The Pouwhenua, Christchurch, New Zealand

The pouwhenua, or carved wooden post, in front of Christchurch City Council's Civic Offices.

 

'TE POU HERENGA WAKA

 

THE POUWHENUA

 

Ānānā tōku pou puipuiaki

He pou herenga tāngata, he pou herenga waka

Tamarahi ki te rangi, poupoua ki te papa

Rūruku puananī, Rirerire paparanga

Whano, whano, haere mai te toki

Haumi e, hui e, tāiki e!

 

I whakatūria ai tēnei pou hei whakanui i ngā iwi tuatahi o tēnei whenua; ko Waitaha, ko Ngāti Māmoe, ko Ngāi Tahu hoki, nā rātou anō i whakakākahu te mata o Papatūānuku ki te tōpuni o te tapa whenua.

 

Pouwhenua rise out of the earth like the trees they are carved from. They symbolise the ancestral ties of the people of that region and tell stories of greatness and survival. The pouwhenua is named Te Pou Herenga Waka which means a post which brings all peoples together. This is embodied in the blade that depicts three layers of tribal settlement in Canterbury: Waitaha, Ngāti Māmoe and Ngāi Tahu. The bold figure at its base represents the spirits of our city's founders, both Māori and Pākehā, who migrated from afar to plant their roots in this land. The rear of the pouwhenua reflects the important waterways and food gathering sites within Christchurch.'

 

 

'This pouwhenua was carved by Poutini Ngāi Tahu carver Fayne Robinson, assisted by Mahana Coulston and James York. The totara was gifted by the Clayton whānau from Whaimaunga.'

Dyslexia Discovery Exhibit, Christchurch, New Zealand

This striking bronze sculpture exhibit, titled 'Inner Struggle', is in a former villa car park in Worcester Boulevard opposite the Arts Centre, and was commissioned by the Dyslexia Foundation of New Zealand.

 

It depicts a young girl reading.

 

Words fly out of the book in a long stream, floating through the air.

 

'Whycan'tIgetit whycan'tIremember [...]

Iamtryinghard', etc.

 

Letters and words meld in confusion, and yet the central message is challenging, and something quite new to me:

 

'"Inner Struggle"

by Richard Taylor

& Weta Workshop

 

Celebrating the

imaginative

power

of the

dyslexic

mind'

 

Well, I didn't intend attempting to reproduce the typesetting, but the idea is what's important: dyslexia is seen as a creative gift rather than a disability.

Writers' Busts outside the Arts Centre, Christchurch, New Zealand

'MARGARET MAHY

 

CHRISTCHURCH CHILDREN'S

LIBRARIAN, WORLD-FAMOUS

WRITER OF MAGICAL STORIES

AND VERSE FOR CHILDREN

AND YOUNG ADULTS,

GIVER OF THE GIFT OF IMAGINATION'

 

'TIPENE O'REGAN

 

RAKATIRA, KAUMATUA, WRITER,

ORATOR AND TEACHER,

PRINCIPAL NEGOCIATOR OF

THE NGAI TUHU SETTLEMENT

WHICH BROUGHT MANY POSITIVE

RESULTS FOR ALL OF CANTERBURY'

 

'ELSIE LOCKE

 

POLITICAL, SOCIAL AND LOCAL

COMMUNITY ACTIVIST, WELL-LOVED

HISTORIAN AND WRITER, DETERMINED

AND DOUGHTY FIGHTER FOR THE

RIGHTS OF THE UNDER-DOG,

ACTIVE TO THE END'

 

'DONALD BEAVEN

 

DOCTOR, RESEARCH SPECIALIST

AND TEACHER, LOVED AND

RESPECTED AS THE FOUNDER OF

DIABETES RESEARCH AND

CARE IN NEW ZEALAND, TIRELESS

PROMOTER OF THE HEALTHY LIFE'

The Writers' Plaques, Christchurch, New Zealand

In 1997 the New Zealand Society of Authors (Canterbury branch), financially aided by The Community Trust, placed 32 plaques dedicated to writers in the pavements in various parts of Christchurch. With the earthquakes some of them have gone, although probably no one knows how many because a large number of streets in central Christchurch remain cordoned off. I searched for as many as I could find.

Outside the Caxton Press, Victoria Street:

'DENIS JAMES
MATTHEWS GLOVER

D.S.C., B.A., HON.D.LITT.

 

1912 – 1980

 

When Tom and Elizabeth took a farm,
The bracken made their bed,
And Quardle oodle wardle doodle,
The magpies said.

 

The Magpies'

 

 –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Outside Christ's College, Rolleston Avenue, three plaques:

 

'JAMES

COURAGE

 

NOVELIST

 

1905 – 1963

 

"...as for the schoolmasters, I'd cheerfully

dump the whole crew, my revered

father included... he doesn't have the

faintest notion he's educating boys

for colonial life, not English; for the

farm, not the Foreign Office.

