Poem: ‘A South Island Night’s Entertainment’
Allen Curnow, 7 July 1994
Somebody mistook the day, or how
will we have found ourselves denied
entry, by chained gate, padlocked
bolted door of an empty dark shed
of a hall, miles from the next town-
ship, as many from the last lit lamp?
The night itself unpunctuated,
no Southern Cross, no Pointers, no
cartwheeling, hand- standing giant
Orion, aka Urine (born cauled
in a sacrificial Boeotian cow’s
pelt, pissed...