We Launched The Book! Part 2: My Speech
Obviously, I didn’t need to go far to get permission to publish this: For anyone interested, and particularly for those not there on the day, here’s my speech from the launch of The Richard Poems
There’s a part one to this —
’ amazing speech:
At the risk (and joy) of pure indulgence I thought I’d also share my speech from the day, for mostly similar reasons. My speech does not have the care and insight of Emily’s — but it still provides some overall context. And crucial discussion around the making of the book, as well as some thank you notes, and — hopefully — a bit of levity. Here now is what I said on the day. I started with a brand new poem scratched out on my phone that morning:
Day of The Launch:
My parents are here, and so relieved
they’re not in it this time, they’ve already
read this book.
I’ll write a speech — but first a playlist,
there’s an awkward few minutes to fill
at the start, will two hours of music
be enough? My mother-in-law is making
sandwiches. Emily messaged and asked
me to remove the dead rat from her room
so she could finish her speech that
will launch the book. Symbolic.
Oscar has asked for money to go to town,
he’ll meet us there later. Apparently.
Katy still sleeping. It’s been a tough week.
For the world. Donald Trump is a cunt.
(R.I.P. Janey Godley)
I woke up at five o’clock this morning, the way I usually do, and I reached for my phone and typed that poem into the notes — because I was meant to be writing a speech, but you should always test the pipes first, right? And you do that by internal pressure and observing the pressure drop over time. Any plumber will tell you that.
Anyway, I am so grateful that you could be here. And thank you so much to Emily for her words, her kindness toward the world as an activist and advocate and writer.
This is my second book with Cuba Press. Mary can’t be here today. She is a tireless supporter of writers and writing and she is off doing that in a different way today, and cannot be in two places at once. And she is in the right place for her today, paying her respects at the funeral of a dear colleague. Mary and Paul are always a pleasure to work with and bounce ideas around — they trust me. And I trust them. We made The Death of Music Journalism together in the pandemic, we had some Skype calls and they said what the book should be called and I said NAH. They said the poems needed shortening and I said NAH. They said the book shouldn’t be over 100 pages and I said NAH.
Like I say, just a pleasure to work with. And I am sure they feel the same way about me. I haven’t checked, it’s rude to ask. But yeah. They’re awesome. So this time around I went to them with a concept. Basically said the poems are written, the book is ready. It just needs an edit. We’re doing it eh? And they said “yeah, we could, maybe” and I said cool, book it for November, I’ve got a guest spot reading at a regular night and I’ve told them I’ll have a book ready so we need to do it. This is the sort of deep collaboration that could only happen with me telling The Cuba Press exactly what I want from them.
And then this time around they introduced me to a young editor, designer, compassionate reader, and all around future guru of the publishing industry in NZ if there is any justice in this world — and I know this week is not a great example to site that there might be or ever could be justice in this world — but yes, Tara Malone came into my world. She started sending me emails telling me that I had the names of pro wrestlers in one of the key poems at the start of this book all wrong. And in a rare moment of restraint, I resisted writing back and saying “Were you even born when this happened?” And instead, I listened. And learned. Which is the only order for such things to work. Tara and I might never have met if it was not for this book. We would be unlikely to connect at all otherwise, but through dozens of emails and a couple of face-to-faces we made a book that is in so many ways as much hers as mine. But Tara doesn’t do speeches or particularly like photos or social media, so this is sufficient embarrassment for her I am sure. Tara, you truly have made this book.
We struggled with the cover for a while — because I had this cool picture of an aloof looking angry cow in a field in Martinborough. The photo is five years old but I reckon that angry prick is still standing there in the same pose. Geez, I thought that’s a great book cover for anything but especially for this. And I tried a few times to get it over the line. But something something about low resolution or some shit like that, pesky design nonsense. And I couldn’t break Tara via email the way Mary can fold on a Zoom call. Then a friend started suggesting stock images and that made me almost physically sick. But it also reminded me that I’m not really the great photographer my phone tells me I could one day be. So I went to the top. The best. The greatest living photographer in this city. Peter Black. And Peter had this image of a car smashed up. Which is perfect. Because there’s a line in a poem here about a car crash. But there’s a more obvious metaphor that the whole thing I’m describing here in the book is a giant car crash. So, I’m no design expert but I could see the visual metaphor. If you look at the cover closely, you don’t always see it first time around, there’s a second car in the photo. It’s boxed in by the rude parking of the proudly beaten up first car. And we can’t see if the second car is damaged or not. I felt the visual metaphor was completed. And I worried that Peter was going to say that I could use the image for thousands of dollars. He deserves that of course. But when Dr Dre said “Things just ain’t the same for gangstas”, he was talking about all creative people. And poets, being paid by the word, are the poorest of writers. Peter knows this though, he lives with an amazing poet, so he wrote back and said “there’s no money in poetry for the writers or the publishers, how about I retain the rights to my image but loan you it for a book, you give me a credit, and a copy of the book would be nice too”.
