Festival news abounds at the moment. I’m going to have to do another double Welly (see last posting) I’m afraid. Feeling a little aggrieved – Auckland is the poor cultural cousin in comparison at the moment, I must say. However, we’ll get ours, don’t you worry.

Now, I am crestfallen to admit that I missed informing our readers about the opening of the NZ International Arts Festival last night. Organiser Carla and her team were partying with Goldenhorse and WAI at the Wellington Civic Square to celebrate the programme launch. As well they might.

It’s looking to be an amazing line-up – check out the extremely cool, techno-geek website where you can set up your own festival calendar very easily (I’ve done mine, rather pathetically, as I probably won’t make it). Some big international names in the NZ Post Readers and Writers week include Michael Cunningham (his brilliant book, The Hours, pictured), Nuruddin Farah, Louise Erdrich and Simon Armitage. Whew. Not sure about the NZ contingent yet. Watch this – or that – space. In the music lineup, geez – Talvin Singh, Orchestra Baobab and DJ Spooky? Could hardly believe my eyes. I was there, you know, when Talvin set up Anokha at the Blue Note. Sigh. Ten years ago.

Moving swiftly onwards: also starting today and running ‘til the 7th in the capital is the Third Wellington International Poetry Festival.

It’s based around Te Papa/The Marae, the City Art Gallery, both libraries, Pataka Museum and Paekakariki Hall, and has as its central theme Disarmament and Peaceful Dialogue. You just know Ahmed Zaoui’s going to be there, and he is, bless him.

Most events are free and as well as international poets from India to Ireland, there are some of the best NZ poets around – Vincent O’Sullivan and Elizabeth Smither along with Olivia McCassey, Hinemoana Baker and ex–Mocker–rocker Andrew Fagan, last seen putting smiles on dials at the Going West steam train event.

I spotted Graham Brazier in Grey Lynn yesterday at the Williamson Ave lights… he did himself proud at Going West too. I guess all old rockers have the potential (and er… life experience) to be poets – it’s whether they have the balls. You go boys.