‘She had mettle': Anne-Marie Te Whiu on poetry, weaving and whakapapa
Claire Mabey talks with poet, weaver, Atlantic Fellow and cultural curator Anne-Marie Te Whiu about her new collection of poetry, Mettle.
Claire Mabey: Kia ora Ani, it's very nice to be talking to you about your beautiful poetry collection, Mettle. Why did you dedicate the book to your younger self?
Anne-Marie Te Whiu: Because she's still here. You know that whole thing of you've got to be turning into the person that your younger self would have looked up to? I feel like now I'm 52 I'm just becoming that person, so I'm in conversation with her now, that little kid. It's taken all these decades but it's really beautiful.
CM: And why 'mettle'? What does that word mean to you?
AMTW: Being a poet, I love playing with language. So when I tell people I've written a collection called Mettle, I love seeing their faces. You can see they're thinking 'Oh so you've written about the periodic table? Is it from a science lens? It is about, like, heavy metal?' I love that.
The reason I used 'mettle' is because when I was doing research on my whakapapa and the connection with Whina [Dame Whina Cooper], my great aunt, I looked at archival works, newspaper articles, that kind of thing. I found that one of the words that was used to describe her was that she had 'mettle' and that word just really struck me.
CM: So your whakapapa is here in Aotearoa, and you were born in Australia. What is that relationship like for you? Is your collection working into that?
AMTW: Exactly. It's working to understand myself. I use poetry as a vehicle and a platform to work out who I am. What does it mean to have whakapapa? How do I acknowledge that whilst being born on and living on these unceded, stolen lands? How do I reconcile that relationship? It's kind of reconciling with myself, really. It's also a vehicle for understanding my siblings, particularly my youngest brother – for him to further understand who we are.
CM: I really like the poem 'Blood Brothers', where you're trying to have a conversation with your brothers and they're distracted by the stuff of daily life.
AMTW: Totally. Don't you have that with your siblings?
CM: Yes! Do you relate to the idea that there's always one sibling who seems to lead the family 'work' so to speak? I've observed over the years that there often seems to be one in the family who works on whakapapa and makes the connections and reconnections. Does that ring true for you?
AMTW: 100% relate. I think that's exactly right. I have three brothers, one who sadly passed away – but growing up I was always the fourth wheel. Like, we need to play handball and need a fourth, might as well be her.
CM: I was really also struck by your poem, the Letter to Keri Hulme that you've dedicated to essa ranapiri. Is it a fictional letter?
AMTW: You're the fourth person to ask that! Like, what? No, it's totally fictional. That was a gift of a poem that was written because essa, who edited Mettle, invited me to be part of a journal dedicated to the legacy of Keri Hulme. We were asked to create whatever we wanted.
But how awesome that you think that there's the potential there for the letter to have been real. It brings me back to the question of 'why poetry?' Poetry is a portal. It allows us to stretch and play.
CM: I love that. It feels like so many roads lead back to Hulme. Is there anything in particular about her work that you love?
ANTW: Her relationship to water. Watching tides, watching waves, reading waves; that's what I really related to.
The writer Melissa Lucashenko embodies something of the way Hulme's work enters into your blood. There's something incredibly sacred about the way all the parts work together. There's a power in Hulme's work, and in Lucashenko's too.
CM: You're a weaver as well as a writer. There's a poem in the book about having a 'weaving hangover'. What does that mean?
AMTW: Have you been a weaver before?
CM: Never. But I used to paint a lot.
AMTW: Perfect. Here's the comparison. Would you paint until 4am and then go, how did that happen? Then the next day what you did is still with you. That's the kind of hangover I'm talking about. The number of nights I've had where it's got to four, five in the morning just weaving.
CM: How does weaving relate to poetry for you? Or does it?
AMTW: It compliments poetry rather than that they definitely meet. But I lean on one and then the other, and throw in a couple of dog walks in there as well for physicality. They're both practices that require being still so you gotta balance it with that physicality.
CM: Mettle is out in both Australia and New Zealand and I imagine they're two really different audiences, in some ways.
AMTW: Massively. I don't know if you got the little insert in the book when it arrived? It has this message explaining that Mettle delves into my whakapapa and then in brackets it says 'Māori genealogy'. Obviously that's so patronising and so unnecessary for the Aotearoa audience, and so imperative if I want to connect with this audience here in Australia.