If you have never seen Peter Black’s photos or visited his insta page or website, that is your assignment after this. He is the fucking best.
People are baffled when they hear that Richard is real. Firstly that anyone was like this. And secondly that I have named him in a book. My response when asked what he would think of it is to say he’d be thrilled. I also say he is welcome to write The Simon Poems. He’d just need to learn to write. (And read).
And most of the time when I say that, I get dangerously close to meaning it. There is some nervousness in doing this. Some vulnerability maybe. But that’s worth it. That is the reason for this. The number of people that started saying to me that they knew someone like Richard, or that they have a Richard in their lives, or did. That became the impetus. It wasn’t about me. But then again, of course it is. Or, you know, as my mum said last night, when my dad said with concern that “what if someone sends him a copy of the book” mum’s reply was simply “Who cares? Fuck him!”
These poems started their life in an Honours class up the hill at Te Herenga Waka—Victoria University of Wellington, I submitted poems about this hideous beast I used to know. Richard I mean. Not the former version of myself. Okay, sometimes two hideous beasts…But yeah. Anna Jackson, scholar, poet, and amazing guide as poetry teacher or facilitator, said calmly one day “I think we’d like to hear more of these Richard Poems”.
I took the assignment very seriously. The result is this book. I have thanked the people near and dear to me in the acknowledgements, which is my way of saying, if you want to know the rest, buy the rights.
There’s been some talk, this year particularly, amongst friends and loved ones, around whether I have ever contemplated if I am on the autism spectrum. It is something I am looking into, at the moment. And whilst I would say that suddenly reading every book on autism you can find inside of a week isn’t the best way to disprove the situation, it is also not necessarily a clearing of the name to spend the year writing 51 poems about the same single person.
Finally, this book is in some ways in dedication to Richard. I really struggled with that. I couldn’t say it was for him, but it was certainly because of him. In the end, I was thrilled when Rachel McAlpine, who I simply adore, said nice things about this book for the back cover, including that she felt the reader might ultimately feel compassion for both parties. I sincerely hope that too.
It feels right to be putting art into a world that can seem like it doesn’t care for it, or certainly isn’t doing much to improve the conditions around the delivery of it, in the end that mostly just provides a challenge and impetus for the people making it, and we need to be more hopeful and eager around pursuing it.
I have a job outside of poetry, and my darling wife Katy thanks the lord and saviour Te Herenga Waka—Victoria University of Wellington for that. I have wonderful colleagues. And even if I didn’t, one of the best things about work is that you are paid to do it. But a paycheck is one thing, and a sanity check is something I get from writing. The Richard Poems was 2024’s Sanity Check. And I cannot thank you enough for being interested or at the very least supportive.
Katy and Oscar are the loves of my life. I’m so thrilled that mum and dad could be here. Please don’t bombard them with questions about why I’m like this, we all truly believe it’s not their fault. Them especially.
My thanks so much to Samara Collins for being the best early reader of this work, a friend for many years, and the person that suggested this great place to launch. To Tom and Nat, thank you for this great space and your willingness – and all the best with your new location. You now have several new prospective customers.
I will now read a small handful of poems from the book. It is just $20 to buy because we really want to make poetry affordable again. I will sign copies of the book. And I thank you for your indulgence and patience. And remember they’re out there: The Richards are out there. They go by many names. Mine was called Richard. Allow me to introduce you to him now…
Filtering, Page 20
Another hole, Page 38
Plastering the cracks, Page 46
Goal, Page 60
Comfortably Numb plays while I stare out the window at the wing of a plane, Page 68
