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Selected Poems of James K. Baxter
By 1972, when James K Baxter died aged just 46, his colourful life and distinctive poetry had captured the imagination of New Zealanders as no literary figure before him. Selected Poems of James K Baxter, is a generous and authoritative selection of Baxter's verse for general readers and students by New Zealand's leading Baxter scholar. With a range of poems from the 1940s, 1950s, 1960s and the Jerusalem period, full texts of major sequences 'Pig Island Letters' and the 'Jerusalem Sonnets', and key new poems directly from manuscript, Millar's selection reveals the breadth of Baxter's achievement, not merely its peaks - from the comic and bawdy to the political and devotional. Selected Poems of James K Baxter also includes an insightful introduction by Baxter expert Paul Millar and short prefaces to the four parts, plus four Baxter photos, useful notes, a glossary of Maori words and index.
- GenresPoetry
297 pages, Paperback
First published February 25, 2010
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About the author
James K. Baxter
52 books7 followersJames Keir Baxter was a poet, and is a celebrated figure in New Zealand society.
In his critical study Lives of the Poets, Michael Schmidt defines Baxter's 'Jacobean consonantal rhetoric'.Schmidt has claimed that Baxter was 'one of the most precocious poets of the century' whose neglect outside of New Zealand is baffling. His writing was affected by his alcoholism. His work drew upon Dylan Thomas and Yeats; then on MacNeice and Lowell. Michael Schmidt identifies 'an amalgam of Hopkins, Thomas and native atavisms' in Baxter's 'Prelude N.Z.
In his critical study Lives of the Poets, Michael Schmidt defines Baxter's 'Jacobean consonantal rhetoric'.Schmidt has claimed that Baxter was 'one of the most precocious poets of the century' whose neglect outside of New Zealand is baffling. His writing was affected by his alcoholism. His work drew upon Dylan Thomas and Yeats; then on MacNeice and Lowell. Michael Schmidt identifies 'an amalgam of Hopkins, Thomas and native atavisms' in Baxter's 'Prelude N.Z.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
June 21, 2022
New Zealand's 20th Century Prodigal Poet
It's taken me a fair while to complete this book, which is not to say that it's a bad collection but this man in the age of #MeToo is highly controversial, as he not only raped his wife, AND bragged about it, but also sexually assaulted a score of young women at his commune in Hiruharama(Jerusalem). He was a dry alcoholic for years after a rambunctious early adulthood, and drugs figured largely in the hippie culture that he latterly enjoyed. He deserted his young family, fell out with friends and took his father's non-conformism and explored the boundaries well beyond what society's norms exhibited.
He was, however, a very gifted poet although I don't think he ever attained the heights of other literary idols of this island of New Zealand. Whilst I grant you, he died young at the age of 46 years, but his literary heritage was second to none with a University educated mother highly unusual for the times as well as a national newspaper head editor as a grandparent.
His poetry certainly changed over the years from flowery Keatsian stanzas imbued with ancient Greek legend to vernacular verse and visions of death and spirituality taking in all forms of poetic expression. He also latterly co-opted Maori words into his vocabulary and these poems are some of the more reverent in this book.
Early poems are far more traditional in style, as in "Poem in the Matukituki Valley", a beautiful remote inland North Otago valley and a fantastic tramping location:
"Some few yards from the hut the standing beeches
Let fall their dead limbs, overgrown
With feathered moss and filigree of bracken.
The rotted wood splits clean and hard
Close-grained to the driven axe, with sound of water
Sibilant falling and high nested birds.
In winter blind with snow; but in full summer
The forest blanket sheds its cloudy pollen
And cloaks a range in undevouring fire.
Remote the land's heart. Though the wild scrub cattle
Acclimatized, may learn
Shreds of her purpose, or the taloned kea.
For those who come as I do, half-aware,
Wading the swollen
Matukituki waist-high in snow water,
And stumbling where the mountains throw their dice
Of boulders huge as boulders, or the smoking
Cataracts flings its arrows on our path-" etc....
To the profane, "Lament for Barney Flanagan", a pub landlord in the style of that wellknown Irish song, "There Was an Old Man Called Michael Finnegan":
"Flanagan got up on a Saturday morning,
Pulled on his pants while the coffee was warming;
He didn't remember the doctor's warning,
'Your heart's too big, Mr Flanagan.'
Barney Flanagan, sprung like a frog
From a wet root in an Irish bog-
May his soul escape from the tooth of the dog!
God have mercy on Flanagan.
Barney Flanagan RIP
Rode to his grave on Hennessy's
Like a bottle-cork boat in the Irish Sea.
The bell-boy rings for Flanagan." Etc...
To the glorious: "Stephanie", (his granddaughter)
... " To believe in love
Is difficult. It means that we cannot belong
Anymore to ourselves, having suffered a foreign invasion
From heaven.Stephanie, I confess with terrified
Acquiescence, your springtime banners are inside my gate."
And, the eyebrow-raising-to be continued.
It's taken me a fair while to complete this book, which is not to say that it's a bad collection but this man in the age of #MeToo is highly controversial, as he not only raped his wife, AND bragged about it, but also sexually assaulted a score of young women at his commune in Hiruharama(Jerusalem). He was a dry alcoholic for years after a rambunctious early adulthood, and drugs figured largely in the hippie culture that he latterly enjoyed. He deserted his young family, fell out with friends and took his father's non-conformism and explored the boundaries well beyond what society's norms exhibited.
He was, however, a very gifted poet although I don't think he ever attained the heights of other literary idols of this island of New Zealand. Whilst I grant you, he died young at the age of 46 years, but his literary heritage was second to none with a University educated mother highly unusual for the times as well as a national newspaper head editor as a grandparent.
