Rural poems

The Pohutukawa Tree         Poem in Heritage Matters Magazine Issue 17

I drunk you as a love potion, 
as you hung from rafters 
though I knew nothing
of Maori weapons, grapples, or fence posts; 
but your Honey and Mead was delicious.

Crimson flowers filled my dreams, 
as I gazed, 
watching ship rats eating your lavish buds, 
or agreeable children playing pretend sheep,
below red flowers in a wool shed pen.

With even shifts of wind, 
your flowers flutter 
the blossoms incite frenzied feeding for honey bees. 
Leaves have inflammable essential oils; 
branches are cylindrical, 
scarcely compressed, 
brownish, covered 
with short white matted hair. 
Your capsules open, releasing new seeds 
catching the soft breezes, 
a minute lot; 
stop, 
stick and 
germinate in cracks or crevices.

You, a boat builders dream for knees and elbows, 
your elongated cells have travelled the seas. 
Your massive roots are craggy, 
creeping over exposed rocks; 
penetrating, 
reaching down, 
they cling.

James MacKenzie  1855-1856        
Poem published in Memories Magazine Issue 76

                                                                                            

Photo of James Mackenzie's dog Friday.  

Where sheep graze on sun stunted fodder 
and dewy flats lie 
a lone shepherd with a dog  
cast a thoughtful eye 
the stockman walked a rugged route 
above the tawny grass 
James MacKenzie herding sheep          
from north of Timaru                       
by Dunstan Ranges 
through Lindis Pass 
was the route he took them through

An overseer saw him 
and with two Maori tied him up 
as the strong eyed dog Friday 
ran like a frightened pup 
Then MacKenzie made his own escape 
below the mountain tops 
but one hundred miles north at Lyttelton 
was recaptured by the cops

He went to court a Scottish man 
accused of stealing sheep 
where he yawned or muttered Gaelic
while looking half asleep

Twice he escaped from capture 
but didn’t get away 
the public cried their sympathy 
and wanted to have their say 
five years hard labour 
was finally quashed 
and a Magistrate pardoned him

And it was true and it was odd 
how James and dog would fade from view

Kumara diggers        Poem published in Poetry New Zealand magazine  Issue 38

By the gate we waited; 

we talked of the rain 
and the rotting kumara 
that were jammed hard down 
in the wet black soil. 

We sometimes  
slanted our woollen 
covered heads to the north. 
Looked for the battered bus, 
bought broken down, 
a year ago.

A rough-looking bloke

appeared below 
some wilting yellow trees, 
above the far roadside.
He descended,
from about five metres up,
came over and talked
of the pittance he earned
in the eastern valley.

We were distracted 

by a sparrow hawk  
flapping close by, 
making small headway,
its eyes fixed downward 
before dropping from the sky.

The bus finally appeared,

coming slowly.

It was the day we lost our job.

           

 





















Deer Recovery       Poem published in Heritage  Matters Magazine  Issue  18

A hind bellows a fretting sound
as she stumbles onto bush clear ground, 
then bolts away up a track.

A hunter goes in her wake.

But the deer barks to let the others know
that behind her follows deadly Joe,
with .303 Enfield, wood cut back.

The hunter struggles
to the top of the Teatree Track
to peer down at the gully below.

As sleet turns to gales of rain and snow,

the shooter looks for a big red doe 
to shoot, or dreams of a twelve-point stag.

Or sweeps through the bush, with a rifle butt,
or stops with a green-river knife to gut 
a deer fallen from the sky; 
or should I say, a ridge up high,
that another deer culler shot?

He puts the small deer on his back
then walks along a slippery  track, 
on a journey to a decrepit shack.

He eats and sleeps, and tells stories of woe, 
or dreams of wild dogs, brindle and black,
sleeping in holes or logs, making bones crack.

In the hut, the hunter thinks of these things, 
as he eats spuds, bread or wild turkey roast.

Some modern hunters ride the chain,
look down at a view of hoof-running 
venison stew, while chopper pilots show their skill 
In Hughes 300 or 5.

A few years before
a face full of sun, 
a plane pilot made a septic run, 
as nature almost claimed his life,
scraping rushes and boulders, and the odd tree trunk.

A Cessna continued to fly and bump 
to the last place it could land 
on a river bed of grey soft sand.

Or five hundred pounds or more on a horses,
as it stamps and puffs up through the gorse, 
leaving you struggling behind his rump.

He carries those deer that start to slump.
Two on each side, and two on his back, 
he pulls you along, holding onto his tail.

Some men come to the bush 
in jeeps, cars, or a crappy truck-
anything to carry a hind or a buck.

The story finishes with over eighty dead
on deer recovery, they said,
risking their life to make a shilling.

Raw and willing.     

Storm Rider
 
It was cold and windy, wet and bleak

up on the hills I went to seek

A lamb and it’s mother out in the rain

To be part of nature and refrain,

From human comfort of my own.

With a horse and a dog and a crock in

hand and an oilskin coat I roamed the land

Dogs ahead and horse up tight, the flash

of lightning blurred the sight

For where were those sheep I wanted

to know, out in the rain or out in the snow

Behind a thicket or behind a stone

I was the rider who took them home.  

The Farm Job         Poem published in Poetry New Zealand magazine Issue  43

                                                          

When I arrived,

I saw two boys

climbing in the trees.

A dog sat in the driveway.

It was shaggy looking,

with pixie shaped ears.

The sun sliced my eyes

from the trees above.

Then through my blurred vision

I saw an old man approaching.

Eight months later

I wished I hadn’t come.

The old man’s heart failed.

The Unexpected Onslaught    

In the hills, we drove down the staircase track.

The arduous route led us across two small bridges, high 
above a ravine.  

A confluence of streams dispersed segments of spray that

penetrated the air. The main river then flowed parallel to

the track, before going off on another journey.

We could see a few sheep on the left bank that were 

laden with huge amounts of wool. These must 

have missed the straggle muster the driver said. 

There was a water table under the bank. It was about 

half a meter wide and had mostly dried up.

Once, the driver drove unthinkingly close to the precipice,

where the tyres argued simultaneously with the track,

before skidding back to a more sturdy location.

    

Further on, we could see people in rolling grassland, 
dressed in tired brown, or green tunics that swamped 
their size. Children played with long ropes, jumping 
over them, or swinging them about.

Others played games that were unidentifiable. Four 

men stood, slicing turf in a garden, as a woman 

moved about, close to thatched huts.     

On reaching the lowlands, we were flanked by cold, 

craggy mountains. 

The occupants of the region rushed over, pushing and 

pulling at the Rover; they glared at us with 

narrowed eyes.

Each of us gaped back, wincing, our torsos hunched 

up, giving off stilted shudders.

Then, the Rover lurched forward, with spinning wheels
that threw dirt backwards. The whole vehicle 

rocked to the left and then we spun around, returning 

to the direction of the track.

Each of us let out a shaky breath as chaotic thoughts 

rattled around in our heads. The driver had enough 

grit in his voice to tell us he wouldn't be returning in a

hurry. He mouthed, wow, before his face went 

blank. But then, he scrubbed a hand down his 

face to hide a smile. Thanks for the 

clarification, said a voice full of 

sarcasm. The person in the 

front passengers seat 

snorted while glancing 

from object to object 

on the dash board,

The idea of their solitude seemed slightly deranged, 

were the only other concluding words amongst us.

James Fagan
40 Chippendale Crescent
Palmerston North
( 06 ) 3552861
jjfagan26@gmail.com