Live Encounters Aotearoa New Zealand Poets & Writers March 2026
Lorca – the untimely death of a poet, poems by Mike Johnson.
Lorca – the untimely death of a poet
‘Then I realized I had been murdered.
They looked for me in cafes, cemeteries and churches
…. but they did not find me.
They never found me?
No. They never found me.’
From “The Fable and Round of the Three Friends”,
Poet in New York (1929), García Lorca
on the nineteenth of August 1936
fascist militia took Federico Garcia Lorca
put him up against the rough stone walls
of an old barn
and shot him to death
he was thirty-four years old
he had committed two crimes
he was a socialist and he was gay
a double truth, like two horns
on the devil’s head
he was too much for them
their fear was great, these killers
who lived their lie in the shadow
of his veracity,
lived their lie in the shadow of his words
which blazed on their foreheads
and went on blazing long after
the poet had bled into the dust
afraid
of the theatre of weeping and of laughter
shouting and despair
of ‘the eternal norms of the human heart’
afraid
of their own shadows
and the shadows of their mothers
afraid
of one manacled to the stars
afraid of their dreams as they dragged his corpse
off to an anonymous grave
(his remains would never be found)
while the fascists banned Lorca’s works
afraid they might set cities alight
with joy and dancing
his words crawled out through a sea of bones
and the stinking flesh, through the ecstasy of worms
the mass graves of the slaughtered
into the light of day
to bubble free
lit with the essence of darkness
naked and unashamed
Lake Rotopounamu
it wears its beauty lightly
in the overcast windless air
quiet, almost unassuming
the lake itself seems to be floating
the giant rimu all around
seem to be floating
I have to ask, what’s holding it up
what’s holding it in place
what sustains it
why doesn’t it fall?
a nonsensical question yet the feeling persists
it carries itself with all the weightless
serenity of contemplation
to the north a break in the weather
a silent glimmering
off to the west, a line of rust-brown reeds
lights up
Passing through – For Harry Renford Parke
children play tag among the headstones
their laughter flies up
caught in the throat of tui
*
as memories are lowered into the earth
someone throws a flower
someone rides a tear
someone pockets a smile
memories play tag among the headstones
dates get lost to time
an ocean dreams up the land
the land surrenders to the ocean
*
voices murmur
kanuka tosses its flame skyward
somebody prays
somebody talks backward into their mouths
somebody walks over your blooms
*
after the eulogy, the silence
nobody knows how to escape it
it follows the mourners though the city of stones
it follows everybody like a nobody in bare feet
it makes holes in their words
it makes for awkward elbows
it forgets the words to the song
it forgets how to sing
*
after the silence, children wonder
I knew them well, somebody says
others have their doubts
whoever knows anybody?
everybody thinks
*
death is no more than a gesture
a funeral the bouquet
everybody huddles together
looks somewhere else
words are hidden inside themselves
*
I’ve only so much to give, the earth says
I have to turn all this rock into blood
I have to make the blood run uphill
I have to set the sky beating
I have to turn the bird into an egg
*
I didn’t think it would turn out this way
there’s always a light at the end of the street
there’s always a seed in the dust
a candle that never goes out
an aria that catches the throat
*
I see this dwindling speck of blue
hear the thump of lilies on wood
feel the jostle of stones
taste escaping heat
smell yesterday’s breath
*
the sky pilot pulls a blessing out of the air
the body remembers all that has been forgotten
far off singing is suddenly very near
everybody dances to the moon’s drumbeat
*
it’s not yours or mine or his or hers or theirs or ours
it resides in everyday abstractions
in the bits between the bits
the thoughts between the thoughts
the shadows between the shadows
the left-handed stars
the understated passions
the invisible breath between breaths
*
everything that begins ends
one foretells the other
the mourners turn their feet towards the world
shuffle in procession
*
the first laugh is a heedless thing
the children drape themselves in years
nobody reproves them
the solemn becomes ordinary
a dog mourns for its bone
*
tea & sandwiches normalise the world
everybody finds their own way back
they step into the flesh
they step into the world
they have everyday thoughts
slosh a little brandy in the cup
wonder when their turn will come
© Mike Johnson
Mike Johnson is the award winning author of forty books, poetry, novels and non-fiction. In 2002 he received The University of Auckland’s Literary Fellowship, having been Literary Fellow at Canterbury University in 1987. His first novel, Lear, the Shakespeare Company Plays Lear at Babylon was short listed for the New Zealand Book Awards in 1986. His novel Dumb Show, published by Longacre Press, won the Buckland Memorial Literary Award for fiction in 1997, and and he won the Frances Kean Award for his short story, ‘Magic Strings’ in 1999. His first book of poetry, The Palanquin Ropes, (1983) was co-winner of the John Cowie Reed Memorial Competition. His most recent book of poetry is Love in the Age of Unreason, and his most recent novel is Speechless, both published by Lasavia Publishing. He taught Creative Writing at The University of Auckland and AUT University and is now retired. He lives on Waiheke Island.