I’m blown down Gundry Street to the Old People’s Association (that’s Ass.) for National Poetry Day. FLOCK is the final show featuring seven spoken word artists from Auckland, directed by Genevieve McClean and “bringing elements of Butoh and theatre together”.

Looking at the crowd I feel I might have slipped back into the 1990s (when artists  dressed like it was the 1970s and smoked furiously). The ceiling of the Association appears have a case of black mould, the peeling paint further adding to the poetic allure.

An older woman dressed in stitched together doilies recites a poem as we all try to crowd in to collect our tickets; she has on white makeup and is ghoulish. White haired and yellow of teeth, doilies are scattered around her feet, a crotchet of tears. I can’t help but say things back to her as she recites, and she accepts my possibly misplaced enthusiasm with light eyes and a beautiful smile.

The performance begins with the poets gathered in one corner. They stand with twitching shoulders on a flour-covered stage dressed in black, humming like an ominous, rhythmic clothes dryer. The jerky movements bring Zombies to mind. One of the seven is not humming; she stares out, but not at us. Although on the stage, she is in her own world.

Each poet performs their work with the accompaniment of the ‘Zombies’ trailing a map of misery through the flour covered floor: Sally Louise is buoyant and I particularly like the line “she wears your dirt under her nails”; Onehou Strickland bubbles with joy throughout her performance, her poems like short, beautiful films. When she says “I wonder what ‘finally at peace’ feels like” something resonates. Of course this is the magic of poetry isn’t it?  

Miriam Barr is earthy – her voice draws me in with ‘Amphibian Girl Takes a Break’ – every time she says “the voice is a female voice” it brings up questions of what a female voice really is (or isn’t). Shane Hollands lights up the space with ‘The Spark’ as the words and choreography find a fit. He also gets the first of a few rare laughs throughout the evening.

Ila Stewart’s ‘Once Upon A Time’ charts the journey of child hood cancer – “the composer creates in waves, trembles as she breasts the breaker” – and Peter Rimmer shouts about Angry Gods and shines with ‘There is a Light’.

Inda Yasane steals the show throughout the evening; she could take this Butoh thing and marry it, she’s that mesmerizing. (I’ve googled her to find out if she was already a contemporary dancer or performer but found nothing. I suspect she’d be quite pleased with that as her programme biography is limited to her year of birth.) I don’t know what her poetry is about but it has me by the ovaries; the choreography that accompanies her frenzied ‘Deadland’ is stompingly perfect. It is a chant and cry that makes a match for the movement.

Butoh is a Japanese form of dance that arose after World War two.  It is beautiful and grotesque in equal measure; there is a relationship to the ground and an exploration of the unconscious that informs every move when an experienced Butoh dancer ‘performs’. While using Butoh for inspiration is understandable, it is ambitious. Each poet certainly has a way with words, yet often the movement is distracting and superfluous. At times I close my eyes so that I can hear what is really being said and my friend does the same thing.

This is a really brave, interesting and fresh way to present poetry – imagine if each poet practiced Butoh at home every day for a year … The body as the word. Maybe no words would even be necessary (which wouldn’t work so well for a poetry evening). Genevieve Mclean has taken a big leap with this and encouraged poets (who are often residing in their heads) to embody their work. I love seeing the exploration into Butoh and am now utterly fascinated with it; I can hardly wait to see what Genevieve will do next. 

Copyright © in the review belongs to the reviewer