Peter Farrell: New Zealand Writer
Some Poems
Some Poems
Whakapapa
Whakapapa
They asked me where I came from,
But I have no waka to sail the Thames
I don't belong on London's streets
Dad denied his Jewish heritage and left
His seed growing in Mum's belly
Mum's Irish whanau kept the name
Although they dropped the prefix "o"
And the Pope, to appease the English
Now there are you three - my mokopuna
What do I tell you? What is your whakapapa?
Where are you from?
You can say nga tupuna held you when you were born,
You felt our strength and love for you.
I will be your kauri, your korowai, your shelter.
But, one day, the kauri will fall
And you will have the rakau for your waka.
Waka – ancestors canoe
Whanau - family
Whakapapa – Family tree
Mokopuna - grandchildren
Nga tupuna – Grandparents
Rakau - Timber
Note: This poem was written before my search for my father. In fact it was my mother who adopted the prefix 'O" because she liked the sound of it.
Last Words
Last Words
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Confused, I bent to listen
But the question, whispered through crooked, frozen lips
Was all you had to say.
The brain, so nimble for so long, so open to new ideas,
Was helpless against the tsunami wave of darkness
Those once clear eyes fixed blankly on some place unknown
Your hands lay still at last on hospital sheets, like discarded gloves,
Creased and useless.
I knew nothing of that soft, compelling woman you had been
They said you were wild and uninhibited, grabbing at life
But you made me, you grew me
It was you that changed so we could survive together
From you, I learnt to laugh and shrug away adversity.
But you could not prepare me for your question
Anymore than you could prepare yourself for the seed
That moved inside you while the sirens screamed and the earth shook
You never talked to me of lost love
Whether to protect me or you
I do not know
I could not answer your question.
Was it the present or the past that was worrying you?
The person I am may have recognized a cry of anguish
But I was just a child then
I knew nothing of death or fear or guilt.
They were grown up things.
As was love.
I could not answer your question.
Was it addressed to me or to that other man?
The one you fought and may have loved in equal measure
Perhaps he could tell you why he left
Perhaps he could tell you why he never looked back
I can see you shrug your shrug
Only you and he know the answer.
Perhaps the question was mine to ask after all.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Note: Writing The Lie That Settles caused me to view my mother through my adult eyes
My Brexit Poem
My Brexit Poem
On 23 June 2016 Britain voted to leave the European Union - Brexit
Sirens screeched and searchlight beams,
Pierced the moonless sky
Searching
My head flung back, enthralled,
As young men in stygian space above
Fought out the fearful contradictions of war.
Later, unaware of death and dying
Or why my mother held me close
I drew with bitten pencil
Bullets, bombs, planes
And stick men, falling to the ground
I knew God was on our side and
Like a football match, one day we'd win
Last night, an old man lost hope that history would hold its breath.
A generation, unscarred by war, bent to jingoism
And stumbled to the edge of chaos
24 June 2016