Books
World Weary
by Jeffrey Paparoa Holman
But Kevin Ireland isn’t weary of writing, with not one but two new releases.
In his 17th book of poetry since 1963, Kevin Ireland’s avuncular poetic lies somewhere between dyspepsia and dystopia, sadly leavened by the darkness of the recent death of his wife, Caroline. This is a world where every waking morning “absurd rituals must be observed” and the “bad news on the radio” becomes a “perfect normality”.
Ireland’s is a longlived and much honoured presence in the Kiwi literary pantheon. Mentored by Frank Sargeson, exiled to Albion, a former editor of Mate, he has paid his dues to New Zealand arts. But is he a little too prolific right now?
The predominant voice at work in this poetic register is the philosopher of human vanities. Our didactic sage knows that life’s laurels will end up in history’s dustbin: “Noone who earned distinction/felt anything but loss.” Hopefully, the author actually enjoyed his Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement in 2004.
The perils of ageing elicit the old familiar sigh: Tempus fugit, and as she flies, she takes more and more of the poet with her. So much so that his 74th birthday drink has to be shared with a set of metaphoric lips that have beaten the rest of his body to “the land of death”. As indeed Sir Thomas Browne cried out in Religio Medici, “For the World, I count it not an Inn, but an Hospital; and a place not to live, but to dye in.”
Agnostic, maverick personae line up to test the weather in Ireland: “I could never resist the temptation/to knock and to heckle and clown … happily muddled by error … deliciously fuddled by doubt.”
He’s not averse to cautioning poetasters, an area where others poets might fear to tread (A Visit to the Surgeon); yet sometimes right here (The Paper –Cockerel), there is a touch too much “tell” and not enough “show” on display.
Ireland is at his most convincing when he slips the mask of worldweariness, speaking tenderly of “the rub/that skin makes, touching in sleep”.
The pundit in him can also be expansive and generous, as in The Treaty. His clear, descriptive eye is occasionally undermined when obvious morals are drawn: in Fumbling for Substance, a shadow in a milking shed is signposted as the elusiveness of writing itself.
We can join with Ireland most fully in the final few poems for his late wife. When death knocks, as every human being and every writer knows: “There is nothing more to be said./Paper has never looked so pale.”
