Gerry Te Kapa Coates (Ngāi Tahu) was born in
Oamaru, but has lived in Wellington for most of his working life. He has been a
writer since schooldays, initially concentrating on poetry with work published
in journals like Landfall. He works as an engineer and company director, but
has done many varied and creative things in his career - from journalism and
stage lighting design to working with Ngāi Tahu and Te Tau Ihu on their Treaty claim
settlements. A past published finalist in the Māori Literature (Pikihuia)
Awards in 2001, 2003 and 2007, his book of poetry and short stories The View
From Up There was published in 2011. He is now working on further collections
and longer works including a novel. An engineer/poet is a rare breed. He still finds
that working − and looking after mokopuna – takes its creative toll.
How long has The View From Up
There been in preparation, and is it a satisfying feeling that the book has
now published?
When
I started writing, being published was only a vague notion, although I
submitted a poem in 1961 to Canta (the University newspaper) that was published
under my pseudonym at the time ‘Jerez’. In a burst of enthusiasm in the early
80s I submitted – and was mostly rejected − by the literary periodicals of the
time such as Landfall, Islands, Poetry NZ etc. The advice I was given by
publishers later was that ‘poetry didn’t pay’ and to look at self-publishing,
which always seemed to me to be rather self-seeking. It’s always a salutary
feeling to walk into a library – or a book remainder shop – and see the
attempts of the thousands of authors seeking fame. So when Roger Steele, who
had previously given me advice to self-publish, offered to publish my
collection I was very happy, and even happier with the result and the feedback.
But getting any acclaim through reviews is still difficult for New Zealand
authors, especially for poetry.
How would you describe your fiction and
your poetry to readers unfamiliar with your work?
I’m
never sure whether ‘accessible’ is a good attribute, but I think my poems are.
They are relatively straightforward and rely on the use of words to evoke a
feeling, rather than fancy devices. The same reviewer who called them
accessible also said ‘I suspect the true test of a "good" poem is
when the reader is able to pick up a poem and find something of their own life
experience in it.’ Another well-read friend of mine said ‘I find many modern
poems hard to understand. The poet is so close to his or her subject that it is
impossible for an outsider to gain entry to his thought process. But your poems
are not like this. They have depth, but I was able to enter just a little
of your world, and share your feelings.’
My
stories often tend to have a Māori flavour, but again I want them to be a ‘good
tale’ whatever the reader’s background. If I see myself as an indigenous writer
– which I do – then I make sure the ‘politics of difference’ as Witi Ihimaera
says, is evident. But sometimes I’m just a writer – as in love poems for
example.
You have had a long and successful career
as an engineer, sustainability consultant, and director of Te Rūnanga o Ngāi Tahu. Do each of these feed
into your writing, or is your writing something apart from any of these?
Yes,
many of my poems and stories are loosely based on my life-experience, but not
necessarily autobiographical – for example I didn’t fight in Vietnam, but I was
a protester against the war. Being deeply involved with Ngāi Tahu politics and
its Treaty Claim settlement process meant I was in touch with my roots, and
also aware of the red-neck anti-Māori sentiment that the settlement generated
in the form of Letters to the Editor. Apparently John Huria asked me at a panel
discussion at the Christchurch Writers’ Festival ‘Is writing a poem like
lighting an airstrip?’ according to Fergus Barrowman. I probably didn’t hear
him because the sound system on stage was so bad, but my answer (to Fergus) was
‘Maybe more like lighting a play - which I do as well!’ Everything – life,
career, reading – all feed into my work in some way.
The
View From Up There includes both stories and poems.
Was it an easy decision to include both in the collection, and are you
satisfied with how this combined approach has worked out?
It
was the publisher’s decision, but I hadn’t thought it through and the
difficulties it would provide for libraries and bibliographic listings to
adequately categorise it. In future I think that despite the book being more
interesting with a variety of genre, I will do poems and fiction separately.
In commenting on The View From Up There, author Phillip Mann says:
“I admire the grace of these poems, and the carefulness which keeps them clear and direct. I also appreciate the ease with which they are able to bring together the Maori language and English, achieving a synthesis that is uniquely true to the country.” – Phillip Mann
Can you tell us about the ways you have bought Te Reo Māori and English together in your work?
When
I first assembled the selection, I hadn’t realised how much Te Reo was implicit
in many of the poems. In the end I did a glossary that spread to 70 words and
two pages. Ideally a poem should be able to include Te Reo and English
seamlessly. But even a poem needs a footnote to put it in context. I can’t
recall how many readers have said they were so glad to discover the ‘Notes on
the Poems’ at the end, but usually after they needed it. Maybe next time
they’ll be footnotes.
