The Stokes Point Pillars (2010)

Jack Ross & Grant Duncan, ed.: 11 Views of Auckland (2010)

The Stokes Point Pillars

Stokes Point

One of my students, Carlota, comes from the Canary Islands. She tells me that it sometimes seems to her as if the whole of New Zealand were enclosed inside a bubble – "like a floating island."

"I know, because I'm from an island too," she goes on. Hers, though, was first settled by a blue-eyed, fair-haired race ("perhaps Vikings") before the Spanish arrived to wipe them all out.

"Atlanteans?" I ask. She agrees that many people think so. She's a little sceptical, though.

"A floating island." She describes it like something out of Jules Verne: a huge transparent membrane, sealing us off from the pressures of the world outside. Or perhaps a better comparison might be with José Saramago's 1986 novel The Stone Raft, where the whole Iberian peninsula breaks off from Europe and floats into the Atlantic Ocean, splitting apart, once and for all, the pillars of Hercules.

My phone-calls go unanswered now. Emails to the address I was originally given bounce back with the information that the addressee is on maternity leave, and that I should try such-and-such an extension instead. I've been on that merry-go-round too many times before.

And yet I'd still like to talk about the Pillars Project. All those meetings, those earnest colloquies over the phone about Candice's all-absorbing vision, her attempt to revisit and revitalise at least one part of our poor city.

The only solution I can come up with at present is to tell you about it without incuding specifics: no proper names will be used here (or only ones already in the public domain). Nor will I mention the name of the firm – or the authorities – involved.

It's all true, though, or as true as I can make it.

I've lived here on the North Shore most of my life. True, I did my Doctorate abroad, in Edinburgh, lived for a year in Palmerston North, but for me this is still home base. As kids we played round the rocks of the East Coast Bays. Our horizons were always bounded by Rangitoto.

When I first started out as a writer, therefore, I felt a certain need to explore and expound my native place – defend it, even. I've written a number of stories based here, a lot of poems. Perhaps that’s what led to my being chosen as one of the editors of our regional anthology, Golden Weather: North Shore Writers Past and Present (Auckland: Cape Catley, 2004).

The story (as I heard it, at any rate) goes that a North Shore City Council meeting was drawing to its close when one of the councillors remarked that a good deal of the Arts budget remained unspent. A friend of mine, a fellow-poet – let’s call her “Wendy” – happened to be there, and immediately suggested that the money go into funding an anthology celebrating local writers.

The idea seemed unexceptionable enough to most of those present, so she was asked to do some costing and fact-finding and then report back to the meeting. When offered the chance to edit the poetry section of the book, I jumped at the chance (I doubt I was the first to be asked, mind you). Novelist Graeme Lay took responsibility for the prose. The whole thing was to be published by Christine Cole Catley, local identity and Arts activist from way back.

So that's what happened. There were some teething problems along the way, of course: a few tiresome misprints in the final text; but (as anthologies go) compiling it was a remarkably harmonious process. I came up with the idea of the title, from Bruce Mason's famous one-man play The End of the Golden Weather. A cover image was contributed free of charge by artist Tony Ogle.

The launch went well, the book sold vigorously (I even saw some copies on display out at Auckland Airport), and while certain readers in other parts of the country took exception to Michael King's comments in the blurb: "There are more writers and poets to the hectare on the North Shore - and always have been - than in any other part of New Zealand," by and large the response was good.

It must have been a couple of years later – to be precise, looking back through my files, I see that it was on Monday 6th October, 2008 – that Wendy forwarded me an email about a new Shore-based arts initiative. She felt that I might like to get involved, given the possible links between this project and Golden Weather. The idea, in essence, was to inscribe a series of texts by local writers on the pillars of the Harbour Bridge – at the Northcote end, where the whole huge structure almost scrapes the ground for an instant before plunging out over the Waitemata. Funding had, it seemed, already been approved, and a preliminary reconnaissance made by Wendy and the project’s prime mover, a young architect whom I’ll be referring to here as “Candice.”

Well, why not? I thought. Christchurch has its Writers' Trail, Dunedin its Writers' Walk around the Octagon, Wellington its set of sculptural quotes along the waterfront - if anyone was going to be given the task of choosing suitable Shore-ites to go up on the pillars of Stokes Point, why not me? And if the extracts came from an anthology which was already in print, with permissions obtained and texts carefully vetted, the job might be a comparatively simple one.