I've had a couple of moments of 'how do I bridge this?' But that's the work. That's our work as writers, producers, artists. We're bridge builders.
CM: Have you had feedback on the book so far?
ANTW: I got a beautiful message on Instagram from a gorgeous Australian-born wahine, about a poem I have in the collection about understanding and not understanding in a te ao Māori space. To have feedback from someone that gets it is so sweet.
I've had feedback from the most important people who are my whānau. The book is for my younger self but we always write for those we love, too. Hopefully all my family will look at it and go, yeah, that's great.
CM: In your acknowledgements you talk about a class you did at the IIML at Victoria University with Victor Roger. What was the impact of that class?
AMTW: It was so significant being in a room with other Māori and Paskifika writers. Nafanua [Percell Kersel] was there, Nicole Titihuia Hawkins, Kahu Kutia, and a whole bunch of amazing writers. Victor led our waka in such a joyful and challenging way.
It was a very, very profound experience.
Blood Brothers
i recite a karakia for my brothersthey would prefer i bring kebabs
i tell them about the Hokianga
they tell me about their bills
i explain tangata whenua
they turn up the TV
i dream of Tāne Mahuta
they roll a cigarette
i summon the names of our ancestors
they take their medication
i miss our marae
they put out the bins
– Anne-Marie Te Whiu
Mettle by Anne-Marie Te Whiu ($30, University of Queensland Press) is available to purchase from Unity Books.
The Spinoff Books section is proudly brought to you by Unity Books and Creative New Zealand. Visit Unity Books online today.
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The Spinoff
2 days ago
- The Spinoff
‘She had mettle': Anne-Marie Te Whiu on poetry, weaving and whakapapa
Claire Mabey talks with poet, weaver, Atlantic Fellow and cultural curator Anne-Marie Te Whiu about her new collection of poetry, Mettle. Claire Mabey: Kia ora Ani, it's very nice to be talking to you about your beautiful poetry collection, Mettle. Why did you dedicate the book to your younger self? Anne-Marie Te Whiu: Because she's still here. You know that whole thing of you've got to be turning into the person that your younger self would have looked up to? I feel like now I'm 52 I'm just becoming that person, so I'm in conversation with her now, that little kid. It's taken all these decades but it's really beautiful. CM: And why 'mettle'? What does that word mean to you? AMTW: Being a poet, I love playing with language. So when I tell people I've written a collection called Mettle, I love seeing their faces. You can see they're thinking 'Oh so you've written about the periodic table? Is it from a science lens? It is about, like, heavy metal?' I love that. The reason I used 'mettle' is because when I was doing research on my whakapapa and the connection with Whina [Dame Whina Cooper], my great aunt, I looked at archival works, newspaper articles, that kind of thing. I found that one of the words that was used to describe her was that she had 'mettle' and that word just really struck me. CM: So your whakapapa is here in Aotearoa, and you were born in Australia. What is that relationship like for you? Is your collection working into that? AMTW: Exactly. It's working to understand myself. I use poetry as a vehicle and a platform to work out who I am. What does it mean to have whakapapa? How do I acknowledge that whilst being born on and living on these unceded, stolen lands? How do I reconcile that relationship? It's kind of reconciling with myself, really. It's also a vehicle for understanding my siblings, particularly my youngest brother – for him to further understand who we are. CM: I really like the poem 'Blood Brothers', where you're trying to have a conversation with your brothers and they're distracted by the stuff of daily life. AMTW: Totally. Don't you have that with your siblings? CM: Yes! Do you relate to the idea that there's always one sibling who seems to lead the family 'work' so to speak? I've observed over the years that there often seems to be one in the family who works on whakapapa and makes the connections and reconnections. Does that ring true for you? AMTW: 