 

 The Young Have Secrets (1954)'

 

'GAVIN

BISHOP

 

1946 –

 

CHIDLREN'S AUTHOR

AND ARTIST

 

"Katarina made some tea and

some kai, then she and Banjo sat

on the back of the verandah, talking

about when they were children

in the Waikato ... And in the

evenings that followed, with her

mokopuna gathered around her,

Katarina would recall the old

whakatauki – Mate kainga taui,

ora kainga rua – A person is

lucky indeed to have two homes

rather than one."

 

From Katarina, 1990'

 

'D'ARCY

CRESSWELL

 

1896 – 1960

 

POET, JOURNALIST,

DRAMATIST,

AUTOBIOGRAPHER

 

"Farewell Cathedral City! – and its Square,

Its Founder foundering in a pot of tar.

Farewell you City Fathers! Have a care,

Tho' you be down'd, you not yet feathered are."

 

From "Lyttleton Harbour," 1936'

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

There are a number of plaques (not all of which are clearly visible at the moment due to the cordon) outside the Arts Centre, the Old University:

 

'MERVYN

THOMPSON

 

PLAYWRIGHT

 

1935 – 1992

 

Though at times my work is
ignored by infidels and scorned
by the cold of heart, the battle
on the cultural front
is slowly being won.

 

All My Lives (1980)'

'STEVAN

ELDRED-GRIGG

 

NOVELIST, SOCIAL HISTORIAN

 

1952 –

 

"...in my search for truth I found

there were some books about

Phillipstown, which to me had

always been just another stretch

of asphalt and soot and iron; it

turned out to have history.

Phillipstown, a romance,

a meaning!"

 

Oracles and Miracles (1987)'

 

'EDITH SEARLE

GROSSMANN

 

1863 – 1931

 

GRADUATED M.A. (HONS)

FROM

CANTERBURY COLLEGE

1885

 

It is no use discussing whether

men are better than women...

What we do know for certain is

that men have had dominion over

women, and that they have

shamefully abused their power.

It is forfeited.

It must cease forever.

 

From Hermione: a Knight of

the Holy Ghost,

by Edith Searle Grossmann'

 

'EDITH NGAIO

MARSH

 

1895 – 1982

 

EDUCATED AT

CANTERBURY COLLEGE

SCHOOL OF ART

 

Miss Carter slid out of her

kimono and with a sort of

bovine good-nature, eased

herself into position...

The gas heater roared and

the great lamp above the

throne held the motionless

figure in a pool of light.

 

From Black Beech and Honeydew

by Ngaio Marsh'

 

'KERI

HULME

 

1941 –

 

E, wrap me in the black bark-cloth

                                  strew kokowai

                               let there be

                               a paua-crafted hook

                               laid handily

                               to show my trade

                                                               catching dreams

 

                                            Saying Nothing / In the End'

 

'KARL

POPPER

1902 – 1994

RENOWNED PHILOSOPHER,

OF SCIENCE, SOCIAL

AND POLITICAL THINKER,

LECTURER, BROADCASTER

AND AUTHOR

 

"If in this book harsh words

are spoken about some of the

greater among the intellectual

leaders of mankind, my motive

is not, I hope, the wish to

belittle them. It springs rather

from my conviction that, if

our civilisation is to survive, we

must break with the habit of

deference to great men. Great

men may make great mistakes..."

 

From The Open Society and Its Enemies,

completed at Canterbury University College

in 1943, published in 1945.'

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

At 315-17 Montreal Street:

 

'DOROTHY

EDEN

 

1912 – 1982

 

NOVELIST AND

SHORT STORY WRITER

 

"My childhood on a lonely

New Zealand farm was the

most invaluable background

for developing imagination

... It taught me to love

spookiness and to know its

gripping effect ... I knew

with absolute certainty that

I would be a writer."

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

At 74 Armagh Street:

 

'ERROL

BRATHWAITE

 

1924 –

 

NOVELIST,

TRAVEL WRITER,

ANTHOLOGIST

 

"They turned a swampy,

scrub-covered waste into an

approximation of an English

cathedral town and a wilderness

into  something not far removed

from an English county."

 

From Sixty Red Night Caps, 1980'

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Outside Old Magistrates Court, 84 Armagh Street, two plaques:

 

'BLANCHE EDITH

BAUGHAN

 

POET, REFORMER

 

1870 – 1958

 

Alive! Yes, Te Ika,

Of the Bone of the Past, of the Blood,

Of the Present,

Here, at the End of the Earth, in

the First of the Future,

Thou standest courageous and youthful,

A country to come

 

Maui's Fish'

 

'A.K.

