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Book Review: Stag Spooner: Wild Man from the Bush, by Chris Maclean
New Release: Decision Time – A guide to choosing an aged-care facility in New Zealand
Tuesday Poem by Rachel O’Neill Her collection comes out in September!
Events in September: Lloyd Jones, Kathy Reichs, Stephanie Johnson, Rosemary McLeod, Shaun Hendy, Sarah Laing and more
In Wellington and need something to do this evening? Come and celebrate the launch of Latika’s and Saradha’s books
Fear & Loathing…but not in Las Vegas – True Stories Told Live, 6.30pm August 30, National Library WLG
Good news for aspiring authors: HarperCollins NZ launches The Wednesday Post
Edinburgh has 53 bookstores – our members number 48 in Wellington, and over 80 in Auckland.
#nzpba Congratulations to Paiges Book Gallery & Carterton District Library:
Judge Guy Somerset was on Newstalk ZB with Tim Fookes today talking about the #nzpba
From around the internet
Mal Peet is missing us already – shout out to the Children’s Bookshop Kilbirnie & Unity WLG. Brilliant!
Elmore Leonard died last night, sadly. Here are a couple of Elmore Leonard links:
Just in case anybody hasn’t seen this – Elmore Leonard’s writing tips. Don’t use “all hell broke loose”
Vale Elmore Leonard, 10 of the prolific writer’s must-read novels
RIP Elmore Leonard
At eight I learned the word ‘tincture’. I carried
the word around on my tongue. I chanted it
like holy word, like spell. Before that, it was
just ‘potion’ or sometimes ‘perfume’. Flower
petals collected, leaves. Certain grasses would
bleed milk. Breath of Heaven for the scent.
Clings of spider web. An old cupboard door
for a chopping board. A river rock for pummelling.
Jams jars with creek water. I would cut and crush.
You had a gun and I had a knife. Chop and stir.
Mix it in with a stick until full
and frothy. The tang of damp nature.
It’s a tincture. It’s a potion. It’s special perfume.
Set free for whole mornings, whole afternoons.
Our house made of bamboo. Our tyre swing.
With our pockets full of crackers and boiled lollies,
we would go. Across the road, down to the creek.
Into the goat cave high up a mud wall. We’d scramble up
and sit, ankle deep in goat shit, on wooden beer crates.
Try to catch the fresh water crabs, belly crawling
along the creek edge. I had a knife. You had a gun.
Aged eight, aged six. Shimmying along
back fences stealing fruit. Acid stomachs
from too many sweets and apples. We stayed
until it got dark, or there was a call from home.
It is a tincture. It is a trick. It is a treat
It is a locket, for locking
and hiding down a shirt,
against a heart.
From The Comforter by Helen Lehndorf
Published by Seraph Press
Used with the permission of Seraph Press
This poem has been posted as part of the Tuesday Poem scheme