Poetry Dicks Introductions, 2010 Ignition Festival

Introduction

Fringe dwellers, freaks, fantasists, forty-somethings, fortune 500 fuckwits, welcome to an opening statement that confuses alliteration with verse.  Hereafter, as a veritable cross section of H-town scribes grace the podium, spilling forth bile, philosophic insight and just plain ole Waikato common sense - as Peter Dunne might say - things can only get better.

For reasons best known to those nefarious and largely back room organisers this year’s embarrassment of lyrical riches has been saddled with the indelicate title ‘Poetry Dicks’.  There have been consequences.  One of the more sensitive if not feminist participants from days past withdrew her labour, unable to perform under a banner that conjures up images of crooked American presidents, Chanderlesque gumshoes and that aesthetically unbecoming male appendage known to the literal minded as the penis.

As one who has resisted the pejorative diminutive of his given name his entire life I can but sympathise.  Yet, for reasons of sentiment I carry about my person the only poem ever written in my honour, sent via textual communication at 12:52 am on the 8th of October, 2008, coincidentally the morning of my mother’s 76th birthday.  A work firmly in the traditions of Gertrude Stein, it reads: “Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick, Dick”.  Make of this what you will.
Jon Arcus

It would be exceedingly difficult to say anything negative about our first poet.  Sweet of name and disposition, a humanitarian in outlook and professional calling, Jon Arcus has if anything improved as a citizen since treading the boards of Browsers 12 months ago.  Now a man of property and some relationship solidarity, he is the envy of all the various ne’er do wells and no hopers in his social orbit.  He appears tonight to disprove the maxim that domesticity is the enemy of art.  Mr Jon Arcus.

Victoria Wynne-Jones

Always an ephemeral presence, Victoria Wynne-Jones’ absence from the Hamilton scene in 2010 has led to a widely held belief that we collectively dreamt her up in the first place.  Did this delicate and refined individual really once glide amongst us, imparting Francophile wisdom, tasteful cinematic opinion and impeccable dress sense?  So much more than Mia Farrow to Daniel Strang’s Woody Allen, Victoria is this event’s veteran diamond in the rough, the poet who best performs - as opposed to reads - her own work. Victoria Wynne-Jones.

Richard Selinkoff

Without actually living on the streets, pan-handling and breaking into rousing choruses of “Hallelujah, I’m a bum!” you would be hard pressed to seem as weary and dishevelled as Richard Selinkoff.  The weight of the world presses down upon his sixty-something shoulders in an almost tangible fashion as he negotiates our by-ways, canine soul mate in tow, a 21st century variation on De Sica’s “Umberto D”.  For all that, he’s a living treasure, the only Jew on the planet to have known both Frank Zappa and Charles Bukowski personally.  Well, the only one in Hamilton, anyway.  Richard Selinkoff.

Violet Wild

I feel uniquely under-qualified to introduce Violet Wild.  If there are two institutions I am in complete ignorance of they are motherhood and childhood education and Ms Wild’s lifestyle would seem to be some kind of holistic combination of both, together with passing fantasies about getting inked up.  In that favoured third person mode she tell us that “Violet spends her days being home-schooled by a flower-fairy and a small dragon, and planning her next tattoo”.  Violet Wild.

Cameron Harper:

When pressed for biographical information the next performer lapsed into the third person and offered the following: “Cameron likes sitting about indulging in narcissism and self-loathing, while simultaneously hating on anyone else who actually manages to do the same”.  This line reads okay at first glance, before you realise that narcissism and self-loathing are mutually exclusive categories.  Clayton Weatherston is a narcissist, Hunter S. Thompson was into self-loathing.  A man of divided loyalties then, unsure if it’s better to kill your girlfriend or yourself, Cameron Harper.
Megan Davies

When enjoying social intercourse with Megan Davies - as I too seldom do these days - her opening salvo always has to do with whose sleeping with who, what’s your state of mind, and how you are really feeling.  This might sound like gossip of the most idle and superficial kind yet it is anything but. Hers is an empathetic sensibility; she needs all relevant facts if she is to effectively council and cure, and spread goodwill as psychologically nutritious as her legendary culinary wares.  Lately seconded by partner Mark as chief cheerleader for team Servian, she’s Thea to his Rob Muldoon, Dennis to his Maggie Thatcher and Peter Davis to his Helen Clark.  Of course, I only tease: the only thing she’s got in common with our former first couple is fluid sexuality.  Megan Davies.