GRANT

 

1941 – 2000

 

SATIRIST, SCRIPT WRITER,

LYRICIST, LAWYER

 

"The apple of self-knowledge

may also be the pineapple

of self-laceration, and it is

not for us to question

these arrangements."

 

From the preface to

I'm glad I asked you that, 1982'

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

 

Several other plaques are outside the Arts Centre, although within the fenced off area, and so more difficult to read:

 

'ARNOLD WALL

 

(1869 – 1966)

 

SCHOLAR, POET, ESSAYIST,
BROADCASTER, BOTANIST

 

"There lies in our city folded in the mist,
Like a great meadow in an early morn ...

Above us such an air as poets dream,
The clean and vast wing-winnowed clime of Heaven.

Each of her streets is closed with shining Alps,
Like Heaven at the end of long plain lives."

 

From "The City from the Hills", 1943'

 

'THOMAS ALLEN
MUNRO CURNOW

 

1911 – 2001

 

EDUCATED AT
CANTERBURY COLLEGE

 

from Island and Time(houses in central Christchurch, 1941)

 

Tentative the houses
Unhaunted over tombs;
Wind shakes the standing
Timber, shakes rooms
Where cold under rimu
Rafters they discover
The wind wet with change, and
The stranger for lover.'

 

'FIONA
FARRELL

 

1947 –

 

That I should touch your
skin thourhg the holes in your
tee-shirt

that we should exchange
ordinary tales...

 

From "Seven wishes"
Cutting Out, 1987'

 

'SUE
McCAULEY

 

NOVELIST

 

1941 –'

 

Unfortunately I was unable to fully transcribe this, so I leave the quotation out completely.

 

The links below may also be of interest:

 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Writers' Walk, Dunedin, New Zealand
The Wellington Writers Walk, North Island, New Zealand

The Ngaio Marsh House, Cashmere, Christchurch, New Zealand

The Ngaio Marsh House has a web site, which states that the house suffered scarcely any damage during the earthquakes: the message is unequivocal: it is open for business. Unfortunately though, it wasn't open to us, and under the present state of administration, judging from our experience it's doubtful that it's open for business for many people at all.

The first thing we did on arriving at our hotel in Christchurch was to set about arranging a tour of the house: it's only open by private booking and states that a visit on the same day is virtually impossible, but this was early on a Monday and we had the following day, or at the latest the Wednesday morning, in which to visit the house.

We were in for a few shocks though. My partner Penny began organizing a visit, but after two attempts on the phone in our hotel room she couldn't get through, so went to reception to find out what she was doing wrong.

Shock number one was that the advertised phone number of the Ngaio Marsh House seems to be incorrect, so the receptionist provided Penny with the right number.

Back at the hotel room came shock number two: the number merely put her though to the house, where the caller has to leave a message. Penny stated our interest in viewing the house, and asked to be called back the same, or the following, evening. No one called: clearly, the answering machine is in the Ngaio Marsh House, which is empty, and the curator or similar presumably only visits on certain days – well, either that or the person simply doesn't bother replying to all enquiries.

Disappointment is obviously one of our feelings: when you travel to the furthest point of the world from yours, with one of your intentions being to visit a place which you then find yourself unable to visit due to apparent indifference or incompetence or whatever, then disappointment is inevitable.

But our disgust at the shoddy administration is much stronger: the phone number is apparently incorrect, but we received no reply to our phone message left at the right number (which Penny says revealed a frosty voice spoken from the Ngaio Marsh House). This caused us to wonder about the problems other people in a similar situation to ours must have had.

The Ngaio Marsh House web site gives its dialling code from foreign countries along with its (apparently incorrect) number: are we seriously expected to believe that someone at the house (when and if they get round to responding up the phone message) will make an international phone call to arrange a visit? I find it impossible to believe so, as it seems they can't even trouble themselves to make a local call to a hotel less than ten miles from the house itself.

But then, to repeat, the Ngaio Marsh House has its own web site, so in spirit the organization seems to belong to this century – so why, instead of all the phone call nonsense, doesn't it leave an email address? That's the way things have been done since the later years of the last century.

We had no problems visiting three other authors' houses: The Janet Frame House in Oamaru is open every day from November to April from 14:00 to 16:00; the Katherine Mansfield Birthplace in Wellington is open every day apart from Monday from 10:00 to 16:00; and the day we arrived in Takapuna from Hamilton, we arranged to visit the Frank Sargeson House the following day at 10:00 with the extremely obliging Vanessa from Takapuna Library.

Let the message be clear: The Ngaio Marsh House has serious problems when it comes to anyone arranging a visit, although a simple email address (as long as it is read on a regular daily basis) is all that is needed to correct things, all that is needed to avoid angering potential visitors. Such as us.

