Books

Surplus Women – its title had me intrigued from the start. New Zealand author and award-winning journalist Michelle Duff delivers a collection of short stories that speak to what it means to have and be part of a ‘surplus of women’ in today’s society.

Despite being a work of fiction, each story brings to life women, each vulnerable and imperfect, with complexities we can all recognise.

Easy: the word carries multiple meanings, but said about a woman, it’s never a good thing. It’s the title of the book’s opening story and brings to life the vulnerability and awakening of a young woman growing up in the 90s. In a way it sets a striking tone of what’s to come. The starkness and exploitation in her story is a familiar nuance that can easily exist through the lives of women, irrespective of race, age, and standing. The nostalgia around youth, growing up, and the sometimes-misguided trust afforded to tightly held friendships is inviting at first, but quickly becomes uncomfortable.

I particularly enjoyed the short story Spook about an older women navigating the inevitabilities of invisibility and irrelevance in a society that reveres youth. But, like a superpower, that invisibility enables her to become a spy after becoming obsessed with a man she thinks is up to no good. It’s preposterous in places yet funny, with a touch of the absurd.

Surplus Women – yes, it intrigued me. Some of the stories are out there, some uncomfortable and unforgiving. But they all bring to the fore the stories of women often deemed unnecessary, unworthy, or without value: think older women, single mums, and sex workers. Without preaching, Duff illuminates a woman’s ability to exist, reset, endure, doing it all wholeheartedly, messily, and unflinchingly despite heartbreak, distress, trauma, and unique lived experiences. Surplus Women holds space for all the women deemed unnecessary as they rile against the expectations that assail them, sometimes successfully, sometimes not.

Dipping into Harry Ricketts’ new collection Bonfires on the Ice is like opening the door to a dear family friend – one whose familiarity embraces moods whimsical, fleetingly happy, often philosophical, but never pessimistic. His first poem embodies all these characteristics: in it, he explains the state of happiness as “A matter of collision: / Right place, right time”.

My delight in metaphor is lit anew by Tangle, in which the image of life as a tangle is sustained throughout. “Now there’s a terrific word, handy / for describing the way life baffles”, the poet begins, and goes on to milk the metaphor for all its worth! There’s a touch of the esoteric in the reference to the linguistic root of the word “tangle”, but we are rescued from puzzlement by an explanation.

How could I not relate to The Lecture 3 with its connotations of classrooms, lecture material, and student reactions? “Most lecturers become / Ancient Mariners in the end” is part regret but mostly philosophical resignation. And the students? Oh boy, Harry – were we students seen through? All those years and yawns ago?

A section of so-called Stella poems features whom Ricketts calls a kind of alter ego. She embodies his philosophy, reflecting alone in nature and reading German books: she writes “Now you must learn / the grammar of grief, the exact syntax / of suffering.” What stellar examples of metaphor and alliteration! References to everyone from novelist Thomas Pynchon to grief counsellor Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and everywhere from Eketāhuna to Mākara enliven throughout.

A delightfully ironic tribute to the western genre of filmmaking appears in A Weakness for Westerns. “Of course there’s almost everything / wrong with Westerns”, our poet begins, and then proceeds to tell us what’s irresistible about them anyway!

Harry Rickett’s poetry fuses the scholarly and the humanitarian with the ease of an old hand steeped in whimsicality and kindness. It’s a winning combination.  

Jennifer Trevelyan’s debut novel takes the classic New Zealand summer beach holiday and mixes it into a cocktail which is equal parts coming of age, familial discord, adultery, teenage antics, and murder mystery.

We join narrator Alix, the youngest child, and her family of four at a beach house on the Kapiti Coast in the 1980s for what’s meant to be a lazy summer filled with swimming and BBQs. The parents have drifted away from each other – the mother preoccupied with writing a book and a hinted-at affair, while the father tries to maintain a semblance of normality, undercut by his growing resentment at the family’s lack of enthusiasm. Vanessa, the older sister, sneaks out at night to party with other teens and shoplifts at the mall with a friend. That leaves Alix to search for the body of a young girl who drowned at the beach, alongside Kahu, a boy she befriends out of boredom and chance.

