From Six Great Barrier Elegies: 6. To A Friend Poem by Rob Dyer

Oruawharo Bay glistens silver in the nor-west gale,
the tourists shelter in the lea of Sugarloaf,
the stranded shags in the pohutukawa;
only the gannet in dangerous silence fishes the stormwind.
Odysseus on his hillside farm struggles on;
within it Circe surely waits again,
the Sirens, Scylla, and Calypso,
dark, encompassing elements threatening his fall,
that final cataclysmic day when every female currency
rebels and walks in triumph down Lambton Quay.
Has he not seen their soft voices crying still within?

How can I, with parables native, like old Lizard Tua's,
teach Odysseus, rich in gold, silver mined at Oroville,
rugged from the war he won at Troy,
no matter how he whips his horse, his farm boys,
counts his manly deeds against the gorse,
the dread weakness will creep again at night?
He will weep again
with pity as he remembers the slaughtered Trojan dead,
with soft dismay at the old breasts that soothe his dreams,
devising subtle lures for those who steal his sheep,
weaving stronger traps to net Penelope, grown bold alone;
He will whimper
for strong men to cover him with the feathers of their wings,
and wake to seek his whip to drive his horse, his men.
It is no use, that cowhide thong. They know, his horse and men,
the secret softness in his blood that drives him on.
They look, as he, for the comfort of a strong man's arms,
and keep him sacred, humouring anger and obsession,
lest he, falling on his knees, weep beyond endurance.
They need his seeming strength. Yet when the seeming fails,
the King must die, for Ithaca to be reborn.

I cannot teach him how else to fail. A poet teaches poetry:
'Come, Father Odysseus, be my character, join my swift craft;
let's hitch a ride to the many-headed mountain, Hirakimata,
climb the Forestry trails, pouring hot tears -
at least they'll keep the bush springs warm -
man cannot live as man, alone, transcendent, -
then walk down to some neighbour state, Port Fitzroy or Okiwi,
and tell tall tales how on Hirakimata's bloodstrewn side
you subdued Circe
avoided Sirens
escaped Scylla
survived Calypso.
They will do us homage as if we were real heroes,
you and me, crusty old tellers of new myths,
feathered by the winged words of our sayings,
purring like torn old tomcats on a spinster's knee.'

Yet still you fight the tossing tresses of the storm,
and I sit warm by candlelight, translating Rilke,
learning the pakeha for ngaro, writing words
to last after the last storm has scattered your soil.