100% relate. I think that's exactly right. I have three brothers, one who sadly passed away – but growing up I was always the fourth wheel. Like, we need to play handball and need a fourth, might as well be her. CM: I was really also struck by your poem, the Letter to Keri Hulme that you've dedicated to essa ranapiri. Is it a fictional letter? AMTW: You're the fourth person to ask that! Like, what? No, it's totally fictional. That was a gift of a poem that was written because essa, who edited Mettle, invited me to be part of a journal dedicated to the legacy of Keri Hulme. We were asked to create whatever we wanted. But how awesome that you think that there's the potential there for the letter to have been real. It brings me back to the question of 'why poetry?' Poetry is a portal. It allows us to stretch and play. CM: I love that. It feels like so many roads lead back to Hulme. Is there anything in particular about her work that you love? ANTW: Her relationship to water. Watching tides, watching waves, reading waves; that's what I really related to. The writer Melissa Lucashenko embodies something of the way Hulme's work enters into your blood. There's something incredibly sacred about the way all the parts work together. There's a power in Hulme's work, and in Lucashenko's too. CM: You're a weaver as well as a writer. There's a poem in the book about having a 'weaving hangover'. What does that mean? AMTW: Have you been a weaver before? CM: Never. But I used to paint a lot. AMTW: Perfect. Here's the comparison. Would you paint until 4am and then go, how did that happen? Then the next day what you did is still with you. That's the kind of hangover I'm talking about. The number of nights I've had where it's got to four, five in the morning just weaving. CM: How does weaving relate to poetry for you? Or does it? AMTW: It compliments poetry rather than that they definitely meet. But I lean on one and then the other, and throw in a couple of dog walks in there as well for physicality. They're both practices that require being still so you gotta balance it with that physicality. CM: Mettle is out in both Australia and New Zealand and I imagine they're two really different audiences, in some ways. AMTW: Massively. I don't know if you got the little insert in the book when it arrived? It has this message explaining that Mettle delves into my whakapapa and then in brackets it says 'Māori genealogy'. Obviously that's so patronising and so unnecessary for the Aotearoa audience, and so imperative if I want to connect with this audience here in Australia. I've had a couple of moments of 'how do I bridge this?' But that's the work. That's our work as writers, producers, artists. We're bridge builders. CM: Have you had feedback on the book so far? ANTW: I got a beautiful message on Instagram from a gorgeous Australian-born wahine, about a poem I have in the collection about understanding and not understanding in a te ao Māori space. To have feedback from someone that gets it is so sweet. I've had feedback from the most important people who are my whānau. The book is for my younger self but we always write for those we love, too. Hopefully all my family will look at it and go, yeah, that's great. CM: In your acknowledgements you talk about a class you did at the IIML at Victoria University with Victor Roger. What was the impact of that class? AMTW: It was so significant being in a room with other Māori and Paskifika writers. Nafanua [Percell Kersel] was there, Nicole Titihuia Hawkins, Kahu Kutia, and a whole bunch of amazing writers. Victor led our waka in such a joyful and challenging way. It was a very, very profound experience. Blood Brothers i recite a karakia for my brothersthey would prefer i bring kebabs i tell them about the Hokianga they tell me about their bills i explain tangata whenua they turn up the TV i dream of Tāne Mahuta they roll a cigarette i summon the names of our ancestors they take their medication i miss our marae they put out the bins – Anne-Marie Te Whiu Mettle by Anne-Marie Te Whiu ($30, University of Queensland Press) is available to purchase from Unity Books. The Spinoff Books section is proudly brought to you by Unity Books and Creative New Zealand. Visit Unity Books online today.