Add in the watchful neighbour who ingratiates himself with the family after rescuing Vanessa from a near-drowning, and you have a coming-of-age story that hinges on Alix’s pre-teen understanding of the world and the darker adult realities that surround her. Alix is forced to deal with these swirling feelings and events while realising that the security of her family isn’t as solid as she once believed.

Plot is almost secondary to mood and theme here; while the story does deliver some revelations, they unfold through Alix’s recollection of events rather than any traditional mystery structure. Those looking for a cut-and-dried denouement may feel short-changed, but Trevelyan instead offers a sadder, more fitting conclusion to her story.

A Beautiful Family has already been optioned for film, with Kiwi director Niki Caro presently attached, and one can see why. It’s a recognisably nostalgic slice of dark Kiwiana that swims in the ‘cinema of unease’ New Zealand storytelling is so renowned for.

In Speechless, New Zealand novelist and poet Mike Johnson delivers a book that deserves to be read. It is a coming-of-age narrative infused with magical realism and prose so rich and emotive that it clings to the reader’s imagination. What binds the story together is love, not only between two people, but between a man and the power of language itself.

As a child, Michael Paewai Meer encounters the enigmatic and otherworldly ‘Word Bringer’. This visionary experience awakens in him a lifelong obsession with the symbolic power of words. From that moment, language shapes and shadows his journey to adulthood. Words become the life force of his emotions, the key to his connection with both fantasy and reality, until he reaches a final, transcendent silence that is both inevitable and liberating.

Johnson writes with a lyricism that unsettles and consoles in equal measure. His prose shifts effortlessly from the intimate to the visionary, from tenderness to protest. He captures how words can both illuminate and betray, reminding us of the fragile contract between language and truth.

What distinguishes Speechless is its atmosphere, invoked with a dazzling command of language. The author creates a world that shimmers with profundity. The novel transgresses conventional storytelling, taking the reader into a space where whispered words speak of existential truth and humility. It is a demanding book, but also a generous one, filled with sublime moments that resonate long after the last page is turned.

In an era overwhelmed with noise, Speechless reminds us of the dignity of silence and the peril of losing our connection to words that matter. It is a novel that resists easy definition, yet its ambition and craft make it one of Johnson’s most significant works. Readers willing to enter its shifting terrain will find not just a story, but an experience that deepens their understanding of what it means to be human.

She’s a “sellout bitch” to some, but to Alex Pym, her job as a mnemopath, a professional memory machine at the main water trading bureau WaiOra, is just a means to an end. With student debt high and no parents to fall back on, the job is a necessary evil. She’s there to remember the important stuff so others less competent don’t have to.

In Vividwater – the first of a three-part series – Wellington author Jacqueline Owens offers a fresh take on a dystopian tale. Aotearoa is a hydrosphere, one of the lucky few countries with enough drinkable water. The uniquely New Zealand setting and cultural references add to the gritty unrest, where decades of drought mean water is a highly guarded resource, scarce in the hands of many, plentiful in the hands of a few.

Alex’s job “finding new high-grade sources of crystalwater… even vivid water” is murky and morally ruptured. She’s looking for hydrocrimes, tracking hidden sources of water in people’s backyards under the premise of the common good. She’s whispering secrets and finding herself with a Platinum watercard. She’s part of a dog-eat-dog system, fractured between the haves and the have-nots, the upper classes rallying for water control and the bottom rung fighting for survival.

The reemergence of Alex’s ex-boyfriend Lawrence after 15 years in China spurs deep conflict within her and insightful reflection on the choices ahead. Her developing relationship with Lawrence is incongruous with the life she’s now living. Beneath every aqua transaction lies a human fragility and moral compass Alex must navigate carefully within a labyrinth of politics, corporate greed, and deception.