Harbour Bridge Supports, Northcote

Graeme Lay was of a different opinion. He made it clear that he thought that Stokes Point, where the texts were to be put up, was tantamount to a howling wilderness – unknown and unvisited by locals and tourists alike – and therefore the last place where our finest writers should be honoured. He suggested, instead, a variation on the model used in those other cities: a series of little plaques to be placed along King Edward Parade in Devonport.

In retrospect, I’m astonished by his prescience. Perhaps he’d got entangled in such amorphous schemes before. I on the other hand, “was young and foolish, / And now am full of tears” (W. B. Yeats).

Wendy, too, made it clear that having laid the groundwork for the project, she had no desire to be actively involved in the selection of texts. And so began my conversations with Candice, a young Australian with a good deal of enthusiasm but little real knowledge of the country she found herself in.

What are the politics of such a project? Well, to begin with, if all the inscriptions on a public monument happen to be by dead white males, you have a problem. Obviously. There’s a perceived duty to be representative both in gender and ethnicity when selecting candidates for such ostentatious commemoration.

Furthermore, if living writers are to be included, how many should there be, and which ones? How many pillars were we talking, anyway?

Wendy and Candice had already decided as a rule of thumb that the basic entrance qualification for a Stokes Point pillar was being dead. None of us had any desire to field phone calls from people explaining why it was imperative that they be honoured in such a way. You may think that sounds unlikely. If so, that just shows you don't have many writers among your immediate acquaintances.

I must say that this pre-emptive determination came as an immense relief. I hadn't relished playing off the ambitions of the mighty – and while one can be reasonably inclusive in an anthology, the same is not true of the supports of a bridge.

So how many pillars? The number seemed to vary from day to day. The straight answer was eight, but at times it went as high as sixteen, depending on whether one allotted them a pillar each or allowed them to share. There was also the question of whether or not all the pillars needed be used for literary texts, or if there was room on them for some historical and documentary materials as well.

In any case, the list of writers I eventually came up with was as follows:

  1. Janet Frame (1924-2004)
  2. Frank Sargeson (1903-1982)
  3. A.R.D. Fairburn (1904-1957)
  4. Robin Hyde (1906-1939)
  5. Bruce Mason ( 1921-1982)
  6. Maurice Duggan (1922-1993)
  7. Kendrick Smithyman (1922-1995)
  8. Hone Tuwhare (1922-2008)

I see that I made the following explanation of my choices in an email to Candice:

The selection of eight authors is a little problematic than the selection of 16, given the need to have "a proportion of the quotes in Maori language" and the desirability of maintaining some gender balance, etc. I don't speak Te Reo, and our Golden Weather anthology was purely an English-language one.

Hone Tuwhare did compose at least one poem in Maori, which could be extracted from or printed in full for his pillar, I guess. Beyond that I think you'd need to get a more informed consultant.

There are people I'd rather see there than Robin Hyde (R A K Mason or Allen Curnow, for instance), but she did spend some time on the shore, is an author of national significance, and I don't really think a ratio of 7 males to 1 female is going to look that satisfactory otherwise.

I can find some quotes and short texts for each of them, but I have to warn you that all the Estates will have to be approached for permissions, and it's hard to predict what would seem acceptable remuneration to them. That will also have to be budgeted for, I feel.

It would have been nice to have put in Baxter and Brasch, but they were occasional visitors rather than residents. The eight I mention about all have pretty solid links with the Shore over time.

My other thought was that the whole design was beginning to sound a bit text-heavy to me: four quotes from each author can certainly be provided (though perhaps not solely from the materials in Golden Weather), but less can sometimes be more on these occasions.

Anyway, these are my first thoughts on the matter. I'm very exam-pressured at present, and will be till the end of the month, but I can make a start on the selection of texts if your deadline does require it.

The original design was rather text-heavy – long quotes of between 10 to 200 words, with short extracts of 5 to 10 words to be splashed on the fronts of the pillars. But then I hadn’t even seen the pillars yet.

My letter to Candice, quoted above, is dated 9th November 2008. The next communication I received from her was on the 17th of December. In the meantime, though, we’d had a long talk on the phone, during which I’d tried to warn her – in the most general terms – of the possible pitfalls of “claiming” a piece of the North Shore for a somewhat motley crew of local English-language writers. Sure enough, her letter mentioned that they’d begun discussions with local iwi representatives, which she hoped would not too long delay a project which was already well behind schedule.