The Spinoff
20-05-2025
- The Spinoff
What we thought about 1985 by Dominic Hoey
Claire Mabey and Lyric Waiwiri-Smith discuss Dominic Hoey's latest novel, a vivid evocation of 1980s Grey Lynn. Claire Mabey: Lyric, I ate this book whole. I couldn't put it down once I started. The voice of Obi – the narrator – is so clear and lively. What was your reading experience like? Lyric Waiwiri-Smith: Reading it was just like being back in Auckland, growing up on the streets of Grey Lynn and hoping you might be able to scab some money off your mates and hit up the 562 Takeaway (made famous by appearing on the cover of Hoey's poetry collection 'I Thought We'd Be Famous'). OK, yeah, Hoey and I grew up in Auckland a few decades apart, but reading this felt like looking back on a childhood diary that myself or any one of my friends could have written. CM: The looking back is so vivid: Hoey brings such detail to the writing which takes the reader right to Crummer Street, 80s, Grey Lynn. I was interested in the epigraph that says: 'Nostalgia is a gentle madness / the past was like this too / you just don't remember' which I think must be Hoey's own poetry. But this book is both nostalgic in that it harks back to pre-gentrified Auckland, but also anti-nostalgic in that the driving idea of the book is to keep moving on, don't get stuck in the past, don't let nostalgia keep you from getting more than what you think you deserve. LWS: Such a delicious little epigraph – I got my book signed by Hoey at Unity Books on Tuesday so now that poem is sitting nicely between 'To Lyric' and '❤️ Dominic', which made me shed a little tear for some reason. I guess the past me was like this too. I really like your read of it, Claire, because I feel like everyone in this book is holding onto something – buried treasure, crushed up poetry, grudges – and no one knows how to let it go. That's a theme I really love in Hoey's writing: that really painful hanging onto something that serves you nothing. CM: That is very insightful, Lyric! And despite this whirlwind of nostalgia present in the adults, the engine of the book is Obi (not his real name but a Star Wars nickname that stuck) who is looking back on his life as a pre-teen in the middle of this chaos. Early in the book he says this, which for me framed the book and explained its fast pace (really short, compelling chapters): 'The line separating the world of kids and adults was so thin, it hardly seemed to exist. It reminded me of video games. You had to keep your eyes on the screen, your hands on the controls, be ready for anything. Because when you're not paying attention, that's when things fall apart real quick.' What did you make of this gaming thread through the novel? LWS: As a child of the 2000s I very much missed the Spacies craze, but I did feel like I was right there with Obi and his best friend Al (very funny little kid) in the arcade, trying to game the system by poking wires in the coin slot and desperately hoping for another go at winning big, because your 11-year-old life depends on it. I think he probably picked up that view of the world because a lot of the adults around him – his dad, Gus and Mad Sam – are also trying to game a system (see: adulthood) and failing, so someone else better be the real adult around here and try to create some way to survive, too. CM: The adults in this novel are so flawed, but I really loved Obi's mum and dad, despite the problems with drugs and booze, and the heart-ache around Obi's mum illness (this novel draws on the sick mum / hopeless dad trope but not at all in a stereotypical way). I found myself feeling so anxious about Obi the whole time: it's a novel about obstacles and having to jump and swerve and strategise your way out of trouble that's not even of your own making – so much external chaos thrust on these little kids. 1985 is a working class novel about working class people and struggle – that's a rare thing in this world, unfortunately. These stories are so relatable and Hoey makes sure his characters are fully fleshed – we can really see them. Did you feel like this novel was ultimately hopeful, despite the serious nature of the obstacles that Obi and his mates face? LWS: I think rather than being hopeful or pessimistic, this book just feels like it wants to shed a light on the chaos of life when you're living in a rotting old Grey Lynn villa and there's no food in the fridge. The characters don't pretend to be anything other than what they are, and in their own ways they make excuses for it, but that's just … life, especially when you're working class and philosophically opposed to things like calling the police or liking your 'rich cunt' neighbours. I really enjoyed Obi's reflection at the end (spoilers incoming): 'The neighbourhood was changing … A meanness had got into the water supply. They cut the benefits. Felt like everyone was out for themselves'. How do you actually win when the odds are stacked against you? Sometimes I think you just accept the way the tide has gone and try to swim through it, even when it's pushing you back. CM: You're so right. There's a moment in the book that stood out for me where Obi says something like: it sucks when you realise everyone has excuses for their shitty behaviour. And you realise that Obi, too, does shitty things but it's all part of this vast game of life and there's no judgement inherent in this story. It's pure happenings, and environment, and relationships both deep and fleeting. There's a lot of love in this book – it really takes you by the throat and takes you with it, all the way. LWS: I love the love for Grey Lynn that runs through the book as well. He writes about that suburb with so much care, like you know Obi has haunted every street corner and still wholeheartedly believes this is the only place on Earth that feels like home. I can smell the vinegar factory and mildew on the pages. I kind of wonder whether these characters and their shameless habits might be a bit garish for a reader who wants to read some kind of underdog story, where Obi does find the treasure and suddenly everything is fixed, or dad gets his shit together and publishes his poems. But, like Grey Lynn, some things mostly just stay the same forever. CM: Interesting point – the novel stays real and doesn't go down the Goonies road (though it did remind me of 80s adventure movies that I loved so much as a kid). For me the language was so textured and so clean that I could slip through the story without pinning any expectations on the plot. I had dreams I guess, but Obi is so believable that I just wanted to keep up with him, whatever happened. So, we'd recommend? Maybe with some some strong language warnings for the squeamish? LWS: I would undoubtedly recommend this book and everything Hoey has ever written. Maybe a scene-setter for a first-time Hoey reader, from my first time hearing his work: I had stumbled down some dimly lit stairs, found myself in Karangahape Road's grimiest little shithole (the Wine Cellar, but the back part that doesn't exist anymore, RIP), walked past a door and heard someone waxing lyrical on shitty landlords and being too poor to quit working hospo even though it's killing you. So I bought a ticket and spent the next five years hearing him out. Hoey's voice is so representative of Auckland city, and the malaise that comes with the hustle of living there. I really adore his work – if not him, who's going to write about the Obis of Aotearoa?