His poetry certainly changed over the years from flowery Keatsian stanzas imbued with ancient Greek legend to vernacular verse and visions of death and spirituality taking in all forms of poetic expression. He also latterly co-opted Maori words into his vocabulary and these poems are some of the more reverent in this book.
Early poems are far more traditional in style, as in "Poem in the Matukituki Valley", a beautiful remote inland North Otago valley and a fantastic tramping location:
"Some few yards from the hut the standing beeches
Let fall their dead limbs, overgrown
With feathered moss and filigree of bracken.
The rotted wood splits clean and hard
Close-grained to the driven axe, with sound of water
Sibilant falling and high nested birds.
In winter blind with snow; but in full summer
The forest blanket sheds its cloudy pollen
And cloaks a range in undevouring fire.
Remote the land's heart. Though the wild scrub cattle
Acclimatized, may learn
Shreds of her purpose, or the taloned kea.
For those who come as I do, half-aware,
Wading the swollen
Matukituki waist-high in snow water,
And stumbling where the mountains throw their dice
Of boulders huge as boulders, or the smoking
Cataracts flings its arrows on our path-" etc....
To the profane, "Lament for Barney Flanagan", a pub landlord in the style of that wellknown Irish song, "There Was an Old Man Called Michael Finnegan":
"Flanagan got up on a Saturday morning,
Pulled on his pants while the coffee was warming;
He didn't remember the doctor's warning,
'Your heart's too big, Mr Flanagan.'
Barney Flanagan, sprung like a frog
From a wet root in an Irish bog-
May his soul escape from the tooth of the dog!
God have mercy on Flanagan.
Barney Flanagan RIP
Rode to his grave on Hennessy's
Like a bottle-cork boat in the Irish Sea.
The bell-boy rings for Flanagan." Etc...
To the glorious: "Stephanie", (his granddaughter)
... " To believe in love
Is difficult. It means that we cannot belong
Anymore to ourselves, having suffered a foreign invasion
From heaven.Stephanie, I confess with terrified
Acquiescence, your springtime banners are inside my gate."
And, the eyebrow-raising-to be continued.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
May 13, 2018
Reactions to the work of New Zealand poet James K. Baxter tend to be extreme. Regardless of this observation, anyone who has grown up in New Zealand cannot fail to be aware of him and his influence, even if they do not believe in his importance.
Detractors of his work always surprise to me, as there are few poets in the English language who have as much command of vocabulary, classical allusion, imagery, sly allegory, and a general musical approach to the sound of words. The editor of this edition also expresses surprise that Baxter's work is so little known outside of New Zealand. I personally believe that many of Baxter's poems should be studied along with the other accepted "greats" of the 20th Century.
Despite his short life, Baxter was PROLIFIC. Anyone who writes so voluminously cannot always control the quality. Some of his poems I think are absolute clunkers. Emily Dickinson did not always hit the mark either. Even some of Shakespeare's sonnets are not particularly memorable. Nonetheless, those of his poems which show quality, are not just good; they are outstanding.
My only qualm about this particular collection is that it is missing the "Elegy to an Unknown Soldier" which is, frankly, one of the greatest anti-war poems of all time. Despite this, I believe that if you are open to new experiences, and would like to read the work of an "edgy" talent who does not shy away from occasionally using the Maori language and making other references to New Zealand, you will find much in this volume that is extraordinary – to be read over and over again.
Detractors of his work always surprise to me, as there are few poets in the English language who have as much command of vocabulary, classical allusion, imagery, sly allegory, and a general musical approach to the sound of words. The editor of this edition also expresses surprise that Baxter's work is so little known outside of New Zealand. I personally believe that many of Baxter's poems should be studied along with the other accepted "greats" of the 20th Century.
Despite his short life, Baxter was PROLIFIC. Anyone who writes so voluminously cannot always control the quality. Some of his poems I think are absolute clunkers. Emily Dickinson did not always hit the mark either. Even some of Shakespeare's sonnets are not particularly memorable. Nonetheless, those of his poems which show quality, are not just good; they are outstanding.
My only qualm about this particular collection is that it is missing the "Elegy to an Unknown Soldier" which is, frankly, one of the greatest anti-war poems of all time. Despite this, I believe that if you are open to new experiences, and would like to read the work of an "edgy" talent who does not shy away from occasionally using the Maori language and making other references to New Zealand, you will find much in this volume that is extraordinary – to be read over and over again.
December 17, 2019
Chances are, if you've come across an Anglo-New Zealander / Roman Catholic convert / Commune leader / insane person in any of your poetry anthologies, this is the guy. His writing starts as good but with few splash moments, then finishes off, in the Jerusalem Sonnets and others of the late period, as close to incandescent. Baxter appears to have lived either a novel approach to sanctity or a tried and true approach to degeneracy, or some impossible combination of the two. He's one of the more interesting people you'll ever run into, if you're interested in that sort of thing.
...Brother thief,
You who are lodged in my ribcage, do not rail at
The only gate we have to paradise.
...Brother thief,
You who are lodged in my ribcage, do not rail at
The only gate we have to paradise.
April 7, 2022
It is a thought breaking the granite heart
Time has given me, that my one treasure,
Your limbs, those passion-vines, that bamboo body
Should age and slacken, rot
Some day in a ghastly clay-stopped hole.
They led me to the mountains beyond pleasure
Where each is not gross body or blank soul
But a strong harp the wind of genesis
Makes music in, such resonant music
That I was Adam, loosened by your kiss
From time's hard bond, and you,
My love, in the world's first summer stood
Plucking the flowers of the abyss.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews