Piri and Hone (and Me)

Spring 2002. Me and my great mate Piri Rewa take a trip to the Catlins to call in on Hone Tuwhare. The poet. THE poet.

I’ve got a story for you Piri, one that you might recognize, eh? 

I reckon the telling might make the whole thing worth it, if you know what I mean. A refund on the dollar cost. If words have value. I hope they do.  

You’d best sit yourself in for a long one eh? Tall but true. Quite an adventure we had. I hope you savour it, like that “one true girl” in the fireside of your memory, cuddled in close to your heart.

We leave for Kaka Point on a Monday, to go and meet Hone.

I drive and you guard the stereo and a bucket of cockles. We got them from Long Beach the day before. In our stubbies and singlets with our dicks falling out of our shorts. Wading back up to our waists in the drink. Up and over the mudflats. A story in itself, for any other mates, on any other occasion, but we’re about to meet Hone.

Hone Tuwhare. The poet. THE poet.

Rain

I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I we…