Good luck, I thought, with memories of the “which new tree for One Tree Hill?” debacle, of Bastion Point, of all the other attempts to establish just who can lay claim to what – in cultural terms, as well as physically. It’s a necessary process, I’m sure, and has led to some very useful discussions, but it was also one a long way beyond the experience of our guest from the Lucky Country.

In the meantime, she asked me to provide her with a somewhat wider choice of options, both among the writers and among the texts I’d printed out for her. There was some mention, too, of remuneration for my services, but not in very precise terms. I agreed to send her some more texts, but added:

As far as payment goes, I’d rather you came up with a lump sum if and when the project comes to a successful conclusion. You can pay me what you thought my involvement was worth … Up to you. Nothing if the whole thing comes to nothing.

What was my reasoning there? I’m kicking myself now for being such a quixotic fool, for wasting so much time editing files with quotes in bold and italic, address details for literary estates, “justifications” for the choice of authors without ever seeing a fee … At the time, though, I felt a little wary of being taken for granted. Requests for immediate action seemed to be coming from Candice with minimal warning, and I wanted to reserve the right to be able to say that I was too busy. The moment you accept a sum of money, you more or less surrender the right to stalk off in high dudgeon.

That’s how I saw it then, anyway. I’m not sure if I’d do the same thing now. Probably I’d just take the money and run. It’s true to say that even then the project did not exactly have the whiff of success about it.

Here, then, for what they’re worth, are my own choices of texts for the pillars of Stokes Point (the passages in bold are the ones to be inscribed in larger letters on the fronts of each pillar):

  1. Frank Sargeson (1903-1982)

  2. … by that time it was certainly turning out a great day. The sun was getting hot but there still wasn’t any wind, and as the tide had just about stopped running out down the Gulf the dinghy hardly knew which way to pull on the anchor rope. They’d pulled out less than two miles from the shore, but with the sea as it was it might have been anything from none at all up to an infinite number. You couldn’t hear a sound or see anything moving. It was another world. The houses on the shore didn’t belong. Nor the people either.

    [from “A Great Day” – The Stories of Frank Sargeson (1964)]


  3. A.R.D. Fairburn (1904-1957)

  4. … There should be the shapes of leaves and flowers
    printed on the rock, and a blackening of the walls
    from the flame on your mouth,
    to be found by the lovers straying
    from the picnic two worlds hence, to be found and known,
    because the form of the dream is always the same,
    and whatever dies or changes this will persist and recur,
    will compel the means and the end, find consummation,
    whether it be
    silent in swansdown and darkness, or in grass moonshadow-mottled,
    or in a murmuring cave of the sea.

    [from “The Cave” – Collected Poems (1966)]


  5. Robin Hyde [Iris Wilkinson] (1906-1939)

  6. Stretching her arms
    On the low couch that lay
    Full in a sun too clear for autumn’s pining
    She felt the sun’s blue glitter in the bay
    Pulse through her veins
    , and softly down her throat
    The lances wheel, the silken banners float,
    As light, across his world of creatures shining,
    Subdued her too.

    [from “At Castor Bay” – Young Knowledge (2003)]


  7. Bruce Mason (1921-1982)

  8. I invite you to join me in a voyage into the past, to that territory of the heart we call childhood. Consider, if you will, Te Parenga. A beach, three-quarters of a mile long, a hundred yards wide at low water. Rocks at either end: on the east, chunky and rounded, a squat promontory. … The receding tide leaves deep pools here where sea anemones with fronts of red and black jelly wave coloured strings to entice the shrimps, and sometimes a lone starfish lies marooned, diminishing in the sun. Ahead, across a narrow channel, central to vision and imagination, lies Rangitoto, enormous, majestic, spread-eagled on the skyline like a sleeping whale, declining from a central zone to the water in two huge flanges, meeting the sea in a haze of blue and green. It guards Te Parenga from wind and tempest: it has a brooding splendour.

    [from The End of the Golden Weather (1962)]


  9. Maurice Duggan (1922-1974)

  10. The fairhaired boy and the fairhaired girl swung on the gate. They stood with their feet thrust between the wooden rungs and pushed the gate back and rode on it as it swung forward. They had been forbidden to ride on the gate but that was another time; each day had its own rules.

    The sun shone. The dust on the pavement stirred.

    They were waiting for the postman.

    The concrete road that ran past the house shimmered in the heat. On the opposite side of the street a gate like the one on which they swung had written on it, Sans Souci, No Hawkers. For the boy and the girl it was an exotic name. They did not puzzle over it. Their own gate had no name. There was a number on the gatepost.

