Portrait,
by Jackson McCarthy
This is an interesting first poetry collection by a young Kiwi of Lebanese, Māori and Pākehā descent.
Interesting because it took me repeated readings of many poems as to glean their genesis and grasp the guts of what the poet is ‘saying’. It is as if – in several examples – there is a thin, semi-opaque veneer covering them and I had to wipe clear the veil of what he nominates as ‘My elliptical conversation’ (The Truth). For example, the prose poem titled The Window, while replete with striking imagery – a feature throughout this book, which I will return to – reads like a hallucinogenic hangover. It is as if McCarthy mounts a persona throughout, whereby he seems to be shielding and yet seeking his essential self, something he alludes to in Uniform, as here –
‘Behind us, watching, was Jackson McCarthy, noted homosexual. Eater of olives.
Writer of poetry.’
These toikupu stir me to select several features.
There is a continuous stress on ‘me/my’ and ‘you/your’ in these pieces, and indeed the poet writes, ‘I made pacts with myself, my best subject’ in the first of the four poems titled Santa Monica. Which leads to my first pātai, why are there four distinct poems with the same title? Then again, why not, eh?
The tenuousness of relationships, the poet’s seeming insecurity about the multifarious ‘you’ in these poems, is a repetitive strain, and several such culminate with lines such as, ‘you lean in to kiss me for the last time’ (Louis, August), and, ‘as you move to leave’ (Three Mysteries 2). Meanwhile, ‘lost’ and ‘loss’ reverberate amongst this at times found verse, as exemplified in the Notes.
Which leads back to a point referenced previously, namely that the poet is striving to firm himself, here via these relationships, as for example, ‘Who was I before I met you’ (Night train). After all, the overall collection is titled Portrait.
Relatedly, there is a yearning here, ‘I want so much to be consumed by something’ (Moonlight spell).
Death and its son death, pervade these pages too. The very first line in the very first poem is, ‘Funerals happen’ (Prelude). McCarthy and his sometimes seeming surrogate, pen, ‘not a day passes, not an hour or even a minute I don’t think about dying’, in the poem ironically titled Happiness.
Then there are the word echoes, whereby certain kupu recur, as indeed do some word pictures. Such as, dream/dreams; blond/blonde; swans in the back of his truck/fifty white swans asleep in the back [of] his country truck; ass/ass; naked/naked; hair/hair; yellow/yellow, and copious other mirrors. Such replication establishes a thread of connectivity between poems, between the stages and stratifications of the young poet’s life up until present day events and affairs.
Returning to the striking images mentioned earlier, here are just some examples of this poet’s somewhat Personist lyrical predilection –
‘sleep’s black wealth’ (Mahuika as a boy)
‘where cars sleep heavy like bullets’ (Portrait)
‘cutting the dusk in skinny jeans’ (Halloween)
‘smalling me with distance’ (Arthur)
‘my mind an antonym for my body’ (Archery)
‘I was licking the moon like a streetlamp’ (Song)
These what I term ‘interlinked McCarthys’ can certainly craft fine verse.
Interestingly again, in a couple of poems, namely The Lake and Song, the poet snaps the thin ice covering most of his other poems and writes about more manifest events, suicide in the former, the constant bombardment of Lebanon in the latter. It will be stimulating to see if his future mahi grounds itself further, as will his possibly employing some reo Māori – e pīrangi ana ahau ki te kite i tēnei.
Now, I could and certainly will, write more about this collection. Suffice to say that I look forward to the follow-up, and to muse that McCarthy reminds me of Genet, a toned-down Sam Te Kani, and Burroughs all stewed together into a sapid repast replete with urban spices and nocturnal salts.
I like McCarthy’s pensive mien, his is a divergent voice, and my tastebuds await the next course. I hope that its results are unike how he describes Maya’s gazpacho which, ‘turned out gray’ (in the poem Moon). Given Jackson McCarthy’s rather classical autodidact styling, I am sure they will not!
by Jackson McCarthy
This is an interesting first poetry collection by a young Kiwi of Lebanese, Māori and Pākehā descent.
