Uncle Glenn
Full credit to novelist R Carl Shuker. He's just won New Zealand’s largest literary prize, the biennial, princely $65,000 Prize in Modern Letters for The Method Actors. Lumière likes his reviews, too. Associate Editor ALEXANDER BISLEY profiles the prize's previous recipient, Glenn Colquhoun.
GLENN COLQUHOUN doesn’t think people should see him as the often lauded selfless, altruistic doctor bringing healing to the impoverished masses. "I’m living on the pig’s back." He says medicine allows him to work part-time and earn good money, moreover providing a "wonderful set of human interactions" and a "spiritual sense" that inspires his life and poetry.
Colquhoun, like his poetry, exudes genuine warmth and compassion. He is articulate, avuncular and generous. Contrary to what his olive complexion, brown eyes and tattoo suggest, Colquhoun doesn’t have a drop of Maori blood in him.
Colquhoun immersed himself in Maoritanga after his marriage had broken up shortly after he had given up his strict Adventist faith. His first year in Te Tii, Northland was "very life-changing". (In other parallels with James K Baxter, his work has a strong sense of community and a connection with nature.) In the preface to his first book The Art of Walking Upright, Colquhoun writes "It is... a place I finally went to learn things Maori... For these experiences and relationships I think I am the luckiest Pakeha I know. I found there old ways of being so long forgotten inside me that they felt new... what it means to be human." Colquhoun says he was attracted to Baxter’s work, like Hone Tuwhare’s, because of the rhythm and cadence of his voice, his democratising of poetry and the romance of his image. They "find the music in the everyday voice", as he does. "I don’t have the dramatic persona they do," he laughs heartily.
"Auckland, even when I am well stoned / On a tab of LSD or Indian grass / You still look to me like an elephant’s arsehole / Surrounded with blue-black haemorrhoids," Baxter famously described the city in ‘Ode to Auckland’.Colquhoun passionately disagrees, enthusing there is much more to his hometown than Baxter and many New Zealanders give it credit for. Colquhoun grew up in Papatoetoe, South Auckland, in a working class, deeply religious Adventist family. On balance, he says he’s glad to have had the Adventist experience: with caveats. A cross was lifted from Colquhoun when he renounced his faith. "I’m not required for the running of the world," he realised, "Nah, I can fuck around as much as I want."
The Art of Walking Upright won the best first book of poetry at the 2000 national book awards. An explanation of poetry to my father was also published that year. Playing God, about being a doctor, won best book (and reader’s choice) at 2003’s awards. "His precise poetic prescriptions, spells, divinations, humouresques, make poetry available to a potentially larger readership than it normally expects or, often, deserves ... Lean, direct, touching, often painfully funny, one has to regard this thoroughly enjoyable and achieved collection as something of a breakthrough on the current poetic scene," the Listener wrote.
In 2004 he won Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters’ prestigious prize. "Fantastic. It’s one of those punch the air moments… Especially for the money, but also for the legitimacy it gives you." There’s an old Maori proverb that goes, The kumara does not say how sweet it is. Colquhoun remains modest, saying he’s only just starting to write decent poetry. He’s popularly picked as the successor to Hone Tuwhare as the ‘people’s poet’. "It’s a lovely thing for people to say. At the same time, it’s completely undeserved... I really think I’m still learning."
Colquhoun’s poetic invitation 'A Haka to Kaka Point'- "bring our boy home"- published in the Listener in 2001, led to Tuwhare’s rare return to Northland from Kaka Point, Central Otago in 2002. The national treasure’s trip was memorably recorded by Michelle McGregor in The Return Home. Tuwhare told the Listener he had mixed feelings about the public nature of Colquhoun’s invite. "I was a bit embarrassed about that, goodness gracious. He goes overboard, dammit. God and bloody hell. Still, I thought I’ll come up here and he might be an interesting bugger to meet. If he’s a doctor I can get free pills off him. Well, indeed he has."
Indeed, Colquhoun confirms to me what the doco portrays: that they really enjoyed each other’s company. "It was wonderful. He’s a wonderful personality, as comes through in his poetry. Very charming, very funny, very cheeky and very stubborn." They keep in touch; Colquhoun has visited him since at Kaka Point. Tuwhare remains a very big influence: especially how he taps into the vernacular, sardonic New Zealand voice and juxtaposes it with beautiful, classical English; and represents the experience of ordinary New Zealanders.