    [from “A Small Story” – Collected Stories (1981)]


  11. Kendrick Smithyman (1922-1995)

  12. … it cannot be like this downtown in the city.
    Mirrorglass towers squinting all ways into themselves
    discover they are heartless, at best coldhearted,
    never forthright, only arrogant. Darkness at noon.

    Who will expect a veil of a temple to be rent,
    the money makers driven out? Showers lacking any winds
    to play at motives
    give up and go away. We simply guess at what happens
    between one investment opportunity and its others
    as their murk, pulsing, stands brightened.
    Market reports are broadcast, stocks look good
    for those with a knowledgeable eye. Nothing goes
    visibly traded between pine, lemon and silver dollar.
    When I go outside light flows, pure enterprise.

    [from “If I Stepped Outside, in May ’93” – Last Poems (2002)]


  13. Hone Tuwhare (1922-2008)

  14. Ad Dorotheum: She and I together found the poem
    you’d left for her behind a photograph.

    Lest you be a dead man’s
    Place a branch upon the
    Nor allow your term of
    To pass the fall of its
    last leaf

    ‘Bloody Ron, making up to me,’ she said, quickly.
    Too quickly.

    But Time impatient, creaks a chair. And from the
    jug I pour sour wine to wash away the only land
    I own, and that between the toes.

    A red libation to your good memory, friend. There’s
    work yet, for the living

    [from “Ron Mason” – Mihi: Collected Poems (1987)]


  15. Janet Frame (1924-2004)

  16. That afternoon … I wandered the streets of Takapuna. I sat on the beach looking out to Rangitoto, the island everyone in Auckland claimed as theirs, speaking of its perfect shape viewed from all directions as if they had helped to design and form it. ‘See, there’s Rangitoto,’ they said. I thought, so this is the island in Charles Brasch’s poem,

    Harshness of gorse darkens the yellow cliff-edge,
    And scarlet-flowered trees lean out to drop
    Their shadows on the bay below ...

    I had little experience of many people; I knew them only in my heart; I found endearing this eagerness of Aucklanders to claim Rangitoto.

    I wondered if Mr Sargeson was reading my story. Was he thinking, ‘ Ah, this is good, a good ending.’ I was cautious in my hopes. When I read the story it swept through me and had a finality of ending, like the right chord being played. I knew, though, that it was too loosely woven; I might even have said that it sagged in the middle. Oh to have it stapled with bolts of fire to the sky!

    [from An Angel at my Table (1984)]


They’re arranged in chronological order of date of birth, but I guess you can see even so that there’s an agenda there. I was determined to “inscribe” Kendrick Smithyman (in my opinion one of our greatest, and most neglected, poets) into the literature of the Shore, alongside the more familiar Sargeson, Fairburn and Bruce Mason.

I’d also – cunningly, as I thought – chosen texts for Janet Frame and Hone Tuwhare which included quotations from other canonical texts about this region: Frame quotes from Charles Brasch’s classic poem “A View of Rangitoto” and Tuwhare from a text by R. A. K. Mason, another local writer who seemed too important to be left out altogether.

Then, however, came our meeting with “the client,” and after that all bets were off.

The meeting was in Queen Street, in one of those “mirrorglass towers squinting all ways into themselves” Kendrick fulminates against in his poem. It was to be attended by Candice, myself, the client (whom I’ll call “Philip”) and the two designated iwi representatives.

It was scheduled for the middle of a teaching day, but I calculated that I could stay for a couple of hours before I had to make a rush for the car. Some of the other attendees turned up half an hour late, though, which meant that a lot had to be rushed through in a limited time. For this was intended to be the final "workshop" to select the definitive versions of the texts to be put up.

It’s hard to convey the sheer oddness of the event. It rapidly become clear to me that, as in editorial meetings for magazines, everyone has an opinion, and everyone wants to edit. The texts I’d so elaborately buttressed about with italics and bold highlighting were clearly seen as no more than preliminary fodder for this selection process.

Candice, it turned out, was very struck by the (to me) soupy romanticism of Fairburn’s’ “The Cave”, and fought for it vociferously against my other option, his rather wicked poem “on the Advantages of Living at the Remuera End of the North Shore, or See Devonport and Fry”; the senior iwi representative (we’ll call him “Kevin”) was scornful of my choice of Tuwhare texts and had brought along one he preferred: a rather gruesome poem about graves being dug up to make room for a fuel storage depot during World War II; Philip had found some other Smithyman poems online which he preferred to mine.

