Books

The title of this first collection by Haro Lee is provocative – redolent as it is of short stays, hurriedness, and possibly secrecy. When these are backgrounded by the activity of watching television, we get poems that sing, shout, celebrate, and rebel: all the elements of troubled tempestuous youth. Haro Lee may be troubled, but her experiences also cause her to confront herself with astonishing honesty. And it’s this that makes her work so compelling.

The section Daytime Television starts us off. How to Refill a Disposable BIC Lighter has the writer and a friend holed up with cocaine and companionship. “For five short days / we’re adrift on something so / magical. It’s a girls’ world / in this filthy apartment.” Laughter, grief, and confession abound, and the writer is left with the eponymous lighter as a precious souvenir.

We progress to Primetime Television. If I wasn’t primed already, From These Gutters, My Mother would shock me with its graphic images. We read of a “Botticelli belly” and “This mistake she makes / with the father, the one / who enters growing girls / without clumsy” and what the baby after arriving is subjected to.

I really enjoyed Needing Religion at Nineteen. Our writer admits to her dissatisfaction at being born in the Year of the Rat – that is until she sees an exhibition of Banksy’s rat series and what he has to say about it. “OK, I’ll take that for why I’m here then”, she declares. Self-doubt and longing for assurances – not least of an afterlife – predominate. Once again, frankness is paramount and appealing. “So when it’s my time to go / I can say that I tried.”

Graveyard Slot is a lengthy narrative recounting Lee’s life in a small neighbourhood in Seoul, capital of South Korea and home to her beloved grandmother. Detailed, graphic, and touchingly nostalgic – if ever there was material for a TV documentary, this is it!

Breton Dukes’ breakthrough novel, Party Boy, delves into the harrowing effects of toxic masculinity and its inclination for self-destruction. Rather than offering a sympathetic antihero or a straightforward villain, Dukes presents a man trapped between a bleak present and an even bleaker past.

On the verge of turning 50, Marco faces his midlife crisis with the emotional maturity of a volatile teenager. Bitter, sexually frustrated, and clinging to the faded glory of his youth and masculinity, he turns to alcohol and pharmaceuticals to numb his mounting inadequacies. As his high-school years resurface to haunt him, Marco must decide whether to take responsibility for his prior actions as a school bully, or to drown them in substances.

Amid the turmoil of his youth, his adult life has been put on the back burner. Unable to uphold the responsibilities of a part-time job and fumbling as the stay-at-home dad, Marco’s desperation to be seen as the stoic male stands in constant conflict with the realities of his shortcomings. In the place of reason, addiction becomes his “burning ray of confidence” – one that slowly sets fire to his world.

This downward spiral becomes the perfect vehicle for exploring the pressures of traditional masculinity and the damage it inflicts. Throughout the novel, Dukes examines the extent to which men internalise rigid gender expectations and the consequences of treating vulnerabilities as weaknesses.

We see this further emphasised through the pulsing, intrusive nature of Marco’s insecurities and thoughts. Combining short, staccato lines with a polished, stream-of-consciousness style, Dukes jerks the reader deep into the psyche of a man who is balancing everything and nothing.

Its frantic rhythm mirrors the raw desire to fix the irreparable; to watch, hopelessly, as your ego goes cold in your hands. As unsettling as it is compelling, Party Boy is the type of book that lingers. Not because it comforts, but because it refuses to look away.

Prospective readers will no doubt find Salt Quilt an intriguing title for a poetry collection. The book’s cover illustrates that such a bedspread actually exists! For writer Airini Beautrais, ‘salt’ and ‘quilt’ provide a useful analogy for life: past and present, harshness and softness are juxtaposed throughout these provocative poems, demonstrating the necessity for considering and accepting both.

Nostalgia works well in poetry as is illustrated in several of Beautrais’ verses. In Swingball, she celebrates typical activities and delights of the 70s: holiday homes for the kids, clean jokes, Monopoly, and the game of swingball, concluding with the philosophical observation about cooperation: “No one can play a thing like this single-handed”.

