Born in 1935 in Ōruanui, north of Taupō, Rore Hapipi has worked at numerous jobs (mainly manual) throughout New Zealand, though he is now retired and living again in his home town. He has published poems, stories, articles and plays in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Te Ao Hou, Te Maori, Landfall, Mate, Arena, the New Zealand Listener, Contemporary Maori Writing, Into the World of Light and Te Ao Marama (vol. 1), dating back to the mid-1950s. He was awarded the Maori Affairs Writer’s Award in 1975, won the Feltex Award for the best television script for 1981, and was the Katherine Mansfield Menton Fellow for 1984. His most recent books are Piko Piko Pickin’ Blues (O-A-Tia Publishers, 2005) and The Raw Men: Selected Poems 1954–2005, Volume 1 (O-A-Tia Publishers, 2006).
They will be gathering at the marae’s periphery now.
Most will be limping from blistered feet
or aching muscles. (It was my ankle that troubled me.)
But some will be strong still, prepared to walk all night
if called to. These ones looked frighteningly indestructible
as you walked along behind them, trying not to limp.
Yet you had to admit a growing admiration.
In the last long twilight of days’ end
they will be filing into the wharepuni to the mihi-hongi
of the tangata whenua, grateful to sit down on the hard forms
put out for them (embarrassed by the toe-jam stink
of their sweating feet) under the scrutinising eyes
of the kaumātua (bland looks that gradually give way
to open admiration). I gulped back a cry, the first night
after I left them; felt dead for a long time, then realised
my heart was still there. It was the best I could do
e hoa mā, put my feet where my heart was.
As it was I stayed a day longer than I’d intended.
For I am caught up in the compromise of suburban domesticity.
So here I am sitting in front of my television set.
The aches of the walk are gone now before the lit lounge fire.
But I’ll be back soon to claim my heart.
Eastbourne, Wellington, September 1975
A Lament for the Premature Death of Dr Maharaia Winiata
I hear a grieving throughout the land,
soft as the murmuring of the wind in the trees;
barely audible. Is it the women of my race keening
for the dead? Or is it, after all, only the wind
murmuring in the trees and playing tricks on my ears?
Yet surely, I hear a grieving throughout the land,
wafted to me from the many marae of my People;
the wailing of our women for the departing souls of
great rangatira, as they pass on their way to
Te Rerenga Wairua, down through the history of my Race.
For today a rangatira passed away, prematurely;
cut down in mid-stride. His promise unfulfilled.
Is this then, the reason for the keening I imagine I now hear?
Or are they grieving for we who are left behind?
(For we needed such a man.)
I hear a grieving throughout the land
soft as the murmuring of the wind in the trees.
Or is it only the murmuring of the wind,
for my ears alone to hear?
‘Flockhouse’, Bulls, 1962
Behind the tattooed face
I remember when we first met. That time at Hemi’s tangi.
‘Tēnā koe’ I said. ‘Tēnā koe’ you replied.
You drew your short, stocky frame up to its full height
when we embraced; bearhugged in the way Hemi had made popular.
(The pressing of noses wasn’t in vogue then. Nor was
the full tattooing of the face.) Holding each other for a long time
in silent acknowledgement of the sad occasion. But also, I think,
in recognition of a kindred spirit and an unspoken sorrow
that went back deeper than the occasion.
And after, when we drew apart, holding the other at arm’s length
while we searched each other’s eyes for some confirmation
of this, I found myself looking into the softest, warmest,
most sensitive eyes I have ever looked into.
I had, of course, heard of you, from when you were arrested
on Parliament Grounds, that time.
Much water has flowed under the bridge since, e hoa.
Our lives gone their separate ways. And, if mine, in the meantime,
has travelled the more conventional road to suburban sedateness,
yours has become the recognisable face of the feared activist,
with its ferocious adornments since acquired.
So it was with some apprehension that; on spotting each other
across the grounds at Eva’s recently, we approached to greet;
to acknowledge recognition of each other. Wondering
what I would now see in the eyes half hidden behind the savage
mask. If the aroha I recalled would now be replaced
by an indifferent rage, even hatred!
‘Tēnā koe e hoa’ you said (the voice, at least, was that,
that I recalled. The distinctive, husky, warm timbre.).
‘Tēnā koe Tame’ I replied, as we leaned in towards each other,
eyes closed, to offer our noses and foreheads in that intimate way
that kindred spirits acknowledge one another (the pressing
of noses in the hongi being in vogue now), aware of the
emanations of that proximate famous tattooed face.
As it turned out, my fear was unfounded. For, as we drew apart,
holding the other at arm’s length, while we searched
each other’s eyes for further confirmation of what we felt
all those years ago, I found myself again, looking into
the softest, warmest, most sensitive eyes I have ever looked into.
Taupō, October 1997