Posted in Chutzpah

Self Promotion

Everybody called him Willie
it wasn’t his birth name.
He wasn’t William either
although it might have been third of
a trio proceeding his surname.
The first being
Arthur, or Bartholomew, or something like that
after his father, grandfather, grandfather and great-great-grandfather –
the burden of the firstborn.

He was unaffected by heritage
no silver spoon or affectation.
People liked him
and he liked people.
Picked up a few acres after
one of the rich old relatives kicked the bucket
loved anything that grew – planted everything –
melons, squash, tomatoes, peppers, potatoes
and something for himself.

Decided to go abroad for a while
broaden his horizons
washed up in London needing a job –
passed himself off as a town planner.
When told no or met with a quizzical look
he would reply,
that’s how we do it in New Zealand. Got away with it for 12 months
then came back home to growing things.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.