,

    rolls of dust under it: a childhood
    belief that was where souls went and where they'd

    come from. Air-born. Some afternoons
    I mopped there and shook out the dead souls

    into the wind above the clock tower. Evenings
    I worked in a cardboard room, rather crowded, finding

    mistakes in the newspaper. It was jovial – the proofreaders'
    jokes, their anecdotes, although night was day

    and up down. When the phone rang a subeditor's voice
    was drenched in sunshine. After midnight

    I'd find Maning with his pen dipped in a pool of rainwater
    turned black by the action of many nights upon it,

    drawing figures, scarved friends who bopped their heads
    to the blues, to vinyl, vodka, moonlight. It got later

    despite the clocks, which ticked towards the shores
    of the Hokianga, and the weekend.

    The friends said oh you'll love the north,
    and not just north, Far North. The tip. Maning agreed:

    Everyone goes north. I had listened to northness,
    a hiss, a crackle, a buckle of air.

    Auckland howled. A clock gonged at night, and at dawn
    a bulldozer sorted the chunks

    of a dream. I'd bought the alarm clock
    so I could wake up in the morning. Maning took it,

    set it every night for an obscure hour. At 8.23 a.m.
    I blinked at his inventiveness, the way his hand

    extended from his sleeve. I'd run my fingers
    over my face to be sure of it. When we got to the land,

    the disused schoolhouse on the shores of the Hokianga,
    I would mop its floors. The night before

    he is moving inside my body when the telephone rings.
    At first I think it's the clock tower.

    It rings and rings. By thirty rings he has shrunk away,
    gone naked to answer the greater urge.

    I lie on the bed watching him, my body like strewn hay
    (I imagine). He replies yes to a question and laughs

    into the receiver. A love-nest is disturbed.
    Back in bed he says his friend from France (from the long.)

    flies in and out dans le weekend. We'll be up north,
    he says, so I'll miss her. He'll miss her

    in the Hokianga. No no, I say, we don't have to go.
    Oh we do, he says. We don't. (The deliberations.)

    Shall we go north? No. Shall we go north? No!
    We would stay in the south.


    Stretch of Hokianga

    His name by some stretch of the imagination is Stretch
    and he lives with his parents in a little house

    on the southern reaches of the Hokianga.
    In a hundred years there's been small change

    in the land,
    the silver-dollar harvest of the Moreton Bay figs,

    in the movements of the family
    apart from the sandspit spend by the sea, a brother dipped

    over the hill, they are keeping everything
    just as it was. But lately, to make ends meet,

    Stretch has taken weekend tenants. Friday evenings
    are hilarious with car horns.

    An uncle owned it. It stood on his ripped-off bit
    of the family plot, biggest house on the Hokianga Harbour,

    eighteen rooms at low tide. Being a bachelor, childless,
    as is the wont of uncles, he left

    the house to Stretch, younger brother, because the elder
    had gone marae. Married. There were so many.

    It's two-storeyed, wide-pillared, veranda attended by
    Norfolk pines, a cypress thinner and more brooding,

    wine bottles crooked in its arms,
    banana palms shredded like important documents.

    From the road at night, the house lit up,
    a hundred diners rattle their knives and forks

    and shake their frilly sleeves. In the house it's just Stretch
    operating a circular saw. Weeknights he renovates.

    On Fridays he bumps home to his parents' bungalow
    across the valley, leaves the tenants

    lugging their coffee-maker, their water-purifier. The tide
    is stirred as it changes. They're professional girls

    in the book trade, perhaps jilted. Stretch watches
    in the rearview mirror as they drape the veranda

    with ragged wedding dresses.
    Once he told the lessee, a nice woman called Barbara,

    he would like to live in the eighteen-roomed house with his wife,
    whom he has not had the good fortune to meet yet.

    (He is tall of course.) There are no eligible women
    in the district. They all go to Auckland. His eyes

    reflect all the blueness in the sky leaving the Hokianga
    to silver. Later lights sit

    in the cypresses, ghosts stalk the halls. He doesn't like
    to think. He knows his history,

    the way the north pulled his forebears (the Fortunes)
    south with the moon, and on a neap tide

    they entered the mouth. Coughed up
    diddly-squat (said Barbara

    later) through the Land Court. Clutching a document
    and a cattle station, they called it Oke Hanga,

    built a veranda'd house in the vicinity of a church, a pa,
    flour-mill, fish-canning factory, a sprinkling

    of cottages and a schoolhouse
    for their many children, little north in the south

    but better, better. They'd been peasants
    in the true north, in the lemon-coloured last night,

    and now they were squires. (Maning by the way
    thinks the treaty should be ratified. His family land sits

    on the land.) I'd never lived with strangers
    but after six months cohabitating with the ghost of a man

    who had left taking everything with him apart from
    his presence which still hung in the wardrobe,

    lay folded in drawers and beside me at night
    making me gasp,

    I also packed up and departed, moved in with
    two women in the book trade. Monday to Friday,

    dressing-gowns, wings, on the way to the bathroom.
    In the weekend I met them: Barbara, Issy,

    told me they hawked advance copies in the south.
    Nice to meet you, they said, let's go north. Remember

