In the wake of the Going West Festival ‘Word of Mouth’ literary weekend, I am, as always, feeling invigorated, inspired and blissful. And full of admiration and gratitude to Murray Gray and his team – partner Naomi, Rose Yukich, Lesley Smith and Barbara Cade. Ten years of sparkling literary entertainment, very well done.

Friday night was the opener, with Bill Manhire, Nigel Cox (pictured: left to right it goes Fergus Barrowman of VUP, then Bill, me, and Nigel – couldn't resist this, sorry) and Hinemoana Baker. First was a powhiri with the Rangeview Intermediate Kapa Haka group leading the charge; this talented bunch will be heading off to Canada this weekend to compete in an international competition.

Bill Manhire gave the Curnow reading, named for the late poet Allan Curnow. I was very happy to hear Bill read his Erebus poem (go here for a recording) and we all had a laugh at his Cornish stories.

His father was from Cornwall – the name Manhire comes from menhir or standing stone. Bill said he found it exciting to think that his ancestors may have run phallic cults … and was also rather titillated by a certain Mr Soddy, B&B owner, calling him ‘moy dear’.

Then, after telling of how he often uses ‘found’ phrases as triggers or starting points for poems, he utterly silenced us with one he wrote after seeing a hotel sign in … Copenhagen, was it? It said ‘The fire alarm sound: is given as a howling sound. Do not use the lifts’. He chuckled over it, but in the headstrong way his poems sometimes seem to, this one led him in a direction that was completely other.

The poem is called Hotel Emergencies and for those of you who have read it in his latest book Lifted (VUP) I can tell you that the effect when read to yourself, versus the effect when Bill reads it, could reasonably be compared to a static shock versus Electric Shock Therapy. A recording is here.

Interesting, the physical response to this sort of thing. Hair standing on end, watering eyes. I said to Bill when I accosted him later that I found it very hard to review poetry given its subjective nature and often rely on physical reactions such as this to decide on its (subjective) greatness. He gave a quote from Emily Dickenson: ‘If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.’

After Bill's reading, we were all given a bracing, verbal kick up the arse by Nigel Cox. Nigel has, as many of you know, recently returned from a long sojourn in Berlin and he made a point, on his return, of writing down the things he noticed about being home ‘before he went blind’, i.e. before sameness set in and such things became unnoticeable again.

‘Popcorn TV’, ‘agreement groups’ (as opposed to good solid debate from 360 degrees of any issue, which he became used to in Germany), the culture of violence and studied disregard of pain, and our continued, anguishing disregard of our clean, green international branding were some of the depressing kiwi phenomena he covered, although I was unfortunately enjoying it so much I neglected my notebook. Bugger. More from him later however, and if you have a broadband internet connection - or a lot of patience with dial-up - you can listen to an audio recording of his address here.

The night was rounded off by the glorious, unfettered, so-laid-back-she's-nearly-horizontal Hinemoana Baker, whose words and voice were just as fantastic in the flesh as I expected from her book, Matuhi | Needle. She has a fascinating technique of recording little bits of sounds right there on stage, then looping them to provide a sonic backdrop for her words or songs. Very cool.

And after the song, the wine, after the wine, the single malt courtesy of Murray Gray, and some sitting about chatting in an increasingly deep and meaningful manner (me, anyway) with Chris and the Wellington trio of Bill, Nigel and Fergus Barrowman (VUP’s publisher and editor of Sport magazine – rumoured to be out in November), plus lovely poet Paula Green whose work is the subject of a brilliant exhibition at the Corban Arts Estate. Sigh. Then a slightly lurching potter back down the hill to bed.

I only got to a few Saturday sessions – I came back for Bill Manhire talking to Iain Sharp. The session was aptly entitled ‘Renaissance Man’ and as Iain pointed out, Bill has been so prolific in his output that it’s near impossible to figure out what number book he’s actually up to.

Bill read some poems, answered some questions and reminisced about some of his most recent projects which include the aforementioned Lifted, his two recent anthologies The Wide White Page and 121 New Zealand Poems and Under the Influence which is a memoir of growing up with a father who was Southland’s first publican and ‘an impressive alcoholic’ to boot. His talk of the ‘six o’clock swill’ and the loose policing of closing times were obviously cherished memories also of the brigade of Titirangi pensioners who relish the festival. I do hope I’m one of them eventually.

He spoke a lot about his mother, who is a sprightly nonegenarian. He obviously loves and admires her hugely despite confessing to a continuing adolescent embarrassment of her from time to time. She certainly sounds an exceptional woman. She gained a science degree in the thirties in Edinburgh, taught English to Polish refugees, and in her thirties married a Cornishman who took her to the deep south of NZ – the ‘last lamppost of the world’ – and spent the best part of her life serving beer to pissed Southern Man. And handled it.

Iain Sharp was a good and thoughtful interviewer; he discreetly covered a fair bit of ground, and if he accidentally sniggered with breathless adoration occasionally, no-one was holding it against him. He had Bill pointing out that although poetry is not an everyday thing for most people, it’s the thing we always turn to in moments of formal commemoration or celebration – funerals, weddings, naming ceremonies. And an Antarctic helicopter pilot was remembered who, after a reading on the ice, mused that poetry was a funny thing – ‘it’s like you’re putting words inside the words’. Yup.

The penultimate session I managed to attend on Saturday was with Trish Gribben and Michael Smither. What a lovely pair. Not a couple, but two people sharing a vision, with an obvious deep and abiding friendship which has gone on for years. I’m not a huge fan of Michael’s paintings, I have to admit, but it was interesting to hear the process of creating a book which spans a massive body of work, especially having just helped in a small way to do it with Chris’s caravan book. And it was lovely just to watch them together. Ennobling, and somehow soothing; such mutual respect. God, I’m rambling.

Trish Gribben has also used 20 pieces of Michael’s work to illustrate a children’s book called With My Little Eye – What Michael Smither Sees which looks great. Aimed at pre-schoolers, it has a similar mission to Greg O’Brien’s Welcome to the South Seas in that both authors have a passion for exposing our offspring to NZ art.

Finally for this posting, a quick mention of rather spunky poet Sam Sampson who has been working on a project in collaboration with artist Peter Madden. Ah, poetry and art. Like port and stilton. Sam was a riveting reader, not least because he sort of conducted himself; as soon as he began reading, his right arm began to loop and circle. He also has a way of stretching out words or snapping the syllables off one by one that was… interesting. They were rather good words, but I was a bit too distracted by the delivery to take them in properly. Might have to try and track ‘em down to read.

Anyway, it’s eleven o’bleedin’ clock, so it’s up the wooden hill to Bedington for me. I shall endeavour to round this off tomorrow. Because I know you’re all completely desperate to find out what went on on Sunday …