Reviews of Recent books.


      The Second New Zealand Haiku Anthology edited by Cyril Childs.
      The New Zealand Poetry Society Inc, c/- 58 Cecil Road Wadestown,
      Wellington, 1998 ISBN 0-473-05374-89 $NZ 16.95
      Reviewed by Tony Beyer.

      Rather than debate the issues of haiku or senryu, seasonal references and syllable counts, I will follow Cyril Childs's lead (if not his treatment of the apostrophe) and use haiku as a generic term during the course of this review. His definition - 'keenly perceived moments in time' - is as effective as any. No one could illustrate the idea better than William Lucas with:

                         A moth?
                         a leaf . . .
                         a moth!

      Like its predecessor, the anthology exhibits two things very clearly: a strong body of work by New Zealanders and their impressive participation in an international culture of haiku in English.

      It is the second point that raises some intriguing challenges. Now that the hash of 5-7-5,purists seems thoroughly settled (with benefits serenely demonstrated here by Ruth Dallas's new crop of haiku), the dominant voice of Haiku Society of America orthodoxy, with its over-elaborate scene setting, has to be resisted. The influence of weird distortions of English that often occur in translations from the Japanese is an equivalent danger.
      Instead of just avoiding pitfalls, though, the most accomplished New Zealand practitioners invent ways of their own to respond to the indpiration of Japanese models while writing vibrant and original English-language poems. Observe, for instance, the multiple resonances of the first word (first line) of p n w donnelly's

      gravity
      pulling down the corners
      of my mouth

      This is not mere word-play for its own sake, a practice discouraged by classical haiku masters.

      Several contributors appear to have found themselves truly as poets through haiku. Alan Wells - a dedicated experimenter elsewhere with language, visual forms and sound - communicates a clear authority and energy in his haiku. Jeanette Stace has established a firm. consistent body of work with a characteristic urban viewpoint. Although not represented at his best by these examples, Barry Morrall is another writer in this category.
      John O'Connor is one New Zealander who has devoted years of thought and practice to the field of haiku, parallel with and feeding into a wider poetic career. He is outstanding for his economy and constructive ambition. His exceptional poem

                         garage sale –
                         in the dressing-table mirror
                         a stranger's face

      combines the traditional sabi of Basho with a compressed narrative reminiscent of American "dirty realists" like Raymond Carver.

      However. it is unfair to single out names in an anthology that focuses readers' attention far more on the poems themselves than on reputations. From known and unknown hands there are a host of powerful and piquant moments throughout this attract-ively produced compilation. Here is democratic and accessible poetry that makes no attempt to condescend to or belittle the wide audience it deserves.

      How social the activity of haiku may be in New Zealand's inveterate man-alone literary culture is open to question. The current method of fostering its development through competitions is one I have always regarded with suspicion, though it has long-standing Japanese precedents. The Second New Zealand Haiku Anthology celebrates an achievement of genuine literary distinction and whets an appetite for a third.

      PROMISED POEMS. Andrew Doull. Address: suite 103 42 Kingston street Auckland central. Price : $7.00

      Andrew Doull is not a well known writer - not in New Zealand nor anywhere else that I can see. This book combines poetry (p.4 - p.47) with the balance being three short stories. "The Rifle" is about flatmates who start up a 'city state' - neighbourhood kids and cats involved. With the rifle as enforcer (bought at the expense of food and rent) we see the liberisation of marijuana and the 'execution' of dissidents etc. It's competent work, and entertaining enough, but lacks characterisation and description. Another story, "Office Work" is about how to exist when you're dead and they clean out your office. Chilling and fantastical stuff. Doull is perhaps better in his poetry. In "Downtown Trip" Doull knows what it's like to be on a drug trip then watch TV. It ends (and probably 'nuff said):

                         "the television talks with a clink of glass teeth
                         hello? it says
                         hello"

      Maybe there's nobody home by then. Some poems drown in their own diversity. These two final lines encapsulate the failure of the preceeding two page argument, in "twentysixred":

                          (notice how snipers
                         make the worst judges)

      Ah, but what would you make of a poem entitled "Mr Whippy is waiting for Elvis until the end of time". Doull takes it intergalactical. Elvis is heard throughout deep space itself - and why not, indeed? After references to "bottles brown" and "I've done a few" (drugs?), he concludes:

                         "The King sings, sways pelvic palms
                         and I write high"

      If you can get hold of this book, it's definitely worth a read. You won't need any special 'medicinal' comfort to go with it.

      FOLK HEROES and strange happenings. A. D. Winans, Benway Institute Studios, San Francisco, USA.

      With the world rapidly crashing and crumbling around him somewhat violently, and with the poor getting poorer and the filthy rich setting up foundations for them, A. D. Winans, living in San Francisco at 64, sits in the middle of it all. World weary but wise, Winans doesn't scurry away with his tail between his legs, or sit in some academic office behind double-glazed glass. He sits and calmly paints word pictures of it all. His newest book, or booklet, really, has a nice laser-coloured cover (a boon to small print runs) but some rather heavy clumpy type inside. A. D. Winans is a veteran of the small press scene in the USA Second Coming Press, 1972 - 1989 and contemporary of Ferlinghetti, Michelline, Bukowski and others of that generation of poets and writers. Winans doesn't let humour slip out of his net:

                         I had a dream that
                         I saw Batman in
                         A dark alley in
                         San Francisco
                         He was huddled on the
                         Ground clutching an old
                         Photograph of Clark Kent
                         And a sixpack of beer
                         A portable TV set
                         At his side
                         It was Monday night football
                         and all the players were
                         Dressed in drag.

      "Ode to Clint Eastwood" celebrates the culture of the American entertainment industry, with the violence that has made, in the mind of Americans, the "humanitarian bombing' in Kosovo look as natural as going down to the corner store for a Big Mac:

                         Caught up in the great
                         American death wish
                         Your gold coins rattling
                         Inside my head.

      If it's profound and needs to be said, Winans doesn't wrap it all up in subtle niceties. He beats it out from the very gut. His "creative lies" have a prima donna class about them.. In "Popeye the Sailor Man", where he has Popeye as a sexual pervert doing things with olive oil, and when it got out that this was the case, he concludes:

                         Rumour has it this news
                         Was responsible for the
                         Stock market crash
                         Of 1929

      but that was a long time before our parents were born (well, yours, anyway). We finish with the title poem, "Folk Heroes"

                         Negro women have
                         Beautiful bodies
                         Said the Lone Ranger caressing
                         Tonto's knee.

      Only a poet like A. D. Winans could thumb his nose at p.c. and get away with saying that. There are delightful illustrations in this little book. It was Charles Bulkoski who said of his friend, A. D. Winans: "I always prefer a poet I can tolerate for more than ten minutes and that's rare, and so is A. D. Winans." A. D. Winans' Selected Poems is due to be published soon by Pig Iron Press.

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