    The Navigator, when the boy shuts his eyes in order to see?
    I soon found myself on the shores of the Hokianga

    on the edge of a weekend
    in the house next door to the disused schoolhouse,

    Maning's (my Maning), that we planned to stay in
    but we never did. Now I go north with

    Barbara and Issy because you go north.
    In my black car I buzz the coast like an insect. I watch

    the mudflats hold the tide, quivering, indecisive,
    until finally as if going back

    for its dove jacket, the water floods in ... and so,
    putting on the most unconcerned countenance possible,

    I prepared to make my entrée into Maori land
    in a proper and dignified manner.


    The Fortunes bred a family of twins, something in the gregarious
    nature of their genes. Three died all at once,

    one and a half sets, an accident at sea, they're buried over the hill.
    It is perhaps for this reason – the finality of land,

    the fickleness of people – that Stretch advertised in the Herald
    for tenants rather than live in the house himself.

    Nothing secure but the permanence of newspapers.
    (In the warm room someone proofread

    his ad for errors, perhaps me. There was deliberation
    over reaches or beaches, northern or southern.)

    It was a hot Christmas Day, the last of the hot Christmases
    seemingly, because after that the floods came.

    In the morning a man came to the door with a key for Barbara.
    I answered. They'd come from Oke Hanga,

    a car full of kids, scorched as fillet. We're a bit
    hung-over, he said, it's your turn.

    I took the key in the palm of my hand. It made an imprint,
    the long way. The next day it rained. It rained

    all summer long. We drove through the torrents, white
    like washday. Barbara, Issy, their friends in the book trade,

    and me, because I was love flotsam.
    We went north because everyone went north.

    It was Boxing Day and people flooded into the rooms,
    lay in the shallow multitudinous beds

    and ran up and down the stairs which were carpeted
    in green tartan as if it were Balmoral.

    I took them two at a time.
    Outside it rained down on the slime kingdoms.

    I had never looked at land or given landscape the time of day,
    wanting nothing of this land or of this light,

    of the unthreading of Auckland as its beads rolled
    due north. Now that I hated him,

    his inventiveness, his thighs, I could walk
    in the warm north, inoculated, the chances infinitesimal

    of ink-rash or dust attack, of an amoeba or old record
    finding me. I could walk among northness,

    touching it, its leaves, water, movement.
    Like everyone, I would see north.

    Barbara is the only one among us who has met the brother.
    Once he came to the gate, gun slung over one arm,

    peered at Stretch replacing boards on the veranda.
    Barbara asked would your brother

    like to come in for a cup of tea to which Stretch replied
    no he would not.


    A Signature

    His sleeve, or the prevailing wind from these sleeves,
    one afternoon brushed his disastrous love life

    onto the carpet where it made a dark stain. He was minding
    a house in the crook of Waitemata, Auckland,

    its owner home in England. At that moment
    she looked down involuntarily at the footpath in Sloane Square.

    He reached for an afternoon's drawings to mop up the mess,
    on hand on a roll in the kitchen. When people visited

    he ripped off volleys of naked women to lie in their laps
    while they ate takeaways, to mark with the imprint

    of lipstick before they left. This was the way he talked,
    not me. I visited the house at low tide.

    I could tell a flow of vanilla had been there by the objects
    beached at the high-water mark,

    his abandoned jandals, a sweetness, too much talk, nothing left
    unsaid – well, I hid things sometimes.

    He told me everything he knew only leaving out the things
    he had chosen not to know. Paths go down

    to the sea through the suburban bush. He'd learnt them off by heart
    acquiring a knowledge of these parts like a London cabbie.

    I followed. He raced ahead, retrieved his jandals from the edge
    of the ink stain. I tried not to be drawn. The sugar works

    on the bay hummed like a small orchestra. Bags billowing
    with confection destined for England

    were being loaded onto a barge and sent across the harbour
    to the port of Auckland. Behind it

    the business district, the courts, the hotels flickered like
       handwriting.
    The harbour stirred, edgy from being watched.

    I said I was going to the Hokianga for the weekend.
    My life without him sounded interesting.

    I told him I'd been dating in his absence, met a man,
    not true, but thought he was very nice,

    talked about him the way a man talks about a woman:
    great legs. Maning says

    you think I have everything but in a way I have nothing.
    Under no circumstances would I be drawn.

    Later we kissed or ate
    against the banister. That day I talked in

    sentences no more than four inches long.
    When he shows me the remains of the ink stain

    I want to get down on my hands and knees and lick
    the last dark translation from the carpet

    because I love his disasters – earth, minerals, fluids,
    I want the smudge on my tongue.