If everyone gets at least one text they can think of as their own choice, perhaps we’ll all go away happy, I thought to myself. The whole process seemed to be taking an extraordinarily long time. It was still quite a long way from resolution when I had to dash off in order to get back for my class.

An email from Candice later in the week confirmed that something resembling a final selection of texts had in fact been settled on, though.

The main divergences from my original set were Bruce Mason, Hone Tuwhare and Kendrick Smithyman. Kevin preferred the following passage from The End of the Golden Weather to the one which I had chosen:

It’s only a hundred years since men dressed as chimneys, in top hats and black stove-pipes, women dressed as great bells, tiny feet as clappers, stepped ashore at Te Parenga from a broad-bellied, wind-billowed ship. They brought with them grain and root, tilling and harvest; timber trees, fruit trees, flowers , shrubs, grass; sheep, cows, horses, deer, pigs, rabbits, fish, bees; language, law, custom, clocks and coinage; Queen Victoria and her views on Heaven and Earth; the Trinity; Santa Claus and the imagery of snow where no snow will ever fall at Christmas; a thousand years of history, a shoal of shibboleths, taboos and prohibitions and the memory of a six-months’ voyage. They threw them all together in a heap and stepped ashore to slash the bush, banish the natives and pray silently far into the night. They left some of the pohutukawas, and Rangitoto was beyond their reach.

The words he'd chosen to highlight in bold gave me a funny feeling, though. “Banish the natives and pray silently.” Was he (ever so subtly) making fun of the whole project? Who among civic dignitaries would feel comfortable seeing those words emblazoned on the supports to the Harbour Bridge, that solid monument to local pride?

His choice of Tuwhare poems, “Burial” (1960), commemorating an incident in 1942, also seemed chosen with less of an eye to celebration than to the discomfiture of passers-by.

Through a broken window
inanely he looks up;
his face glass-gouged and bloodless
his mouth engorging clay
for all the world uncaring …

Cover him quickly, earth!
Let the inexorable seep of rain
Finger his greening bones, deftly.

Philip’s Smithyman poem, “Building Programme” (1966) seemed, by contrast, only too appropriate to the bridge refurbishment project he’d been chosen to preside over:

Man never is; yet here are men
who walk about on the skyline to fire
the edge of a disc into some precision,
making streams of blue sparks fall from their fingers
which burn whitely down upon a finite distance
lately bright as cold, a winter in being.

They are changing the way of my city.
The skyline is not what it was. Nor are we.

Last Saturday I paid another visit to Stokes Point, the first since all this palaver subsided. It’s not particularly easy to locate; there are no real road signs – not till you’re right on top of it, that is. Mind you, there are plenty of warnings about hazards and a lack of parking up ahead (which is a bit ironic, given that the bridge supports are used at the moment as a rather scruffy impromptu carpark).

Harbour Bridge

Nor is it very attractive once you get there (though that might have been influenced a little, that day, by the car radio blaring out David Bowie at top volume on the edge of the reserve). A long green lawn slopes down to a fringe of pohutukawas, swathed in temporary fences and orange plastic, guarding a little muddy bay. There’s a small plinth with a plaque bolted on top:

To the memory of those men who lost their lives accidentally during the construction of the Auckland Harbour Bridge:

James Nichol Williamson – aged 45
Carpenter – 26-1-58
James Alex Western – aged 28
Steel Erector – 7-2-59
John Joseph Patrick McCormick – aged 40
Carpenter – 21-4-59

Looking down, one can see the double flange of Fisherman’s Wharf, the once-swish restaurant which served as the locale for Suzanne Paul’s ill-fated attempt to market the “marae” experience to foreign tourists. Cultural, but, as they say down South.

Otherwise, it’s just a typical suburban street - leafy old villas (well-tended, most of them) – which has had a kind of immense Martian war-machine dumped on top of them. It must be Bedlam come Monday morning, when the Bridge contractors resume their drilling and riveting.

Pt. Rough was the name given to this spot on Felton Mathew’s 1841 map of Auckland Harbour, and somehow that suits it better than Stokes Point. It’s still a bit rough, and it’s hard to see what would possess anyone to think that a bunch of literary plaques could somehow magically transform it into an Eden. Or make it more than it is.

