Wild Honey

Alistair Campbell has died. Our poetry establishment has lost its sweetest voice. Of his poems Wild Honey has always been a favourite and I’ve heard him read it many times - always a pleasure. . But Sam Hunt’s rendition of it from memory at a launch for one of Alistair’s collections was a virtuoso performance – poetry at its most powerful. He brought out all its radiance.

WILD HONEY

Stuart's gallantry ... I recall how once
he beat a bully who had called his girl
some mildly offensive name ... Wild honey.

Margaret's passion ... She danced a hula once,
for a Director of Education,
on a cluttered supper board ... Wild honey.

Lilburn's solitude ... Alone he paces
an empty beach, creating in his head
bare harmonies of sand and wave ... Wild honey.

Meg's loveliness ... In that absurd boatshed
how it glowed, while the tide chuckled and slapped
below us-God, how she glowed! ... Wild honey.

These things: gallantry, passion, solitude,
and loveliness-how they glow! ... Wild honey.

Alistair Campbell

Alistair’s search for his origins has produced a rich collection about identity and family. Here’s an example.

JOCK CAMPBELL MY FATHER

Yes, I remember the transport Southland –
a tub of a ship with a contingent
of Aussie larrikans, and a few of us
from the other side of the ditch –
real New Zealanders and proud of it.
We found their boasting pretty hard to take.
Then a torpedo struck us amidships
and the blast knocked me unconscious,
I floated to the surface entangled
with ropes and every kind of debris.
What an approach to the Dardanelles!
There was no sign of the ship –
only an oil-slick, bilge, torn uniforms,
naked bodies, dead horses, and men
clinging to spars and planks, and cursing –
real blister-raising curses from the Aussiess.
We had our differences, but you can’t
help liking men who rush into battle
yelling Imshi Tasllah, a cry picked up
in a Cairo street. The legend that we share
was born when our joint forces fought
and died together in Anzac Cove…
I am lying here in Tahiti with my dear Teu.
It’s quiet here away from the guns, the screams,
the nightmare that was Gallipoli. I can’t
make out what she is murmering, but I think
it’s all about forgetfulness and peace.