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Literary Lifelines

By Uncat­e­go­rized
Pouhere Taon­ga — Her­itage New Zealand has a sto­ry about the Tuwhare Crib and Res­i­den­cy in their sum­mer 2024 edi­tion of the Her­itage New Zealand mag­a­zine. Lit­er­ary Life­lines is about the spe­cial res­i­den­cies held in the homes of NZ writ­ers. The arti­cle also fea­tures the Robert Lord Res­i­den­cy in Dunedin, the Shad­bolt House in West Auck­land and the Ran­dell Cot­tage in Wellington.

” Res­i­den­cies pro­vide writ­ers with peace, qui­et and unin­ter­rupt­ed time to work but, those held in authors’ his­toric homes offer some­thing more — con­nec­tions to the cre­ative wairua housed with­in their walls”

You can read the dig­i­tal edi­tion of Her­itage New Zealand here.

Matatuhi Foundation Supports the Promotion of the Literary Legacy of Hone Tuwhare.

By News

The Tuwhare Trust is excit­ed to announce that we are the recip­i­ents of Matatuhi Foun­da­tion fund­ing to sup­port the lit­er­ary lega­cy of Hone Tuwhare. This fund­ing will allow the Trust to extend our reach across the lit­er­ary land­scape both local­ly and nation­al­ly to show­case and cel­e­brate the endur­ing lega­cy of Hone Tuwhare. Our sin­cere thanks to the Matatuhi Foun­da­tion for their gen­er­ous sup­port. We will pro­vide more updates on our Hone Tuwhare Lega­cy Project in the com­ing weeks and months. Link here for more infor­ma­tion about the Matatuhi Foun­da­tion.

Nga Mihi!

 

 

Vice-Regal Patronage — Governor General, Dame Cindy Kiro

By News

The Tuwhare Trust has had the priv­i­lege of hav­ing Vice-Regal Patron­age since the Trust was first estab­lished in 2010. We are one of a small num­ber of organ­i­sa­tions that have this hon­our and we hold this with much respect and humil­i­ty. We are par­tic­u­lar­ly proud of hav­ing the cur­rent Gov­er­nor Gen­er­al, Dame Cindy Kiro (Nga­puhi, Ngati Hine, Ngati Kahu) as our cur­rent Patron. Dame Cindy Kiro began her five-year term as Gov­er­nor Gen­er­al of New Zealand on 21 Octo­ber 2021, aus­pi­cious­ly on Hone Tuwhare’s 99th birthday!

You can read more about Dame Cindy Kiro and our pre­vi­ous Patrons here.

Here’s a Tuwhare poem for a Dame.

Rain-maker’s song for Whina

I’ll not for­get your joints creak­ing as you climbed into
the bus at Vic­to­ria Park to bless the jour­ney.
When you broke down in the mid­dle of the Lord’s Prayer,
I thought that what you left unsaid hung more tan­gi­bly
uncer­tain above us all than some intan­gi­ble cer­tain­ty
that we would all get a com­fort­able berth in the
here­after.

Saint Christo­pher in the rain at night, just before Manga­mu­ka
Gorge. Peo­ple wear­ing Saint Christo­pher badges get­ting
off the bus and help­ing to put an over­turned vehi­cle right
side up. No one hurt. I fin­ger the cheap badge you gave me
of the saint. Will it be, alright ?

A cou­ple of days lat­er in bright sun­shine, we hit the road
leav­ing Te Hapua behind. And all the way south – to the
head of the fish,’ I picked up some hard truths embed­ded in
your hilar­i­ous speech­es on the maraes:

No more lol­lies !We been suck­ing the pake­ha lol­ly
for one hun­dred and fifty years.
Look at what’s hap­pened. Look at what we got left.
Only two mil­lion acres. Yes, that’s right. Two mil­lion
acres out of six­ty six mil­lion acres.

Think of that. Good gra­cious, if we let them take what
is left we will all become tau­rekare­ka. Do we want that ?

So you lis­ten, now. This is a Sacred March. We are
march­ing because we want to hold on to what is left.
You must under­stand this. And you must think of your
Tupunas. They are march­ing beside you. Move over, and
make room. We are not going to Welling­ton for noth­ing.
And don’t be mis­tak­en: Kare tenei hikoi oku, he hikoi
noa – aha ranei – ki te miri-miri i nga paoro o Te Roringi.

E, kui ! What a way to bring the ‘House’ down. You could not
have lobbed a sweet­er grenade. I’m all eared-in to you
baby .… Kia ora tonu koe.

The Tuwhare Trust would like to thank our supporters, partners and friends.

Friend

Do you remember
that wild stretch of land
with the lone tree guard­ing the point
from the sharp-tongued sea?

The fort we built out of branches
wrenched from the tree
is dead wood now.
The air that was thick with the whirr of 
toe­toe spear suc­cumbs at last to the grey gul­l’s wheel.

Oys­ter-stud­ded roots 
of the man­grove yield no fin­er feast
of sil­ver-bel­lied eels, and sea-snails
cooked in a rusty can.

Allow me to mend the bro­ken ends
of shared days: 
but I want­ed to say
that the tree we climbed
that gave food and drink 
to youth­ful dreams, is no more.
Pursed to the lips her fine-edged
leaves made whis­tle — now stamp
no silken trac­ery on the cracked
clay floor.

Friend,
in this drear
dream­less time I clasp
your hand if only to reassure
that all our jew­elled fan­tasies were
real and wore splen­did rags.

Per­haps the tree 
will strike fresh roots again:
give sooth­ing shade to a hurt and 
trou­bled world.