Some of the pillars have inscriptions already, anyway. There’s quite a lot of graffiti on the big ones down by the waterside, and then there’s the sign warning us of the Site Rules:


I think that says it all, really. Especially that last one.

Stokes Point Graffiti

-----Original Message-----
From: Jack Ross
Sent: Friday, 1 January 2010 9:16 a.m.
To: 'Candice White'
Subject: RE: Harbour Bridge Landscape - Minutes

Dear Candice,

I haven't heard anything about this project for quite some time. In fact, the last thing I heard was (I think) when someone from your office rang me to say that the Tuwhare estate had declined permission, and asked for suggestions for a replacement. I couldn't be much help, alas.

The reason that I'm writing to you now is because I'm co-editing a book of essays about various aspects of Auckland at the moment, and I would like (if possible) to include a brief account of the Pillars project in it. It interests me for a number of reasons: first the inherent difficulty of finding "representative" texts and authors for such a monumental set of inscriptions; but also the political complexities of negotiating permissions for such an ambitious scheme. It seems to me to say a good deal about both our city and our cultural temperature at the moment.

If the project really is dead in the water, then of course that makes matters much simpler. I certainly won't reproduce any of your materials in the essay, but I'd like to give a general account of some of the conversations.

If the project is ongoing, though, then it's as well that I know that now before spending any more time thinking about the essay. I quite understand that you'd want to keep the whole thing confidential until its unveiling.

The book is scheduled for publication in late 2010.

best, jack

So what is this story actually about? It's hard to say, really. I suppose that my initial idea was to play it up as a piece of provincial silliness - history repeating itself as farce, the shipwreck of a set of good intentions on the brutal facts of our warring, divided consciousness.

Looking back on it now, though, I feel a rather more affectionate glow surrounding the original plan. Our extracts would have looked interesting and - dare I say it? - thought-provoking, however crudely they were stencilled onto the bridge supports.

I mean, just think about the implications of some of those lines for a moment:
I invite you to join me in a voyage into the past,
to that territory of the heart we call childhood

It was another world.
The houses on the shore didn’t belong.
Nor the people either

Their own gate had no name.
There was a number on the gatepost

I had little experience of many people;
I knew them only in my heart

Because the form of the dream
is always the same

When I go outside light flows,
pure enterprise

Doesn't that have something to say about place, and space, and locality? Possibly even as much as José Saramago's Stone Raft fantasy, though in a rather different way.

So, finally, "A red libation to your good memory, friend[s]. There’s work yet, for the living." Maybe it'll still happen one day. In the meantime, though, it's nice to think that I can put their words up here instead.

The Stokes Point Pillars


  • Brasch, C. (1984). Collected poems. (A. Roddick, Ed.). Auckland: Oxford University Press.
  • Duggan, M. (1981). Collected stories. (C. K. Stead, Ed.). Auckland: Auckland University Press / Oxford University Press.
  • Fairburn, A. R. D. (1966). Collected poems. (D. Glover, Ed.). Christchurch: Pegasus.
  • Frame, J. (1984) An angel at my table. An autobiography: Volume two. Auckland: Century Hutchinson.
  • Hunt, J. (1998) Hone Tuwhare: A biography. Auckland: Godwit.
  • Hyde, Robin. (2003). Young knowledge: The poems of Robin Hyde. (Michele Leggott, Ed.). Auckland: Auckland University Press. Notes retrieved from
  • Lay, G. (2002). North Shore Literary Walks. Auckland: North Shore City Council.
  • Lay, G, & Ross, J. (Eds), (2004). Golden weather: North Shore writers past and present. Auckland: Cape Catley.
  • Mason, B. (1962). The end of the golden weather: A voyage into a New Zealand childhood. Wellington: Price Milburn, 1962.
  • Sargeson, F (1973). The Stories of Frank Sargeson. Auckland: Penguin.
  • Smithyman, K. (2002). Last poems. (P. Simpson, Ed.). Auckland: Holloway Press.
  • Smithyman, K. (2004). Collected poems 1943-1995. (M. Edgcumbe & P. Simpson, Eds.). Auckland: Mudflat Webworks, 2004. Retrieved from
  • Tuwhare, H. (1987). Mihi: Collected poems. Auckland: Penguin.


11 Views of Auckland. Edited by Jack Ross & Grant Duncan. Social and Cultural Studies, 10. ISSN 1175-7132 (Auckland: Massey University, 2010): 155-76.

11 Views of Auckland (2010)

[5297 wds]

No comments:

Post a Comment