Philistine Me.

In the statistics of this blog there is an analysis of the key search terms used. They never fail to surprise me. One search that is increasingly common is for Hone Tuwhare, the recently demised poet, author of Rain.



I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain



I wrote a post that was dismissive of him as an obscure figure by comparison to Rudyard Kipling. That, of course, is an unfair comparison. Kipling's work was of an entirely different form, it seems to me he expressed events and his perception of them in an outer form while Tuwhare revealed ourselves through the opening of his own heart. I have enjoyed getting to know his work (thanks to the public library) and I regret my previous ignorance. I apologise to anyone offended by my earlier, ignorant sarcasm.

"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds." - Emerson

I can't find a copy of his work to link you to - his collected work is $99 on Amazon.

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