D.S. Long (1950- ) lives in Day's Bay, on Wellington Harbour. With Gary Langford and others, he edited the literary journal Edge in the 1970s. In the 1980s, he edited six anthologies of contemporary Maori writing with novelist Witi Ihimaera (including the five volumes of Te Ao Marama). In the 1990s, he published over five hundred children's books in Pacific Islands languages and founded the Samoan-language journal Folauga. At present, he is the publishing manager at the South Pacific Press. An award-winning children's book author, his collections of poetry include Borrow Pit and Poems for the Fifth Season. His children's book Te Tahuna won the New Zealand library association's award for the best children's book published in Maori in 2004.

Six poems from The Winter Fisherman – 100 Poems
“The Ketch Crest, Captn Ellis Master and Part-owner” (found poem)


In June

chance at the cold end of June finds him
tied in his oilskin watching the waves climb his rock

there’s a moment when he must step back
or choose to drown

but he’s a five hook man knotted at three foot intervals
two for sand just up and out from the weight
two more to draw in the weed feeders and one for shark
a larger hook that one pulled with rotten flesh
despite age in the blue of the war wound in his chest
his cast rises like a bight shag
and sinks like a grave

when the sea’s fog out past the reef he stands
in the cold a dead buoy filling his sack
fish for a soup easy on the gums
kelp he’ll lay in the garden where his wife used to plant
early enough to lose some if a late frost stopped
hope is better than a smudge pot she’d say

the wind is half water before he ties the top with gut
and climbs up to the track

when you can’t see
smoke he’ll argue
it’s time to go home

a man fishing on sits in darkness
as if he’d lost something

first published in Makar
first collected in Poems from the Fifth Season

Black Rock

there is a sort of shelter
out of the wind
in under those crumbling cliffs
where the gulls could sing
but they whisper
in the voice they hear
come out of shells
the waves are filling with sand

he often sits there
beside a small fire
he’s made out of the driftwood

for there are some days when the bay
stumbles down a rough track
through a field of broken grass
and wet, glistening rock
to sit so
and watch the bull kelp
suck and grunt on its shelf

and all those other fields
of black horse mussel
waiting for the season
when the cliffs will loom up
above the surf
north of here
where there is a sweep of marram grass
and sand hills stretched so many miles
the birth marks show
a few hills
dressed up with farms
and farmers who have buried
their first born
under a hot sun

at the church
and driven home
and gone out
and disked and harrowed far
too far into that night

up north
where the marram grass grows
and peters out like a family line
curving into the barren womb
of the Seaward Kaikoura
still stained with a red kelp
where these plains end

and it’s maybe ten miles out
fishing for sharks
and the damn net’s
got itself fouled
and is straining its guts
on no. 8 fencing wire
still nailed to a post
some damn fools thrown into the river

not even thinking
you could smash it up
and have enough
to start a fire
in that hole
just round the point
he can’t even whisper in

first published in Cutbank

The Light in the Bay

when the driftline comes up out of the water
the light in the bay flews out with the tide

in their ragged coats of winter wind
the beach lice feast on the matted feathers of a gull

for here are the great storms
searching for that broken thing which sings from within

of the stones under the waves
who turn a damp face down to kiss another

any other
only to be swept away

first published in Landfall

The Gull That Went Farming

he’s one of those hard eyed old ones
that never seems to shift
until you’re right up close to ‘im

propped up on a wave
and wipe his lips with the back of his hand

but he’s still grinning
even though the driftwood has sunk without a trace
and the crab lies scattered along the beach

over his weed choked acres of bitter kelp
he takes his nestlings out to learn to fly
topdressing what almost seems like the surface of the sea

I too have gone up to his sun bleached gate
swinging a leg of dusty overalls
over the barbed wire

for across this coast there’s a hunger in the water
the forgotten taste of tears
and our footprints flickering out in the way we have of wanting things

the farm’s failed now
another’s rose up in its stead
but the wind still whips across his shallow fields

ravenous with a hunger
no amount of harvests
will ever fill

first published in Landfall

At Evening, Hobson’s Bay

into the darkness one night
I moved with my family
following the track below gray pines
to a beach of stones

around us, birds came in from meals
of herring and dry grass
silent clouds too weary to cry

there below the heavy breath of the cliffs
we watched the tide pull back on its dead
kelp that lost its grip under a storm
and the bones of a fish too worn to tell
their tale of sudden death
the grip of black and the giving up of hope

oh, our hands were candles
in that hall of wind and spray
our voices the frayed blankets of the poor

above us, the house lights blinked
below, the sea was going to sleep
it was a time to watch together
at the oldest door

A Song upon the Gravel

there’s something that walks with the wind
it wears a weed in spring
and fades the edge of the net damp black
among the scales of fish

it sends the swell up under the sea
and sings upon the gravel
and when the light falls from our faces
it hides our fears in the darkness

and sets our hands
against that which stalk across the beach
whispering for the last time
in the forgotten songs of the spray

first published in Mate

The Ketch Crest, Captn Ellis Master and Part-owner
(found in Akaroa & Banks Peninsula, 1840-1940
“this centennial year has a significance practically unrivalled … and will bear its great influence in the future”)

the ketch Crest, Captn Ellis master and part-owner
J.B Barker (survived), part-owner
Edward Cunningham, seaman
W. Belcher, passenger and charterer

the weather was fine when the vessel started
no one dreamed
the news of course looked upon as final
that anything had gone wrong

he stated that he had managed to land
Flea Bay
in the dinghy & that he had told Messers Rhodes
who resided there

however, the startling news was brought
that two of the Rhodes had gone out
in anything but a safe boat
to view the locality

& had rescued Cunningham from a rock
the wreck had drifted into a cave
over a considerable distance of kelp-covered reefs
upon which even in the calmest weather the sea broke fearfully

as can be imagined this created great excitement
and boats manned
by volunteers
were at once dispatched

for three days every plan that could be thought of
was tried
to rescue the unfortunate
without avail

the vessel had broken up
and Ellis and Belcher had got upon a ledge
those who proceeded to the locality
cannot reproach themselves with leaving any means untried

ropes were drifted over the kelp but the strands parted
a coloured man named Dominique tried his utmost unavailingly
a dog of Mr E.X. le Lievre’s
was used also to carry the rope

the poor fellows were plainly to be seen
the scene being described by eye witnesses
as terrible in the extreme
three days this fearful suspense continued

but on the boats going out the fourth morning
the cave was discovered to be vacant
words cannot portray …
nor imagination conceive …

our informant states
that he hopes never again
to feel the fearful anxiety
which he experienced during this time

Cunningham stated Ellis could have escaped
(as he did)
by swimming but refused
to leave Belcher (who could not swim)

the memory of the public is short
the fact that Captn Ellis gave up his life for his friend
is being forgotten
and should be recorded

the ketch Crest, Captn Ellis master and part-owner
the weather was fine when the vessel started
Flea Bay
in anything but a safe boat

upon which even in the calmest weather the sea broke fearfully
as can be imagined this created great excitement
was tried
those who proceeded to the locality

a dog of Mr E.X. le Lievre’s
as terrible in the extreme
words cannot convey …
our informant states

Cunningham stated Ellis could have escaped
the memory of the public is short
the ketch Crest, Captn Ellis master and part-owner
upon which even in the calmest weather the sea broke fearfully

as terrible in the extreme
the memory of the public is short
the ketch Crest, Captn Ellis master and part-owner

extreme
short
owner

ex-
owner
ketch
Crest

rest
shor
first published in Mate