Anna Jackson, leading young poet (and English academic), particularly likes the power and originality of Colquhoun’s imagery. "... [His] finding connections becomes political, as he finds connections between Pakeha and Maori identity, making comparisons between different identities and different displacements. He is honest and generous in the connections he makes, and he makes them with humour and love... He’s like William Carlos Williams in the precision of his observations, and his attention to ordinary lives and ordinary details, the same love for people and people’s lives."
Jackson explains why people have made the parallel between Tuwhare and Colquhoun. "Like William Carlos Williams, and like Hone Tuwhare, he has been called a ‘people’s poet’ – writing poetry that is easy to read and enjoy, and which offers new ways of seeing ordinary things. Hone Tuwhare is another poet who comes up with extraordinarily powerful metaphors... like Hone Tuwhare, he writes poetry that is both powerful and accessible."
Jackson says the comparison is somewhat connected to the politics of marketing and the limited attention poetry is given. "The connection between Glenn and Hone – the similarity in the kind of writing and the kind of audience they might reach... gives the media a way of marketing Glenn, a way of presenting his poetry to people... But the limited media exposure for poetry generally does make the issue politically charged in a way, especially if you consider the even more limited media exposure for Maori poetry in particular… but we need a ‘people’s poet’ – and we need poetry, like Glenn’s, that finds a broad audience for poetry – poetry to make people love poetry."
Colquhoun, who currently lives in the Otaki neighbourhood, has his critics. Harry Ricketts, co-editor of the stellar literary periodical New Zealand Books, is one not entirely convinced. "Glenn is a phenomenon. He’s written some good poems, I think, but his success is probably more a marker of non-literary aspects of where we are now."
Colquhoun doesn’t see himself as a political poet, "Not yet. More about belonging." Nonetheless, he does have strong opinions about politics. He criticises Don Brash and Gerry Brownlee, saying they are patently ignoramuseses re Maoridom. "How can you prescribe when you don’t know the culture?" Colquhoun encourages Pakeha to get to know Maori, citing the great hospitality he received at Te Tii. "Most of the ordinary people here are not flag-waving, they just get on with their lives." Colquhoun, who is fluent in Te Reo- "It’s incredibly liberating"- is passionate that more people should learn the language. "I’m always suspicious of people who have too many solutions," although he immediately jibes self-deprecatingly at his own loquacious nature. He says people should say they don’t know the answer more often and listen to what others have to say.
Following Uncle Glenn and Me and Uncle Glenn and Me Too is his third, recently released childrens' book; Mr Short, Mr Thin, Mr Bald & Mr Dog, "a complete nonsense". Yes, Dr. Seuss is an influence. "Their subversion, playfulness with words. Complete and utter imagination."
His advice to young poets? "Listen to everything. Keep your eyes and ears open. Read other poets... have a thick skin." He’s critical of journalists who just talk to "experts" – including himself. "Fuck, when did journalists ever go down and talk to Mrs Jones and see what she thinks?" Colquhoun laments the decline in compassion. "There’s not enough compassion in the world. If I could walk in your shoes I would understand you a bit more."
As for that stock (slightly naff) question journalists ask: What can poetry achieve?"Poetry is about noticing the moment and valuing the moment. Where you find layers of beauty and meaning… a profound place in the world, poetry liberates in that sense. It values the insignificant… poetry reminds us that it’s enough to be alive, we’re all rich."
GLENN COLQUHOUN doesn’t think people should see him as the often lauded selfless, altruistic doctor bringing healing to the impoverished masses. "I’m living on the pig’s back." He says medicine allows him to work part-time and earn good money, moreover providing a "wonderful set of human interactions" and a "spiritual sense" that inspires his life and poetry.
Colquhoun, like his poetry, exudes genuine warmth and compassion. He is articulate, avuncular and generous. Contrary to what his olive complexion, brown eyes and tattoo suggest, Colquhoun doesn’t have a drop of Maori blood in him.