Intermission

Thank you Meg.  Truly the finger is on the pulse.  We now pause collectively for breath, alcohol and nicotine.  During said break pray give attention to the musical entertainment, some stunning string work by maestro Justine Francis, Hamilton’s George Gershwin, Isaac Stern and Vanessa-Mae all rolled into one, formidable package.  Justine Francis.

Dean Ballinger

There are many Dean Ballingers.  The scatologically inclined master of caricature.  The syncopated musician and filthy wordsmith.  The long suffering, perpetual PhD candidate.  The pater familias and life partner.  The bibliophile, the film buff, the renaissance man, the radio jock, the painter, the gentleman, the scholar.  Poetry is the least known string on a prodigious artistic bow, a guilty secret of reflective expression.  Dean Ballinger.
Priscilla MacIntosh

Our next sacrificial lamb has supplied a lot of heartfelt back ground material concerning her “passion” for poetry as both therapy and art.  I am a little fearful for her future given sweeping generalisations like “as long as I live I will write truthfully”.  That pretty much cuts out any prospective career in politics, religion, business or journalism.  On the plus side Priscilla MacIntosh makes no secret of her enthusiasm about being here tonight, confessing that “I haven’t really done this before and don’t want to come across as a knob”.  Priscilla MacIntosh.
Nick Clothier

A johnny-come-lately on the bill, Nick Clothier’s last minute addition to the line up has more to do with his magnificent rendering of autobiographical material last year than the fact that he is sleeping with Ignition management.  School teachers seldom come as hip as this actor, playwright and musician, a stalwart of the Big Muffin Serious Band and caustic social commentator.  Clothier’s strategic use of swear words - prefaced, it must be said, by an apology to young ones present - was a high light of ’09’s programme.  Nick Clothier.
Nandor Tanczos

We now come to the superstar in our midst.  If ever there was an unlikely pad from which to launch one’s self into the hurly burly of national politics it would be the editorship of “Nexus”.  Our next poet managed a feat that eluded even the great Graeme Cairns, becoming the first hemp salesman ever to darken Parliamentary halls.  All too briefly the possessor of the country’s most famous haircut, too sharp by half to fit any stoner stereotypes despite a longstanding friendship with Gary Clarkson, his mystical religion has something to do with worshipping preserving jars.  I have to confess to a slight insecurity about pronouncing the guy’s name correctly, so I consulted the Minister of Health, the Rt. Honourable Tony Ryall in the matter.  Ladies and gentleman please give it up for Mr Tandoori Nachos.

Stephanie Christie

For a simple soul like me the need to change identities and personas is difficult to grasp.  For a sophisticated artiste like our next performer it comes as naturally as whale meat to the Japanese or a dirty movie to a Labour cabinet minister.  I once knew her as Willa, but apparently that’s not her name at all.  Part of an exclusive and elite club of strong women who have had children by Richard Homan, Stephanie Christie divides her time between Hamilton and the capital city.  She has been published more than once.  Stephanie Christie.

Ravi Prasad

There’s a misconception that the world loves child prodigies.  Nothing could be further from the truth. Prodigies are despised at the smart alecky height of their fame and always come to a bad end.  Shirley Temple cost Graham Greene his job as a film critic when he pointed out the paedophilic implications of her appeal, went into a career nose dive at puberty and concluded her professional life working for Ronald fucking Reagan as a token diplomat.  Orson Welles quoted from “King Lear” in the cradle but died doing voice-over work for frozen pea commercials.  Gary Coleman made millions of dollars asking Willis what he was talking about yet kicked the bucket the other week the world’s smallest and least effective unemployed security guard.  And so we come to Ravi Prasad, a very talented young man with a bright future ahead of him.  Ravi Prasad.

Sign Out

Well, that’s it.  Thanks to Jon and Meg for getting us to dick around and to you all for coming.  If poetry wasn’t always the winner at least more points were scored than in your average World Cup football game.  See you all next year, if not before.