The Spinoff
15-05-2025
- The Spinoff
An interview with Damien Wilkins the morning after winning at the Ockhams
Claire Mabey talks to Damien Wilkins about the drama of the night and what it means to have won. Delirious is a profoundly moving book. It's about an ageing couple – Pete and Mary – who are working out how to do the next and last phase of their lives. The narrative shifts between their past and present and centres around the nightmare of losing their only son, Will, when he was just a boy. At last night's Ockham New Zealand Book Awards Wilkins arrived to the theatre just in time to give his acceptance speech. It was a tense night, Wilkins appearing like James Bond on the stage, late yet so smooth. In this interview we discuss what the award means, and what source material he used to create the world of Delirious. Claire Mabey: Good Morning. How are you feeling? Damien Wilkins: Still buzzing. It's all pretty overwhelming and strange. The amateur dramatics of it kind of overtook, I guess, the emotional impact of it in a funny way. The whole delays in the flights. The would I wouldn't I appear. I haven't really focused on what it all kind of means because it was all about the mechanics of getting here. CM: It was one of the most thrilling Ockham ceremonies that I remember, and lots of people at the party afterwards said the same thing. Just to recap for the readers: your flight was delayed in Wellington. You eventually got on another Air New Zealand flight and then had to track your way through Auckland in a festival car, racing to try and get to the Aotea Centre before the night ended. At what point did you realise that there was a particular urgency around the fact people really wanted you in the room? DW: Probably about halfway in that car journey. When I got in the car, I thought they're just wanting the full complement of people there. And that they were hoping to get me there in time for the reading. But then there was a funny exchange where Gillian, who was driving for the festival, was in touch with someone who said she had permission to exceed the speed limit, we'll pay the fines. Gillian said, 'Oh, my uncle's a rally driver, so we'll just channel him.' She didn't drive dangerously, but she was flashing lights to ask if she could pass them. It was like being in a weird cavalcade and at every moment there was some bizarre thing. Like getting off the plane I was at the back and they spent seven minutes trying to attach the rear door stairs. A tunnel was closed, there were roadworks. Every moment was extended. It was like being in a cosmic joke about someone who can't get to a thing, like being in a dream. Gillian was in constant contact with the organisers, letting them know how far away I was. Eventually we just slammed on the brakes, pulled around into the car park, and basically I ran on. In a way it relieved me of that anxiety about being in an auditorium and not being able to use your body; how you're frozen there waiting. CM: Your speech was remarkably calm and together. You said at the end a line about about being a pickpocket and a thief. I wondered what you did steal to make the novel? DW: The details of people's lives. My sister's last months. The character Claire, who's Mary's sister [in Delirious]: what happens to Claire is pretty much what happened to my sister, Miriam. Obviously things are choreographed differently: that wasn't her situation in terms of her family or anything like that. But without Miriam and us going through that, it doesn't exist. And then my mother's track through delirium and then through dementia. Novelists can be pretty ruthless about what we, let's face it, steal from life, but we are part of that life. The book is not a memoir, it's a version of life that allows that stuff to be released into a different atmosphere, in a different world, and maybe that's quite good for the writer, rather than to treat it as a memoir, where you're maybe still stuck in that world. Maybe fiction allows us to recalibrate it, in a way. You're still using that basic, deep emotional landscape, but you found a different setting for it and different coordinates. And maybe that might help us change it and offer it to a reader who doesn't need to know my sister and or my mother. That's the thrill of it, when you realise that a scene you've written about actually makes an impact on a stranger, rather than on people you know. Good novels allow us to enter these lives in a way which hopefully lets the dignity of the source material still sit somewhere. But it's that strange area that fiction moves from a very private space into a public space. And I'm interested in the way that that works in writing. How do you start telling a scene which moves the reader from the facts of something to feeling? CM: Why was the death of a child something to explore? DW: I mean, I'm not sure. But one of