Colquhoun immersed himself in Maoritanga after his marriage had broken up shortly after he had given up his strict Adventist faith. His first year in Te Tii, Northland was "very life-changing". (In other parallels with James K Baxter, his work has a strong sense of community and a connection with nature.) In the preface to his first book The Art of Walking Upright, Colquhoun writes "It is... a place I finally went to learn things Maori... For these experiences and relationships I think I am the luckiest Pakeha I know. I found there old ways of being so long forgotten inside me that they felt new... what it means to be human." Colquhoun says he was attracted to Baxter’s work, like Hone Tuwhare’s, because of the rhythm and cadence of his voice, his democratising of poetry and the romance of his image. They "find the music in the everyday voice", as he does. "I don’t have the dramatic persona they do," he laughs heartily.
"Auckland, even when I am well stoned / On a tab of LSD or Indian grass / You still look to me like an elephant’s arsehole / Surrounded with blue-black haemorrhoids," Baxter famously described the city in ‘Ode to Auckland’.Colquhoun passionately disagrees, enthusing there is much more to his hometown than Baxter and many New Zealanders give it credit for. Colquhoun grew up in Papatoetoe, South Auckland, in a working class, deeply religious Adventist family. On balance, he says he’s glad to have had the Adventist experience: with caveats. A cross was lifted from Colquhoun when he renounced his faith. "I’m not required for the running of the world," he realised, "Nah, I can fuck around as much as I want."
The Art of Walking Upright won the best first book of poetry at the 2000 national book awards. An explanation of poetry to my father was also published that year. Playing God, about being a doctor, won best book (and reader’s choice) at 2003’s awards. "His precise poetic prescriptions, spells, divinations, humouresques, make poetry available to a potentially larger readership than it normally expects or, often, deserves ... Lean, direct, touching, often painfully funny, one has to regard this thoroughly enjoyable and achieved collection as something of a breakthrough on the current poetic scene," the Listener wrote.
In 2004 he won Victoria University’s International Institute of Modern Letters’ prestigious prize. "Fantastic. It’s one of those punch the air moments… Especially for the money, but also for the legitimacy it gives you." There’s an old Maori proverb that goes, The kumara does not say how sweet it is. Colquhoun remains modest, saying he’s only just starting to write decent poetry. He’s popularly picked as the successor to Hone Tuwhare as the ‘people’s poet’. "It’s a lovely thing for people to say. At the same time, it’s completely undeserved... I really think I’m still learning."
Colquhoun’s poetic invitation 'A Haka to Kaka Point'- "bring our boy home"- published in the Listener in 2001, led to Tuwhare’s rare return to Northland from Kaka Point, Central Otago in 2002. The national treasure’s trip was memorably recorded by Michelle McGregor in The Return Home. Tuwhare told the Listener he had mixed feelings about the public nature of Colquhoun’s invite. "I was a bit embarrassed about that, goodness gracious. He goes overboard, dammit. God and bloody hell. Still, I thought I’ll come up here and he might be an interesting bugger to meet. If he’s a doctor I can get free pills off him. Well, indeed he has."
Indeed, Colquhoun confirms to me what the doco portrays: that they really enjoyed each other’s company. "It was wonderful. He’s a wonderful personality, as comes through in his poetry. Very charming, very funny, very cheeky and very stubborn." They keep in touch; Colquhoun has visited him since at Kaka Point. Tuwhare remains a very big influence: especially how he taps into the vernacular, sardonic New Zealand voice and juxtaposes it with beautiful, classical English; and represents the experience of ordinary New Zealanders.
Anna Jackson, leading young poet (and English academic), particularly likes the power and originality of Colquhoun’s imagery. "... [His] finding connections becomes political, as he finds connections between Pakeha and Maori identity, making comparisons between different identities and different displacements. He is honest and generous in the connections he makes, and he makes them with humour and love... He’s like William Carlos Williams in the precision of his observations, and his attention to ordinary lives and ordinary details, the same love for people and people’s lives."
Jackson explains why people have made the parallel between Tuwhare and Colquhoun. "Like William Carlos Williams, and like Hone Tuwhare, he has been called a ‘people’s poet’ – writing poetry that is easy to read and enjoy, and which offers new ways of seeing ordinary things. Hone Tuwhare is another poet who comes up with extraordinarily powerful metaphors... like Hone Tuwhare, he writes poetry that is both powerful and accessible."
