Poem — Hone Tuwhare



Implicit above all and
as pervasive as the Duende
of Federico Garcia Lorca
is the sense that I must tread
the liveliest and loneliest
of measures on my way
to Rarohenga cocking a snook
at the shadow of my creative
bones, thinning.

And clearly
I should be real gone when
1 reach there – the place where
I am not – except for my end-words
and that surely, is a beginning.

Hone Tuwhare

Tagged with: , ,
Posted in Poem
Subscribe to NZ Books
We're pleased you're using the New Zealand Books archive.

To ensure the survival of this important journal, please consider
subscribing — only $44 a year, or $30 for digital-only.

Go to the Subscribe page.
Search by category

Read more