I liked the premise of Vividwater and Owens offers such an intricate and detailed preview of a future in which drought has rendered an Aotearoa that is difficult to imagine, where resources are scarce and all faces of humanity surface.

Though perhaps it’s not so difficult to imagine after all…

“How many thoughts can you work into a single poem?” asks the back cover of If We Knew How to We Would. On starting to read the poetry therein, I found myself wondering if I could bear having as many thoughts as Emma Barnes!

The graphic quality of 72 pages of writing is what strikes you first. The opening poem Lineage has as its first statement: “The man with the sharp knife cuts the fat to tissue paper thinness and two people fold it into their mouths: a sacrament, like frills, like folds.” It goes on to elaborate on the theme set by the poem’s title: an intriguing combination of butchers, fate, and pigs.   

I especially like In your hands as it explores, with reference to the title’s ambiguity, that most controversial of subjects: love. “Your hand on my throat…” – and I’ll leave the rest to your imagination – recalls the title, but the reader is quickly relieved at the poet’s conclusion: “We’re all that’s happening now”: perhaps a philosophical remark, but at least we know they’re still alive!

The eponymously titled middle section of the collection comes with a warning to readers who may be wary of certain themes. On the day I found out you killed yourself is the most powerful example. Constantly repeating the words “believe” and “belief” as well as the poet’s violent denial of a reality effectively reminds us of our reaction to what we don’t want to accept.

Other poems in the same section echo similarly with grief and sorrow, expressed in mainly short sentences and powerful words, giving a staccato effect, very much the principal trademark of Barnes’ style.

One of the final poems I am is perhaps the best answer to the quoted question I started with. I just wish Emma an occasional rest from their thoughts and that they may take heart from the origami butterfly they refer to!

While some forms of satire go for the jugular, wielding their themes and real-life precedents like a sledgehammer, Duncan Sarkies’ (Scarfies, Two Little Boys) third book, Stargazers, opts for a less caustic path and is all the better for it. And despite the Star Trek-like font and cover art, the book is no cosmic exploration of our place in the universe. Instead, using the relatively niche world of alpaca breeding as his lens, Sarkies humorously examines the political machinations that govern us, and how we deal (or don’t deal) with them.

The story revolves around a cast of Kiwi alpaca breeders, the governing body ABONZ (Alpaca Breeders Organisation of NZ) that oversees their activities, and its publication, the Alpaca News. When the results of ABONZ’s election are called into question, tensions escalate between the two dominant parties: The Breeders Party (big money, status quo, possibly corrupt) and The Reformers (progressive, less money, and less power). Add in a mysterious disease affecting the alpaca population, and the smouldering flames of discontent can’t help but ignite in a comically awkward fashion.

Sarkies’ characters range from those seeking justice, to people-pleasing pushovers, to the bullies at the top of the heap, like the controlling and unshakeable Shona Tisdall, alpaca breeder and producer of VitAl Paca Health Biscuits, which may have something to do with the declining health of the alpaca population. Opposing Shona is the caring but abrasive Willemijn De Vries, firmly set on her crusade to right the listing ship that is ABONZ. But, in some wonderfully written chapters, we also spend ample time with the creatures themselves, gaining crucial insight into the very animals the whole story revolves around.

Sarkies threads his tale with humour and pathos, ultimately painting a sobering, all-too-familiar picture: the status quo will ultimately reassert itself, and those fighting the good fight will be left to lick their wounds and regroup, hopefully stronger for the next round.

How does Nick Ascroft regard himself? This is the question that pervades my mind on a reading of It’s What He Would’ve Wanted. Or perhaps contemplation is a more accurate word. The title’s eponymous poem gives voice to the writer’s supposed quandary: how important is he? Or, for that matter, his last wishes? Almost every set of lines in this poem expresses mutually exclusive reactions to the death we must all submit to. One of my favourites is: “If my funeral planner is reading this wondering what I would’ve wanted, appreciate that I would not have wanted a funeral planner.” There’s defiance too. “In life I was haunted by regret, so in death I will flip the roles and haunt it back.” I just hope our poet gets his final wish!