First Impressions of New Zealand: Christchurch

We spent the first two days in New Zealand walking because no sensible person drives after a long-haul flight (and this was a very long one). As we were staying in a hotel near the airport in Christchurch, I walked for about thirty minutes to Waimairi Cemetery on Grahams Road: there is a map online indicating the position of the grave of the poet Jessie Mackay (1864–1938), who incidentally was a writer Maurice Duggan struggled with at school because of his perception of her old-style colonial attitude. But although we searched for some time, and the graves were well spaced out and legible, we found nothing. But the walk was certainly not without interest:

Mail boxes are often located at the front of the sidewalk or pavement, as in many parts of the USA, and although I believe there's a general perception that Australia follows the States as a model, and New Zealand the UK, having spent two weeks here now I think the States have (probably obviously) the upper hand, if only in the general street layout: the US-style street grids prevail, land is plentiful, and (as in the US) it feels far safer to drive in towns than to walk in them.

Houses can be strikingly different too, such as this igloo-type one on Memorial Avenue.

The following day (our first full one in New Zealand) we took the bus into central Christchurch, and this photo, although manipulated in no way, is certainly an exaggerated view of the city after the earthquake. A week afterwards we stayed two nights in Wellington on North Island, where parking charges are at a premium. Here, on the other hand, because of the devastation wrought by two earthquakes, parking places go for peanuts.

However, the initial impression of destruction to the Central Business District of Christchurch (and areas inevitably remain fenced off) soon gives way to admiration for the tremendous resourcefulness of the people, of their ability to transcend the temptation of despair and rebuild on the ruins, as this new shopping area – largely built from containers – shows: out of the ugliness of ruin comes beauty – even in businesses, even (am I really saying this?) in bank outlets:

 

 

 

Perhaps the creation of a museum – Quake City – is one of the best illustrations of how to circumvent catastrophe, to create the necessary psychological attitude that isn't a denial, but a positive move into a future that incorporates the horrors of the past while simultaneously looking to the future with hope. I found Christchurch quite a humbling experience.

 

All places (like people, like memory itself) are palimpsests, but this city is an amazing example of one.

 

(As for the considerable literature of the Christchurch area, that shall be for a future post. Meanwhile we're in Hamilton, bound for Auckland (particularly the north shore) in the coming week, and the all too soon return to cold England next weekend.)

Ngaio Marsh: Black Beech and Honeydew: An Autobiography (1965)

 

Vy Elsom's sketch of Ngaio Marsh (1895-1982) on the back cover of the dust jacket

 

This of course is not the revised 1981 edition of the autobiography but the first edition. Written in a fastidious and urbane style, this is in some ways a part-autobiography not in that it misses years out – indeed it takes us from Marsh's early childhood (not quite, but almost, in a conventional linear manner) virtually to the time of writing – but in that it almost misses Marsh's very public profession out. Overwhelmingly, the author concentrates on her less known work in the beginning as an actor, then later as a theatre director; but, a little like her (rather snobbish, it must be said) friends who wouldn't demean themselves by bringing up the subject, Marsh is almost silent about her popular crime novels (which amount to 32). In fact, the penultimate paragraph ends in a rare exclamation mark – 'How right I was!' – in summing up her decision to pursue her passion and direct ten Shakespeare plays rather than considerably increase her bank account funds by writing ten more novels.

 

Marsh also writes about her journeys by boat to England (very much her second home) and of her friends. We have to go to Joanne Drayton's Ngaio Marsh: Her Life in Crime to discover the real name of the unstable Russian 'Sacha', who proposed to her and later killed himself (although not because of the rejection): he was Peter Tokareff. Much more important to Marsh's autobiography are the 'Lampreys', a family she spent some time with in England, and whose real name is Rhodes: the novel A Surfeit of Lampreys (a reference to the cause of Henry I's death) depicts a noted fictionalization of the Rhodes family.

 

Marsh does reveal that she took the Scottish name Roderick and the surname of the 17th century founder of Dulwich College – Edward Alleyne – to create the handsome, Eton-educated dectective that Marsh wanted to see as a departure from slightly eccentric detectives of other writers, who comforted their readership by churning out familiar verbal tics.

 

Marsh also reveals her childhood fear of poison here, and says she only uses it in her books 'on rare occasions', but although I'm only familiar with four of her novels, two of them do strongly feature poison as a murder weapon: The Nursing Home Murder (1935) and Death at the Bar (1940). I haven't yet encountered the acting profession in her work, although I'm aware that she's used it as a background to several novels.

 

In a word, Marsh's book inevitably (and a little disappointingly for many readers, it seems) tells the reader what she wants to tell them, although a broader picture can be seen from Drayton's biography, which – like Claire Tomalin's biography of Katherine Mansfield – I find slightly irritating because it refers to its subject throughout by her first name.

 

Ngaio Marsh's home in Cashmere, Christchurch, where (with the exception of visits to England) she lived for 77 years, fortunately survived earthquake damage and remains open to the public.