By far the most powerful poem is, if you’ll excuse the pun, An analysis of power. Our writer references some of the appalling hallmarks of today’s world: climate change, the care taken to manufacture and preserve expensive cars, “all the messages sent / from satellite and cellphone tower” – and exposes them with cliches such as “but there’s no seeing forests for trees / without an analysis of power”. The repetition of the eponymous “analysis of power” is salutary in impact.

Beautrais is still young enough to be able to voice a plea about old age in How I want to get old. The horrors of old age – its physical and mental decline, its backward looks, its seemingly careless lack of awareness – are all graphically outpoured. The poem nevertheless concludes with a plea for toughness, even tempestuousness.    

Cancer Moon: Poet Life consists of a 20-page musing on things astrological, mythical, poetical, and political. And more besides. We learn of our poet’s beginnings as a writer, and that she attributes them in part to her star sign. Sceptical as I am about such matters, I note that I am studying Beautrais’ work during the month of Cancer. Was that meant?

“‘Did you really write that poem?’ a boy asks me”, she writes. “Wow, cool”. Beautrais’ work is better than cool: it’s self-searching, reflective, salutary, and brave.

Money, Money, Money joins a long list of books that help you reset your money mindset. I found it stands out though, mainly because authors Rachel Davies and Angela Meyer are relatable. In Money, Money, Money, they share their relationships with money and experiences that show they understand what it is like to arrive at a particular destination in life without the whole money thing figured out. They explore what it was like reaching a milestone looking towards a future that would most certainly see them in the poverty trap that befalls many women in their later years.

Davies had reached the age of 48 with no KiwiSaver and hardly any savings.

For Meyer, her money was always wrapped up in much more than numbers – “it was also my worth, validity, hopes, dreams, and so much more,” she says.

In Money, Money, Money, the authors also share the stories of other women: their experiences with money, their relationships with it, and their beliefs – the good and the bad. As the creators of Hi Money, a business dedicated to educating and empowering women in financial matters, they’ve managed to really dig into all aspects of money and its complex nature while keeping things simple and straightforward.

There are checklists at the end of each chapter that help you literally ‘check’ yourself, giving you a helpful list to mentally tick off. The checklists aren’t just practical; they help you gain insight into your own unique money psychology, behaviour, journey, and experiences.

I particularly enjoyed the upper and lower limits chapter where Davies and Meyer talk about what your top and bottom limits are. What’s too little money for you? What numbers do you need to get down to before you start panicking? What’s the ideal number when it feels like enough? These questions really got me thinking deeply about my own numbers and what does and doesn’t feel comfortable.

Money, Money, Money doesn’t help you crunch numbers so much as it helps you understand your own motivations and money possibilities in a real and intentional way.

As husband and wife John and Elisa Mendzela discovered, sometimes truth can be far stranger and more dangerous than fiction. In the 1980s, the Western couple flew into Papua New Guinea to begin teaching at the Keravat College. Not long afterwards, they uncovered systematic corruption involving the sexual exploitation of Keravat’s students.

In The Best Interests: Intrigue and Payback in Papua New Guinea is a book I found hard to put down once I picked it up. The narrative non-fiction memoir had me shaking my head at the hurdles that both John and Elisa had to jump over to get someone to listen to them and act on their accusations.

John and Elisa take turns narrating the story. The shift in perspectives gives readers a full view of what is going on and fleshes out the dangers that both faced in order to tell their side of the story and to get Papua New Guinea authorities to act.

Both authors write extremely descriptively, painting a very realistic picture of what they were facing and how many roadblocks were put in their way. Neither of them shy away from describing the problems they encountered, the emotional toll that was taken, and the people who stood by them.

This was a novel that will stay with me for a long while. As someone living in a developed country, I cannot begin to fathom the problems developing nations faced roughly 30 years ago. In The Best Interests is one of those stories that you keep turning over and over in your head, simply because it is so difficult and terrible to comprehend how something like that could have been allowed to happen and why so many people would enable it.