Jackson says the comparison is somewhat connected to the politics of marketing and the limited attention poetry is given. "The connection between Glenn and Hone – the similarity in the kind of writing and the kind of audience they might reach... gives the media a way of marketing Glenn, a way of presenting his poetry to people... But the limited media exposure for poetry generally does make the issue politically charged in a way, especially if you consider the even more limited media exposure for Maori poetry in particular… but we need a ‘people’s poet’ – and we need poetry, like Glenn’s, that finds a broad audience for poetry – poetry to make people love poetry."
Colquhoun, who currently lives in the Otaki neighbourhood, has his critics. Harry Ricketts, co-editor of the stellar literary periodical New Zealand Books, is one not entirely convinced. "Glenn is a phenomenon. He’s written some good poems, I think, but his success is probably more a marker of non-literary aspects of where we are now."
Colquhoun doesn’t see himself as a political poet, "Not yet. More about belonging." Nonetheless, he does have strong opinions about politics. He criticises Don Brash and Gerry Brownlee, saying they are patently ignoramuseses re Maoridom. "How can you prescribe when you don’t know the culture?" Colquhoun encourages Pakeha to get to know Maori, citing the great hospitality he received at Te Tii. "Most of the ordinary people here are not flag-waving, they just get on with their lives." Colquhoun, who is fluent in Te Reo- "It’s incredibly liberating"- is passionate that more people should learn the language. "I’m always suspicious of people who have too many solutions," although he immediately jibes self-deprecatingly at his own loquacious nature. He says people should say they don’t know the answer more often and listen to what others have to say.
Following Uncle Glenn and Me and Uncle Glenn and Me Too is his third, recently released childrens' book; Mr Short, Mr Thin, Mr Bald & Mr Dog, "a complete nonsense". Yes, Dr. Seuss is an influence. "Their subversion, playfulness with words. Complete and utter imagination."
His advice to young poets? "Listen to everything. Keep your eyes and ears open. Read other poets... have a thick skin." He’s critical of journalists who just talk to "experts" – including himself. "Fuck, when did journalists ever go down and talk to Mrs Jones and see what she thinks?" Colquhoun laments the decline in compassion. "There’s not enough compassion in the world. If I could walk in your shoes I would understand you a bit more."
As for that stock (slightly naff) question journalists ask: What can poetry achieve?"Poetry is about noticing the moment and valuing the moment. Where you find layers of beauty and meaning… a profound place in the world, poetry liberates in that sense. It values the insignificant… poetry reminds us that it’s enough to be alive, we’re all rich."
'To the girl who stood beside me at the checkout counter at Whitcoulls bookstore'.
To the girl who stood beside me at the checkout counter at Whitcoulls book store in Hamilton on Tuesday. For ten seconds I fell in love with you. The first second we met. You were buying recipes. The second second we turned, taking pieces of each other out of our eyes. The third second we held each other gently. Your skin was a small kitten playing with a curtain. The fourth second we kissed, front gates clicked against our fence. In the fifth second we married. Your dress was made of nikau palms. The sixth second we built a house beside a lake. It was never tidy and the grass was up to our knees. The seventh second we argued about toothpaste and poetry and who would put out the rubbish. The eighth second we grew fat and happy and laid on the ground after eating. Your stomach wriggled with a round child. In the ninth second we were old, in the same garden of the same house by the same lake, in the same love. The tenth second we said goodbye. Your hand flipped away from mine but seemed to me like something I could feel. We passed again beside each other without turning, as though we had somehow only met at the checkout counter of Whitcoulls book store in Hamilton on a faintly blue September Tuesday.
To the girl who stood beside me at the checkout counter at Whitcoulls book store in Hamilton on Tuesday. For ten seconds I fell in love with you. The first second we met. You were buying recipes. The second second we turned, taking pieces of each other out of our eyes. The third second we held each other gently. Your skin was a small kitten playing with a curtain. The fourth second we kissed, front gates clicked against our fence. In the fifth second we married. Your dress was made of nikau palms. The sixth second we built a house beside a lake. It was never tidy and the grass was up to our knees. The seventh second we argued about toothpaste and poetry and who would put out the rubbish. The eighth second we grew fat and happy and laid on the ground after eating. Your stomach wriggled with a round child. In the ninth second we were old, in the same garden of the same house by the same lake, in the same love. The tenth second we said goodbye. Your hand flipped away from mine but seemed to me like something I could feel. We passed again beside each other without turning, as though we had somehow only met at the checkout counter of Whitcoulls book store in Hamilton on a faintly blue September Tuesday.
Julius wrote: