Books

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 defense, 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.

How does someone with an honours degree in biochemistry wind up down the less-travelled path of homeopathy? Hesitantly? Or completely mind-blown? Or both?

In The Reluctant Homeopath: An unexpected science story, author Vanessa Young shares her journey to working as an alternative health practitioner in what she describes as “a field considered to be particularly unscientific”. 

What’s interesting in her personal reflections is how a wholly different road reveals itself, catapulting her from everything she has ever known in the realms of what is fact-based and verifiable, to a new view of the world that she says “doesn’t obey the laws of science and that therefore, to my mind, could not be real”.

Throughout her journey, Young is the first to admit to her own previous disregard for homeopathy. She also sees the conundrum posed by being a sceptic, and faces scepticism in turn for her foray into the field. She talks about the internal conflict that exists for her between the two paradigms.

In The Reluctant Homeopath, Young shares case studies showing how she looks at her clients holistically: the exploration of their experiences, emotions, mental wellness, and physical symptoms. By choosing individualised remedies that take these into account, Young says they see gradual improvements over time.

Throughout her reflections and case studies, we learn that Young’s exploration of homeopathy has brought knowledge and understanding. Homeopathy didn’t take something she loved (science) away, but instead aligned itself alongside it. 

To paraphrase Young, leaning into homeopathy meant wading into the “weird” to see where it took her; navigating between what she knew and something “odd”.  It meant offering friends a new lens and bringing something unfamiliar to the table. 

The Reluctant Homeopath: An unexpected science story got me thinking about all the things in life so easily dismissed that perhaps need a second view and an open mind. I thought about when a headfirst dive into the “weird” and “odd” can become an opportunity to discover new possibilities. 

I anticipated reading James Brown’s latest collection with something approaching glee. Two of his earlier collections had given me expectations and they happily turned out to be justified.

The poems are all prose, so there are no titles to go by. The opening one echoes the collection’s title with its mention of broomsticks: “These are effective until their ends begin to fray and snap, creating more debris than they clean away.” But no, our poet doesn’t go on to praise vacuum cleaners! A much graver metaphor is at hand.

Later we get a poem that seems to be about a thimble. Such an unassuming object can be symbolic, however, and the poem goes on to explore this and ultimately its impact on a young girl. Brown’s typically short sentences here enhance effect.

Further poems consider second-hand goods, give job interview tips, describe a peculiar characteristic of horses, and tell us about the Palmerston North version of the game Monopoly. I knew Palmy would get a mention: Brown can’t resist a reference to his hometown.

But I was stopped short (if you’ll excuse the pun) when the poet addresses the reader thus: “You were a semicolon in the last printed edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which ran to 32 volumes.” Brown goes on to lament the lack of printed editions of such tomes. As a semicolon, you gave the reader a chance to consider two connected but discrete ideas, he points out, something sadly lacking in these new all-too-digital days. The final simile here is devastating: “You have been hurried past and swing like a hook and eye between two seams coming apart.”

I can only guess why babies are so much on Brown’s mind. But they figure in several of the concluding pieces, along with their namesake films. Well over a hundred are referenced: I’m sure our poet would appreciate acknowledgement of Zak, who was obviously at his back.

There’s a rhyme in that last sentence. James Brown may be short of them, but that’s prose for you!

They say you can make a poem out of anything. Jenny Bornholdt’s recent collection bears this claim out – balancing banality of content with whimsicality and a fine appreciation of the everyday world. And I welcome her relatively simple language.

In Forecast, the lines “High pressure / and one weak front.” preface a brief but apt comment on the opposing nature of things. Worry opens with the poet’s state of mind before describing her concerns about disturbing stick insects, remarking about dogs “that veered like thoughts / into a tiny experimental / forest,” and recalling her mother’s preoccupation with the gardens of the world. I loved Spring with its delight in vegetables and the interspersing of flowers and birds – all so true to nature.

Mail is an amusing comment on our times – in this case the potential complexities of receiving letters. The poet’s mother lives in a retirement home, but somehow or other mail for the whole family ends up in her mailbox! “Soon after, we move there. All of us. It seems easiest. We have each other and mail comes as regularly as meal times.” remarks our poet philosophically.

For those who appreciate the esoteric, The London Painters should be a satisfying read. It’s a so-called found poem. For the uninitiated, a found poem is a creative work composed by taking existing words, phrases, or passages from non-poetic sources to create a new poem. In this case, more than 20 names are referenced – some painters and some not – of which I was familiar with perhaps half a dozen. A poem about painters that presents an intellectual challenge to readers.

The title Poem with a hole in it recounts an actual hole that needs to be dug for practical purposes, but our poet can think of only one use for such a deep pit: fill it with words. And she does! It’s a useful vocabulary lesson enshrined in literary form.

As for the collection’s title, we’re no better off, but then neither is our poet!

What starts as a story of an elderly couple deciding to sell their home and move into a rest home soon turns into one about regret, introspection, and mollycoddling.

Mary, a retired policewoman, and her husband Pete, a former librarian, are both feeling the aches and pains of old age and have decided the time has come to sell their home and downsize. Suddenly, a phone call from a police detective about the death of their son Will years prior brings up old memories that perhaps should have stayed in the background. This sets the stage for a novel that investigates two lives in all their brutally honest glory: the ups and downs, the laughs and tears, and yes, the heart-wrenching circumstances of their son's death.

I found the central theme of Damien Wilkins’ Delirious to be that life may not always be fair, but it can still be fun, and even though we have to put up with things like loss, guilt, and even death, in the end, it is still worth living.

The main characters are very down-to-earth. There are no superheroes here saving the day; instead, they are just two people living their lives. The story shifts back and forth between past and present, showing readers how Mary and Pete changed and grew over time – before and after Will’s death. This is a great choice for a narrative structure, as it helps us to see how layered and complex the characters are.

While Delirious had a slow beginning, it soon took off emotionally and I found myself wondering how both Mary and Pete would cope with what life had in store for them. The subject matter isn’t the most upbeat and you may find it a little sad to read, but I still recommend this book, because in its own way, it celebrates life and the happiness that can come from even the most seemingly uneventful one.

Setting a novel amid the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is a bold and risky endeavour, even more so if it’s your debut. Making the book a black comedy is even riskier. Is the reader willing or able to laugh at situations set amid a very real conflict that has claimed hundreds of thousands of lives?

In Phoebe Greenwood’s Vulture, journalist Sara Byrne is assigned to cover the 2012 conflict in Gaza. She stays at The Beach, a hotel that hosts all the international media, and has local minders who introduce her to key figures on the ground. She is still reeling from the end of an affair with a married man back in the UK and the recent death of her father, a respected scholar, and throws herself into her work.

Sara’s drive borders on self-obsession, more concerned with ‘getting the story’ than with the potential consequences of her methods. She blunders through war-torn Gaza, causing tension with local Palestinians, her minders, the fellow media contingent, and the newspaper she is writing for. She is a refreshingly flawed character and should appeal to fans of Fleabag who prefer their characters a bit messy.

While the book doesn’t shy away from the horrors of the war and the lives lost, the flashbacks to Sara’s chaotic pre-war life in London can’t help but seem trivial by comparison, even if they provide vital insight into Sara’s state of mind.

Greenwood worked as a correspondent in the Middle East, so she’s technically qualified to write about the region and the conflict. As such, Vulture offers insight (and a critique) into the media’s involvement, just not enough to balance the comedy. While the comedic elements lend the book the makings of a satirical wartime tale like Catch-22, they aren’t woven into a satisfying whole. There’s no moratorium on writing about this conflict, and although Greenwood should be commended for not playing it safe here, the book doesn’t quite reach the high standard set by other classics in the satirical wartime sub-genre.

Good Things Come and Go is a heartfelt novel about just that. The good things that happen, and what happens when they go.

For Penny and Adam (known as Riggs), the good thing was their daughter Rose. She would also be the one to go. After Rose dies, and the enormity of her absence lingers, the promise of a solo art exhibition of her work sees Penny return to Auckland after years in LA. There she and Riggs reunite with Jamie, their childhood friend, now temporarily living in his uncle’s bach, he too trying to conquer his own demons.

Their years apart hang starkly between them as they awkwardly navigate the debris left over from a shared past long gone, and secrets long held. Their stories inextricably intertwine with the heaviness of what is the here and now. Author Josie Shapiro propels you headlong into each character seamlessly in a three-way narrative, each one jaded by the aftermath of grief, unfulfilled dreams, and faded friendships.

Shapiro artfully captures the presence of Rose, especially the heaviness of her loss, without being overly reminiscent or flooding the story with memories of her. Instead, grief sits at the edge of their stories, Penny, Riggs, and Jamie.

Penny, the artist with her big dreams. Broken, a mother without a child. Riggs, the perpetual big kid, former pro-skater, addict, fiancé of Penny. Also broken and now childless. Jamie, once a skater too, lost. Broken in other ways. In love with Penny.

Somewhere between the three of them, past wrongs will be exposed, love will be questioned, grief will be explored. With redemption and redefined relationships, each will learn how to carry on together, and apart, when good things come and go.

This book – a first by poet, performer, and storyteller Tony Hopkins – is a firsthand account of the life experienced by an African American man, born in Washington DC, and for the last 35 years resident in Wellington, New Zealand. The book’s cover photos demonstrate the breadth and variety of the cities Hopkins has lived in – readers may recognise them!

And the book itself? It’s chock-a-block with anecdotes, encounters, and observations – some rueful, some startling, and some salutary. Washington DC was the starting point: when Hopkins turned 13, his father told him he was now a man of the house, then added: “The first time you go to jail, I’ll get you out, but after that you’re on your own.”

If Washington DC was the chrysalis, our butterfly has now emerged. The sixties with its race riots had also arrived, and the murder of Martin Luther King Jr in 1968 sparked Hopkins’ initial realisation of identity with his “soul brothers”. Self-described as an angry black man, he headed off to California to join the Black Panthers.

Of all chapters in Black Butterfly, the one titled Streets is the most graphic. Our writer is now living in San Francisco, where there are brushes with police, stints in jail, sexual encounters, and, most engagingly, life with two street hustlers, principally one called Sophisticated Player. Their initiation of Hopkins into street life with all its temptations, dangers, and violence form a powerful picture of Hopkins’ life and times.

Further experiences and reflections on several years in Europe and then, finally, Aotearoa follow. They are enhanced by Hopkins’ tone, and here is where the importance of this work chiefly lies – it’s consistently candid and without rancour.

Six poems accompany the text. The first and last deal with identity – effectively bookending this short but compelling story. “My identity is about who and what I identify with. / I’m grandson to a Cherokee / Although I’m no longer young, I am still gifted and black.” Bravo!