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Rob Hack’s poems have itchy feet. They are the product of transience, a ‘driftwood life’. Hack moves from Cannons Creek, Porirua, to Niue, to Rarotonga, Australia, and even Paris and Verona. Understated, yet evocative, these poems are cinematic postcards to all the homes where the heart might find itself. Hack is a citizen of the global village. One feels ‘everything is here’ and then here, and here too. There is a feeling that Hack is Outsider, though, that he is never realised as a person of one place.
Hack’s poetry is visual and sensual. It evokes a technicolour nostalgia, by proxy, for a time and locality which the reader may never have experienced. The ‘green cordial’, the ‘apple box wicket’, the Four Square with its lolly bags that hang in rows. There is a dark undercurrent to some of these quaint, and quintessentially Pacific, scenes, however. In the Four Square, Hack encounters racism in the guise of an accusatory shop keeper. There is a hurricane in Niue, which can be read as both literal and symbolic. There are regrets, final passages, earthmovers scraping a ‘government mistake’, there’s the isolation of work on a station in Kimberley, and the twin towers – broadcast ‘falling again and again’.
Hack has some gorgeous lines, often with a wry sense of fun. His poem ‘When you get to Aucklan’ (yes Aunty)’, is reminiscent of Tusiata Avia’s ‘Wild Dogs under my Skirt’. It is written in a Cook Island vernacular, and is insistent and funny:
Fine a Cook Islands man, tall, who works the
factory too, remember listen to him, he know.
Then you can be the happy girl ay?
Are you listen to me?
There are poems that transport their reader to the heat of the Cook Islands, as in the poem ‘All day on Mauke’. The imagery is bold and accessible:
All day the reef argues with the sea and no dogs bark.
Palm fronds fall across the road where
goats tied with rope bleat
and pigs scatter through tall grasses
Rob Hack writes with a rare sincerity. His poetry doesn’t toy with, or manipulate its reader. It doesn’t do party tricks, or hoodwink, or hoax. Like the collection’s title, Everything is Here, this poetry shows its full hand – and it is delightful hand, at that.
Reviewed by Elizabeth Morton
Everything is Here
by Rob Hack
Published by Escalator Press