Dedicated in part to ‘the Papua New Guineans of today who refuse to let the bad overwhelm the good’, I wholeheartedly recommend In the Best Interests to anyone who likes non-fiction mixed with a bit of intrigue. Easily my book of the year.

Julia Millen is a tramper, a climber, and a mountaineer. On top of all that, she’s a writer! Her first novel, following 17 earlier works, is a true summit of all three, offering thrills, spills, triumphs, and shocks enough to satisfy the most demanding literary mounter.

To say nothing of mystery and suspense. These are signalled at the outset by the central character Deirdre in her words: “She’d put the past behind her, moved on, and had no intention of going back. Never look back.” Fate was about to fly in the face of such a determination, and the gradual unfolding of what’s deeply bothering Deirdre forms the following narrative.

Deirdre, or Dee as she prefers to be called, has had quite a life. Having to recall it 30 years on, when hearing the disturbing news that human remains of a climber have been found in a South Island glacier, brings a mixture of tension, excitement, and guilt. All that time ago, on a mountain expedition in the company of fellow climbers – all men but one – she’d enjoyed sexual encounters with a few while the others were absent. Away climbing.

And one of them has had an accident. But which one? And what was Dee’s connection with him? And with what consequences? The narrative moves back and forth in an increasingly gripping ascension involving all characters – Dee’s ailing mother and daughter included.

Descriptions of climbers’ actions in the face of obstacles and hazards are graphic. Readers may easily imagine Millen has faced them personally. Slippery snow-spattered rock and overhanging fractured ice must be navigated, bad weather endured, and hunger and thirst unabated until safety is reached in the form of a hut or shelter, or at least a handful of scroggin. Relief is palpable.    

References to the 60s will arouse wry grins in readers who recall landline telephones, messy student flats, and hard-to-get prescriptions for the pill.

Put your boots on, rope up, and go searching for the lost climber’s legacy.

A blood-stained wooden mallet, a body found in the bedroom of Sibson Hall, a large country house with a locked door and window… it all reads like a game of Cluedo. Dutifully on the case is Pat Hound the Detective Inspector, who is prone to eating doughnuts for breakfast, is in the throes of menopause, and feels as if a “universe-sized bottle of cola and God had just shaken her and dropped in a celestial mento”.

Remodelling Murder by Nic Scanlan-Dyas is an intriguing crime novel that unfolds painstakingly, revealing everything that doesn’t meet the eye. A carefully curated mystery surrounds the implausible death of the mallet-wielding victim, where all five employees of the renovation company Yukiko Curiosity Design, tasked with remodelling Sibson Hall, espouse the death as ‘suicide’.

Pat’s internal dialogue gives the murder-mystery much of its dry humour and is a welcome balance against the unfolding character-laden narrative. There’s much here to enjoy, with layers of suspense and tension building as we learn about Sibson Hall’s Japanese owners and their ties to the Yakuza. It feels culturally atmospheric, an unfolding of who did what and why, played out with subtle nuances and underlying whispers of ghosts and superstition. It makes for a refreshing departure from your usual murder-mystery fare.

In Remodelling Murder, Scanlan-Dyas keenly offers each character’s narrative: those in opposition with each other, those whose voices are littered with clues, and those with unspoken collusions that largely tease the final surprising reveal – which is not so surprising when you go back and re-read sections to see what you missed.

What’s interesting too, is the journey of Pat as she navigates the minefield of menopause while remaining committed to the clues around her and keeping an ear to the ground for red flags.

Remodelling Murder is a twisted mystery where secrets disintegrate and reveal themselves as fast as Sibson Hall sheds its plaster and paint.

Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand by Sir Geoffrey Palmer is a very interesting read. If you are interested in politics, you should read it at least once.

The book’s namesake, parliamentary privilege, is deemed the ‘oil of the democratic machine’. In 128 pages, Palmer looks at how New Zealand Parliament works and why things need to change, going into detail about its history and how, over time, it has been outpaced by other democracies. What needs to change to maintain a healthy system of governance? 