    His mother, he says, and other admirers have suggested applying
    fuller's earth, vanilla essence, milk, to the stain.

    Knowledge. At that point I flee home to my beloved
    grief. The owner of the house will return from England

    to find the piles of her house matted
    from where he has been at them with a wire brush.

    He will clear away all trace of what was there before
    but not without drawing me in. What I realise,

    as my black car copperplates over the bridge, is
    love makes the land appear and disappear.


    Evidence from the Veranda

    In the end there is nowhere to go but back to the Hokianga.
    It is summer but it rains every day. Friday evening

    the party walks out in gumboots to a lake a mile away
    blown in half by the prevailing northerly pushing

    its cover of pale green slime to one side. It appears suddenly
    in the landscape like a neenish tart. We trail

    along the beach in drizzle to meet the nearest neighbour,
    a man from Auckland who apparently

    inherited the schoolhouse, the disused schoolhouse.
    I know it will be empty.

    The hydrangeas are ludicrous. The criss-cross balustrade,
    polite keep-out, invites me up

    to the ochre veranda. It's sanded bare, beveled. The foreshore
    is taking it back. My palms make

    safety glasses. Little desks, row of hooks, dead fireplace.
    Dust bunnies rush helter-skelter.

    We hurry away before the incoming tide cuts off our access
    which would force us to use the long looping road,

    and nobody wants to. Across the sludgy inlet
    the late sun is fizzy with rain. We stop at the marae

    and talk to a man leaning on a toothy fortification. You fellas
    down from Auckland? Yes yes, from Auckland,

    but up. Up. He talks in waves about the district,
    mounds, mouth, flat, forest. Or used to be.

    He bats across the water at the schoolhouse. Shut up
    shop during the Depression, sold into private title.

    A Pakeha farmer won it one drunken night of cards, 1935.
    Still in the family, seldom there.

    Back at Oke Hanga someone builds a fire, open as in naked.
    On the lawn, derelict playground equipment rocks

    to and fro in the gathering storm as if enormous grey children
    play on it, branches caught in their hair. Barbara

    says the house was once converted into a children's home.
    That's why there are so many

    little rooms. (Stretch is gradually knocking down
    the flimsy walls.) Barbara would like to write a monograph:

    the house and environs, its history. History
    of the north, its future,

    the house restored, empty during the week save for Stretch and his
    phantom wife, their bed blown about on wild nights

    from room to room. In the weekends
    they give it over to the party in the book trade,

    their children and their children's children's books.
    How nomadic they are! Read The Songlines, spend two weeks

    out of three in motels in the upper North Island,
    on Friday nights at Oke Hanga

    thankfully climb the tartan stairs to bed. One weekend
    everyone will drive up to the tip, the northern-most point

    where the Pacific and the Tasman shake hands, goodbye,
    and souls jump off because there is no more north.

    I had a forebear, apparently, manned the lighthouse
    up there. Did I say that? And his wife and children.

    At Oke Hanga the porch is as big as an apartment I rented,
    half with a lover, half alone, blown apart

    like the lake. The dining table seats twenty for dinner, it's strewn
    with advance copies of books, a stuffed Penguin,

    the claws of the wind, the sky gleaming
    down on it. In the small south

    hours, the party is drawn like sand
    to the bedrooms. My room is big – sky, sea, light,

    pressed into a straw-coloured cube. Big bed, little else
    apart from the coming and going of net curtains

    leaving a tidemark on the carpet. One weekend when there is
    nothing else to do we will all drive to Cape Reinga.

    Also a colony of bees in the wall – low-pitched drone at night,
    in the mornings their coffee-crystal hour-glass figures hovering.

    Once I heard a man say this to his mate on the bus:
    she's got an hour-glass figure

    only all the sand's gone to one end. At dinner (the big table)
    we were talking about trees and Ian said

    without trees there would be no bestsellers.
    Pinus contorta, which grows thickly in all directions,

    is becoming a problem at the military camp in Waiouru.
    The army, rather than chop down the trees,

    used them for target practice. And every splinter
    formed a new tree. Maning is in Auckland,

    his schoolhouse dark, and I am as far north as possible
    without jumping off

    into the place where the two famous seas meet
    and sign a treaty endlessly in blue and turquoise.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Darling North by Anne Kennedy, Silver Image Photography. Copyright © 2012 Anne Kennedy. Excerpted by permission of Auckland University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Anne Kennedy teaches creative writing at the University of Hawaii–Manoa. She is the author of A Boy and His Uncle and Musica Ficta as well as the poetry collections Sing-Song and The Time of the Giants. She is also the recipient of the BNZ Katherine Mansfield Short Story Award and the ICI Award. She lives in Honolulu, Hawaii.

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