I can’t write in Hawke’s Bay.
In Hawke’s Bay I cannot write.

I’d be better at visual art – someone
could give me a pencil and I’d easily draw

a blank – open to  interpretation but that’s okay
and it’s most certainly as it is – because

it’s not okay in Hawke’s Bay to write a
poem. But, as I recently  found it can be

okay to stand proud and read aloud – in
Hawke’s Bay. I did it one  day and hope to

do it again and I remember when I first
went to a poetry reading – it was in Hawke’s Bay.

And I remember when I first wrote a poem: It was
in Hawke’s Bay. And maybe it  resides there still – in

some way. Its heart is there, even if mine isn’t.
That old typewriter took such a beating, I hit down

hard on those keys, punched in the start of endless
stories. Poked at letters and did my level best

to form words and sometimes sentences. A page or
two would fall most nights. And with a heavy lid or

two I’d face the next day. But I can’t write
in Hawke’s Bay these days. And many will say I

never could. I learned to not write there. And learned
to write there too. And I don’t know if I’m better

at not writing or writing. But I know now that it doesn’t
matter – since it’s just something to do. Something to

do as much as something to be. Hawke’s Bay is in
the title of some of the poems. It’s in the fabric, in

the bones. And so it doesn’t need to be in the heart, it
doesn’t have to have a part of the soul – it can grow

apart from the soul. It’s still there  and if I ever said
I didn’t care I’d be  protesting far too much. As such

this will be my final word on that. Until I read aloud again
in Hawke’s Bay.