The Time I Shook Allen Curnow’s Huge Paw is a delightfully self-deprecating verse celebrating several brushes with famous literary figures. Aspiring poets may envy “and oh the time I talked at Keri Hulme.” Aspiring poets who disdain rhyme / may also come to realise / rhyme’s not actually out of time!

I can’t let Dire Diary go without a wince! A visit to the dental hygienist who ministers – albeit tenderly – to our poet’s gumline evokes memories of lost love, of desire, of love in general. But from love we go to courage. “It takes bravery to throw yourself at someone.” Though “I don’t mean my hygienist” keeps us on track. Take courage reader – Ascroft is urging you to!

He now lets loose with some vulgarity in Old Farts, excused perhaps by his reference to playing Scrabble, avowedly one of the poet’s more intellectual activities. More rhyming here – evidence that humour and rhyme make an effective combination. Vulgarity gives way to ribaldry in Synonyms for Vag – heads-up for a vocabulary lesson!

As a nod to today’s mundane world, one of Ascroft’s final poems constitutes an ironic lament for supermarket payment methods: Do You Wish to Continue? Yes please, Nick – and I hope this review is what you would’ve wanted!

After reading The Futures of Democracy, Law and Government: Contributions to a conference in honour of Sir Geoffrey Palmer, I have a renewed appreciation for the laws that make up our society. While I was just a boy and not interested in politics when Sir Geoffrey took office, I can now honestly say that I retroactively appreciate him.

Starting as a law professor and then an MP representing Christchurch, in 1979, he went on to help form the fourth Labour Government as their justice minister. He was responsible for helping to develop many acts in this capacity, including the New Zealand Bill of Rights, before becoming our 33^rd prime minster in 1989.

The Futures of Democracy, Law and Government is a series of essays by eminent judges, scholars, and politicians who discuss elements of his career in public affairs. The book explains why things are the way they are and the role political parties play in our Westernised democratic system, touching on human rights and the Treaty of Waitangi as well as a host of other things we sometimes take for granted.

My favourite part of the essay collection was finding out about Sir Geoffrey’s understanding of the environment and how climate change would affect not only individuals but businesses as well. There was a need, as the book says, to safeguard the environment for future generations.  

Despite being a very thorough read, I never felt intimidated by the subject matter of The Futures of Democracy, Law and Government. While I am by no means a politician, the writing was easy to follow and I was able to grasp many of the concepts laid down. While I enjoyed the book and it made me appreciate the laws that are in place today, I can see how someone who isn’t into politics to begin with might not be convinced to start tuning in.

In short, if you love politics, I wholeheartedly suggest picking this book up. Even if you don’t, I still recommend checking it out to see if it’s for you. I suspect you will not regret it.

In The Stars are a Million Glittering Worlds, Central America promises to be an all-encompassing escape from the guilt-ridden shores of Aotearoa for Thea. There, she joins Chris, the elusive man she’s thought of exploring the possibility of having more than friendship with – until he introduces her to his girlfriend Sarah.

Despite Thea and Sarah’s initial reservations, the three fast become an inseparable trio.  Author Gina Butson brilliantly captures the heady nature of their friendship, played out in San Pedro La Laguna, a Guatemalan town on the southwest shore of Lake Atitlán. Beautifully expressed, it’s easy to imagine the vibrant place, rendered eloquently by Thea’s imaginings. San Pedro is where the hum of energy seems to inexplicably hold the trio together with the strength of shared friendship and the intoxicating pull of a different culture and way of life. One albeit tainted by the seedier side of drug trading life. An emerging catalyst of discontent soon reveals itself.  

Wonderfully written, each of the four parts of The Stars are a Million Glittering Worlds purposefully builds a narrative that is gentle though not passive, interchanging the past and present. When tragedy rewrites the trio’s journey and the nature of their intwined relationships, Thea finds herself far way again, this time in Tasmania, Australia navigating a new relationship of sorts.