In the book, he calls for transparency with the people about how New Zealand Parliament conducts itself and argues that if we do nothing, we will slide further away from the ideals that our country was built on. 

Palmer is, as usual, on point with his analysis; it is well detailed and comprehensive. He gets right to the heart of the issue and does not muck around with preamble, which is something I have always admired about his writing. 

The only fly in the ointment would have to be that, unless you are keen on politics, Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand may not capture you. This is a crying shame, as it is a book that in some way or other should interest everyone, because it affects everyone.

Those who are not interested in politics or the law may find the book to be a bit of a dry read, but it is quite short, so if they stick with it, they should be able to knock it out in a few days. And in Palmer’s defence, the world of law is not one of romance or action-adventure. 

In summary, Sir Geoffrey Palmer’s Parliamentary Privilege in Aotearoa New Zealand will not be for everyone; some will struggle, but if you like to learn about our history or scrutinise how New Zealand Parliament wields its powers, especially ahead of the 2026 General Election, it will be right up your alley.

This collection – Elizabeth Smither’s 20^th – embraces themes of nature, religion, and philosophy, expressed with quiet reflection plus several doses of wry observation.

Amongst her poems about animals, The cat and the Wittgenstein quotes is one of the most delightful. Feline incorrigibility has a cat squatting on a page of the philosopher’s work, oblivious – well, of course – to the nature of the words beneath. Philosophical wisdom contrasts with the cat’s actions and the effect will make not only cat lovers smile! “I don’t know why we are here, but I am / pretty sure it is not to enjoy ourselves.” So says Wittgenstein. Our cat agrees – or does he?

Handbag spoke loudly to me. As owner of a shamefully vast collection of this particular accessory, I had to nod in recognition of desiring yet another, even if it’s an urgent replacement. “I need to buy a sale-price one” is the poet’s wry conclusion.

Religion enters the picture with The travelling reliquary of St Teresa of Avila with its description of a reliquary as “a nice piece of furniture, a travelling church”. Our poet goes on to reflect – wryly once more – on the possible contents of such a revered object, contrasting the reason behind it with everyday behaviour.

Jane Austen fans will especially enjoy four poems with much-loved heroines and their actions as their subject. In Jane Fairfax’s Piano half a dozen recognisable women feature as their piano playing is celebrated or commented on by those present. “Elizabeth has a good notion of fingering, / Marianne has a sweet untrained voice”, and I encourage readers to enjoy the final few lines of this poem!

From the sublime to the banal, Smither now offers us De-stringing beans, at once a piece of practical advice on this domestic task and a recommendation for eating the result. And there’s satisfaction to be gained from such a humble-sounding task.

I have referred three times to this poet’s wry expression – evidence of maturity, I think, and the philosophical attitude from which it originates.

The title of this collection states Dinah Hawken’s theme: in mostly a brief few lines and in two longer pieces her preoccupation is peace, and the quiet that accompanies it.

The sea is predominant: Hawken lives in Paekākāriki, so that’s maybe not surprising! “I know the presence / of beauty in the sheen of the sea / is indisputable.” Oceanic images reflect moods of quiet but also contrast. In Brief dialogue she contrasts the sea’s quality of moderation with the upheaval of living; and in Shelter we get some social commentary in “Now the older women run daily, year-round, into the sea.” My word!

The most striking poem is the centrally placed paean for peace. In the form of a ballad, Hawken takes us to Parihaka. “‘Sit close and be stout-hearted,’ Te Whiti said.” Was he really buried in a cloud of white feathers? Further on, we are shocked again into awareness of war, this time on a worldwide scale, by mention of the Somme and its horrors. New Zealand re-enters the picture with the story of Archibald Baxter, conscientious objector, and the cruelty of Field Punishment No. 1 that he underwent. But “There is no prohibition / on the use of gentleness”, says our writer, “gentleness is light / and it levitates.” She questions whether we can stop thinking of war as inevitable – and is hopeful that we can.