Interesting because it took me repeated readings of many poems as to glean their genesis and grasp the guts of what the poet is ‘saying’. It is as if – in several examples – there is a thin, semi-opaque veneer covering them and I had to wipe clear the veil of what he nominates as ‘My elliptical conversation’ (The Truth). For example, the prose poem titled The Window, while replete with striking imagery – a feature throughout this book, which I will return to – reads like a hallucinogenic hangover. It is as if McCarthy mounts a persona throughout, whereby he seems to be shielding and yet seeking his essential self, something he alludes to in Uniform, as here –
‘Behind us, watching, was Jackson McCarthy, noted homosexual. Eater of olives.
Writer of poetry.’
These toikupu stir me to select several features.
There is a continuous stress on ‘me/my’ and ‘you/your’ in these pieces, and indeed the poet writes, ‘I made pacts with myself, my best subject’ in the first of the four poems titled Santa Monica. Which leads to my first pātai, why are there four distinct poems with the same title? Then again, why not, eh?
The tenuousness of relationships, the poet’s seeming insecurity about the multifarious ‘you’ in these poems, is a repetitive strain, and several such culminate with lines such as, ‘you lean in to kiss me for the last time’ (Louis, August), and, ‘as you move to leave’ (Three Mysteries 2). Meanwhile, ‘lost’ and ‘loss’ reverberate amongst this at times found verse, as exemplified in the Notes.
Which leads back to a point referenced previously, namely that the poet is striving to firm himself, here via these relationships, as for example, ‘Who was I before I met you’ (Night train). After all, the overall collection is titled Portrait.
Relatedly, there is a yearning here, ‘I want so much to be consumed by something’ (Moonlight spell).
Death and its son death, pervade these pages too. The very first line in the very first poem is, ‘Funerals happen’ (Prelude). McCarthy and his sometimes seeming surrogate, pen, ‘not a day passes, not an hour or even a minute I don’t think about dying’, in the poem ironically titled Happiness.
Then there are the word echoes, whereby certain kupu recur, as indeed do some word pictures. Such as, dream/dreams; blond/blonde; swans in the back of his truck/fifty white swans asleep in the back [of] his country truck; ass/ass; naked/naked; hair/hair; yellow/yellow, and copious other mirrors. Such replication establishes a thread of connectivity between poems, between the stages and stratifications of the young poet’s life up until present day events and affairs.
Returning to the striking images mentioned earlier, here are just some examples of this poet’s somewhat Personist lyrical predilection –
‘sleep’s black wealth’ (Mahuika as a boy)
‘where cars sleep heavy like bullets’ (Portrait)
‘cutting the dusk in skinny jeans’ (Halloween)
‘smalling me with distance’ (Arthur)
‘my mind an antonym for my body’ (Archery)
‘I was licking the moon like a streetlamp’ (Song)
These what I term ‘interlinked McCarthys’ can certainly craft fine verse.
Interestingly again, in a couple of poems, namely The Lake and Song, the poet snaps the thin ice covering most of his other poems and writes about more manifest events, suicide in the former, the constant bombardment of Lebanon in the latter. It will be stimulating to see if his future mahi grounds itself further, as will his possibly employing some reo Māori – e pīrangi ana ahau ki te kite i tēnei.
Now, I could and certainly will, write more about this collection. Suffice to say that I look forward to the follow-up, and to muse that McCarthy reminds me of Genet, a toned-down Sam Te Kani, and Burroughs all stewed together into a sapid repast replete with urban spices and nocturnal salts.
I like McCarthy’s pensive mien, his is a divergent voice, and my tastebuds await the next course. I hope that its results are unike how he describes Maya’s gazpacho which, ‘turned out gray’ (in the poem Moon). Given Jackson McCarthy’s rather classical autodidact styling, I am sure they will not!
Review by Vaughan Rapatahana
(Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Te Whiti)
(Te Ātiawa, Ngāti Te Whiti)
Title: Portrait
Author: Jackson McCarthy
Publisher: Auckland University Press
ISBN: 9781776712304
RRP: $24.99
Available: bookshops
Author: Jackson McCarthy
Publisher: Auckland University Press
ISBN: 9781776712304
RRP: $24.99
Available: bookshops
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