It's a relationship and span of time that will test her, make her search unknowns, rail against past and present trauma, and rally against unanswered questions. Ultimately, it will lead to her figuring out a literal and metaphorical way home that is paved with resolution, self-exploration, and forgiveness.

At times throughout The Stars are a Million Glittering Worlds, I thought the story may end a different way. The lives of Thea, Sarah, and Chris seemed to hitch frequently on happenstance and an undercurrent of doubt, with understandings between the characters that to me suggested a different outcome… until it all panned out organically in a way that made sense.

What do you do when confronted by the current and impending horrors of today’s world? If you’re a poet, you face up squarely in the best way you know. And in Erik Kennedy’s case, this means writing a collection titled Sick Power Trip. Here are poems that take their themes from both human behaviour and the natural world and couch them in language that dispenses with disguise. From wistful to cynical, from challenging to harshly judgemental, Kennedy dissects what we’re experiencing with poetic deftness.

I Like Rich People, but I Couldn’t Eat a Whole One Myself is an especially graphic example, with grandly cynical lines like “Billionaires are just ordinary people / who throw away / their electric toothbrushes / every night.” Yet such cynicism is balanced by the poet’s acknowledgement of our shameful commonality.

Enclosure of the Commons 11 is a nostalgic reference to old-style ownership. Yet it asks the question “Can anything really be ‘owned’?” and concludes with “You don’t get very far saying / that everything belongs to everybody.” By contrast, Soft Power looks to a time when animals could not only speak but were to prove more entertaining than humans! “They were oracles, troubadours, bards, soothsayers, heartthrobs.” If only!

Wistfulness forms part of Kennedy’s poetic vocabulary. It’s best exemplified in An Only Child Poem in which an overheard conversation in French on the bus suggests that the speaker is paying tribute to a beloved mother: “his dear mother who wanted the world / for him to be big and full of boulevard views”.

Most searing of all perhaps is one of Kennedy’s concluding poems: Bystander Poem; or a Gaza Poem which begins with “If you can listen to the stories and not shudder, / you have a refrigerated beetroot for a heart.” Graphic, thrusting, and a cold reminder of our universal awfulness. We may not be complicit, our poet seems to say, but we’re not exempt.

Sick Power Trip is a saddening and salutary journey into self-awareness made universal.  

I don’t think I’ve ever before used the word “groundbreaking” to describe a book! I’m using it now because I’m reading Secret Art Powers by Jo Randerson. This book is so overwhelming that I had to stop reading it at intervals to fully experience and come to terms with my feelings of joyful recognition. I am a theatre practitioner and reviewer, so Randerson’s reflections, experiences, and observations, grounded in their love of theatre, resound especially strongly. That said, there is a wealth of material to interest and challenge other readers and even quirky illustrations “crowdsourced during sessions of group drawing”, Randerson acknowledges in their foreword.

“Art is a way of being,” Randerson continues, and this volume goes on to expand on that theme, and perhaps even more importantly, on its implications. The six powers they write about are explored – one might even say exploited – in the interests of art and the artist. None more so perhaps than their first power, which they title Lies. What could lies have to do with art? Plenty, Randerson asserts. Many truths exist and they are sometimes in conflict with each other. “The truth is rarely pure and never simple”, as Oscar Wilde wrote in The Importance of Being Earnest. And art can and does describe realities that have their own truth.

The secular world, and the political one, have difficulty with such a wide-ranging concept. Witness the pitifully small financial support given to artistic endeavours in this country compared to the vast amounts allotted to sport! I’m tempted to say that those in charge of such decisions suffer from a severe lack of imagination, sensitivity, and any valuing of the place of emotional response.

What does exaggeration in a theatre piece matter if it makes an important point? Why shouldn’t irony and satire be acceptable as ways of exposing wrong or corruption? These and similar arguments are skilfully and passionately presented by Randerson in their six parts: Lies is followed by Fluidity, Multiplicity, Wrong, Live, and Imagination.

Secret Art Powers has the subtitle: How creative thinking can achieve radical change. This book is a giant step in that direction.