Phil
also said after the book was published, ‘I think it is an excellent collection.
Your poems achieve what poetry does best. They explore those moments of
realization and change which occur when life suddenly opens up before us,
sometimes terrifyingly so − as a when a loved one dies, or a car crash reminds
us of our own mortality or when suddenly we know we are happy and in love or we
confront a distasteful political reality. While the poems are personal, they
encourage us to see the universal in the moment for, as has often been said,
Death is our only certainty as in grief, and a car crash in New Zealand is very
like one in Finland or Peru, and love, it seems to me, is a flower which
thrives despite barbed wire, pollution, economic downturn or our own
tongue-tied silence. Which things said, I also admire the patient
craftsman who works on the words until they shine.’ I thank him for those
insights.
You were a guest at the Christchurch
Writers Festival 2012. Do you enjoy reading at such events, and the ‘public
performance’ aspects of being a writer?
That
was the first Festival where I’d been an invited ‘official writer’ although I
have read publicly before. I enjoy both the reading, and the selection of what
to read. At Christchurch, because it was a Ngāi Tahu writers’ panel, I chose to
read poems with a Māori context but at the end I read a new love poem I’d just written
the previous week. I was blown away by several responses including from an out
of town couple who felt deeply connected to the poem. Those interactions make
it all worth it.
Who are some of your favourite authors of
fiction and poetry, and in particular, are there authors and poets you
particularly enjoy whom you feel haven’t received the attention they deserve
from critics and the public?
The
poets I have been influenced by include (apart from the ones everyone has been
influenced by like T S Eliot etc) Robert Graves, e e cummings, Philip Larkin,
James K Baxter, Alastair Campbell and latterly Glen Colquhoun. At the
Christchurch Writers Festival I was also reacquainted with Riemke Ensing,
Bernadette Hall and Cilla McQueen whom I’ve admired. Also an amazing Māori poet
Ben Brown (Ngāti Pāoa, Ngāti Māhuta) whose performance readings are fantastic.
Fiction is more difficult to pin down. Short stories by kiwis Owen Marshall or Maurice Duggan, and by Alice Munro and Lydia Davis. And novels by authors from many countries. The Nobel prizewinners are a good start – the Norwegian Knut Hamsun’s epic Growth of the Soil or Sigrid Undset’s even grander Kristin Lavransdatter were a great influence. Also the so-called ‘Angry Brigade’ of British writers in the 60s.
The Steele Roberts website mentions that
you are working on a novel – would you care to say more about this?
An
extract from its early stages entitled ‘The Exploration of Space’ was published
in Huia Short Stories 5 (2003). It’s about a Māori rower who goes to Munich in
1972 with the Olympic team and has a love affair with an Israeli team member
who is killed, and how this, and his whakapapa history, affects his later life.
After mulling it around and writing more chapters I’m still quite a way from
finishing it. I need to deal with the ‘Enemies of Promise’ and start working on
it again, rather than my erstwhile career. Roger Steele said after my book
launch ‘This will change your life, Gerry.’ Although it’s less than 12 months
now, he was right. One of them is that writing has become more of a priority,
and hopefully some opportunities to become a writer in residence and have the
space to concentrate will arise.
Book
availability details
It’s
also available in New Zealand at quality bookshops such as Unity Books and the
University Book shop in Christchurch.
In addition to his
Ulysses 2012, which was my Tuesday Poem this week, Gerry kindly allowed me to use another poem from
The View From Up There to conclude this post.
Strawberries
Nothing like a tube in
your neck
to make a grown man look fragile.
“Yes -I’m a part time plumber,” joked Pania
the vivacious nurse, ideal to buck up
tired spirits, except you looked a bit
too tired to be bothered with flirting
for the fun of it, despite your strength
and your manly chest - not the chest of a
middle-aged man (as they would put in the papers)
You, at this time, in
this place
this home away from home
can only be described as looking wan.
There’s nothing like
hospital food
to push you back to life and remembering
what it was like to be eating with gusto
be well again, able to race up stairs
pee over a fence and do all those things
that being in bed proscribes - a catheter
and a bed pan in the wings do inhibit
freedom of movement, of action.
Sorry about the
strawberries - I forgot
you’d not be eating right away
but partly they’re there for titillation
if not for you, for Pania and her laughing eyes.
And you, out of the
privacy of the
operating theatre back in the light
(although it’s really
blinding in there -
just seems dark with
the loss of consciousness
and the mystery of it
all) with your tripes only
partly intact, what
now. Can you recapture that
zest for life and use your libido in other ways?
I admire your strength
and acceptance,
for in the end we all have to face it alone
whatever ‘it’ is - things that stop working,
sensations that dull, appetites that get lost
strawberries that crumble into dust.