the things that Fergus, my publisher, said to me was who might be impacted by this book or worried about it, just in my circle. We talked about my siblings. I'd given them the book to read before I put it out in the world. So my brother's son, my nephew, had a moment a number of years ago where he was in a life and death situation. It was just really hard. He recovered but the level of pain was just unbelievable. So maybe that was behind it. But I'd actually, until Fergus said that about who might be impacted, I'd never really considered that my brother would be affected by it. Will [the boy in the book] wasn't in any way connected with what happened to my nephew. My nephew has made a full recovery but there was just that sense of utter devastation that was looming for my brother and his his wife. So maybe that was behind it. I remember writing past that scene where Will's body is looked at. I didn't have it, I'd written past that and I looked back and thought no, they have to go. They have to see him. It seemed a dereliction of my duty not to have that scene. I did feel obliged to go back. CM: That's very brave. DW: No, not brave, Just necessary. CM: So the award that comes with $65,000 which we know, to a writer, is huge money. What does it mean for you? DW: Economically it's really useful. I can give some money to our daughter who had a root canal and now needs a crown. She can't afford that so it's nice I can help her out. I'm a bit torn about the extent to which it all sits with the winner. I do actually miss the runner up money; a more even division of the spoils. We've been selected in this kind of group and it would be really meaningful for everybody to have that little bit of money, rather than a winner takes all thing. I understand it in the sense that it makes a big splash in terms of media impact and generates good things for the ecosystem. But it's like gold, silver, bronze medal, isn't it? Except it's just gold. CM: You've seen big changes in the industry over your career and as director of the International Institute of Modern Letters. What are the most significant changes? DW: The makeup of MA classes. When Bill [Manhire] set it up in the late 90s, there were just 10 people selected, and that was from a pool of sometimes up to 90 or even 100 applicants. It was our subjective view of the very top of a very large, pretty strong pool – so lots of really good people missed out. And now, because we've got three workshops and 30 places it's allowed us to build classes that look different in terms of ethnicity and age. Our graduates are the walking adverts for the the programme so I think our name is better known among a broader group. There's also the long overdue feelings about representation and who gets to tell whose story? How do you manage kind of these kind of tricky ethical issues? That's a component now, as it should be. CM: What advice would you give your younger self – the same one that won this prize 30 years ago for The Miserables? DW: If you have early success your expectations tend to be out of whack with what the world is about to deliver. I remember, after 10 years of writing, that my sales were zero. And I really did think, why am I doing this? Even though The Miserables had won the award, been published in America, in the UK, then I had another two-book deal. But it was hard yakka. And my career didn't really develop in ways that I might have been dreaming about. So, as I say to my students, it's a long game. How do you maintain the kind of urgency around your own creative impulses against the economic tidal wave sweeping you out in another direction? You've got to work at that. I don't have any magic sort of formula. But what's exciting and interesting to me is that the desire to to write is undiminished. Every year I see a fresh lot of faces around our building, and I know that within those 30 people there are books waiting to be written. There are countless stories waiting to be told and that's the exciting thing. So rather than be depressed about careers that don't happen we focus on that sense of new promise. Most people come to a reckoning at some point. They go, how do I do it? How do I feed my family, feed myself and do this other deep thing I want to do? That's the gift of teaching writers, is that you see that renewed every year, and that gives me heart. And some of these students I've taught have shifted my sense of what I can do as well. I think of Breton Dukes, Pip Adam, Airini Beautrais: they're just suddenly pushing at barriers and pushing at form and and so you get this kind of jolt. There's no complacency here. There's a sense of new possibilities that other writers are seeing. It's not quite competitiveness, but it's certainly encouragement. The Spinoff Books section is proudly brought to you by Unity Books and Creative New Zealand. Visit Unity Books online today.