The last few poems are redolent with nature: Kāpiti, blackbird, tūī, flowers – yet in October Morning “Here they come, the missile men and the techno men, / thinking of the quickest and the deadliest way forward.” Are we not to avoid war after all?

More recent events and markers of our times are referenced: the pandemic, cell phones, scamming, an Apple Mac.

The final poem and is also the most heartfelt. Its timeliness is all too clear. Weapons of mass destruction there may be, but the Pacific Ocean swells and flows with prayer and hope.

Olivia Laing’s second novel, The Silver Book, transports readers to Italy in the 1970s to tell a queer love story between an aspiring artist and one of Italian cinema’s celebrated craftsmen.

Nicholas, a young British man, finds himself in Italy after a hurried exit from his life in London. In Venice, he meets Danilo Donati, the renowned costume maker and production designer for some of Italy’s most revered filmmakers, such as Federico Fellini and Pier Paolo Pasolini. Falling for each other, Danilo hires Nicholas to work in the art department of Fellini’s troubled production of Casanova. When that project stalls, they go to work on Pasolini’s infamous Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom before returning to Rome when Casanova recommences.

Nicholas is our gateway into this fascinating and seductive world, one driven by creative passion and hedonism. A mercurial character, he insinuates himself into the filmmaking community and rubs shoulders with big names like Fellini and actor Donald Sutherland, while navigating his new relationship with Danilo.

Italy in the 60s and 70s was characterised by political turmoil and domestic terrorism seeking to disrupt the status quo, a central tenet of Pasolini’s film. Indeed, Pasolini is a key character in the book, and his violent death just three weeks before the release of Salò hits like a shocking plot twist even with foreknowledge of his demise.

But it is the intensity of Danilo and Nicholas’ relationship, fuelled by art and cinema, that carries the book in the absence of a traditional plot. Laing writes poetically, with an economy of prose in a similar vein to Cormac McCarthy, conveying more with fewer words than some contemporary authors might employ.

Blending historical fact with fiction, The Silver Book is a sensory, almost fable-like work, laced with the intruding darkness of the time. Those seeking a regular plot will not find one, but may enjoy this strange, beguiling trip to Italy, and cinephiles will devour this deep dive into the artists and artistry of the era.

Michael Gould refers to his poetic style in one of the first poems of Perverse Verse thus: “I chose to write light verse and rhyme / which the literati consider a crime, but / I don’t mind.” OK – so his style is old fashioned and possibly too simplistic, but so what? You don’t have to work at it to get your head around it. And rhyme provides momentum – something else I find sadly lacking in clumps of prose-style work. “The story of my life is rather boring / unless you consider the youthful whoring”, for example, constitutes an intriguing invitation to the rest of the poem.

As for content and themes, these poems offer an unabashed alternative to the esoteric nature of much of today’s poetry, which I often view as boringly self-indulgent. “If there’s no place you fit in / you still have a purpose, even if like the porpoise / it’s simply to swim” is a delightful put down of the much-vaunted life purpose we’re all supposed to have. And wry commentary on love abounds as in the twin poems The Fog of Love and The Frog of Love.

Many readers will smile in recognition at Fame, which is expressed in a standout prose style. Its departure from Gould’s usual rhyming signals a more thoughtful observation about a universal condition: desiring to be noticed. Our typical Mr Nice Guy imagines his face “smiling down from giant screens / that would make his day”.

The final few poems are strikingly more serious – lamenting climate change, deploring the space race – “We’ll end up tourists in space / witnessing the extinction / of the human race” and disappearing birdlife. Gould even turns philosophical in his attitude to ageing.

All of which goes to show that serious content can stand expression in what seems a light-hearted manner. The back cover blurb says this collection will appeal to baby boomers. I confess to being one. But it will also appeal to readers who enjoy frank statement, wry humour, and a survivor’s attitude.