What do poet James Brown and I have in common? Palmerston North – for both of us a stamping ground, a provincial upbringing, and a writer’s target. Not content with sounding off about it in his earlier collection Tip Shop, Brown includes three poetic evocations of the place we love to hate.

Not that One Thing Leads to Another or my Part in the Dairy Industry is critical. Instead, it is a celebration of a bygone job: the milk run. “The cul-de-sac’s streetlamp / glows like a glass of milk” sets the scene and there’s “A standing man / on the brink of his / water feature / A hesitation in a / dressing gown.”

I am compelled, however, to mention Another Palmerston North Poem in which our writer’s take on the town is reflected in an over-simplistic rhyme scheme, words that jar, and unkind observations.

I almost forgive Brown though because of his services to theatre as related in Set Building. Former university students will smile nostalgically at recollections of such an activity and its rewards. “It doesn’t convert me to Shakespeare, / though I do get together with Cordelia.” And some of us may also grin wryly at Unfamiliar Text in which a misprint in a student exam paper leads hapless readers on an unwelcome search for meaning. Students, by the way, “know nothing and, worse, / they don’t know that they know nothing.” This poem is hilariously clever: it’s a linguistic and intellectual delight.

This may be a slim volume, but it contains a disproportionately fat poem titled simply Amen, five and a half pages worth of expansion on the subject of the male sex. No woman writer could get away with this – so thanks Mr Poet. “Men on top of their game, the world, spaghetti…all covered with cheese”. No egg on your face for these observations, James!

The final few poems are characterised by free-form presentation, and philosophical observation dressed in metaphor. You Don’t Know What You’re Missing is a fine example. I’m borrowing that title as my advice to would-be readers: take on the welcome weight of Slim Volume.

György Ligeti’s early life was chaotic and traumatic and his legacy reflects this. His first work was based on Hungarian and Romany folk songs, and he became one of the most important avant-garde composers of the 20^th century. He wrote Concert Românesc five years before fleeing Hungary after the 1956 uprising. Some of the harmonies hint at Ligeti’s later interests in atonal music but also reflect the melody and tonality of the folk songs. In four short movements, there is a lot to listen to. During Mozart: The Great, we could see conductor André de Ridder’s close engagement with the orchestra and his light and nimble style.

Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major was the absolute highlight of the evening. Andrea Lam played brilliantly. Her interpretation and sensitivity to Mozart’s work was impeccable. The concerto is so well known, most of us probably don’t listen closely very often. Part of the pleasure of a live performance is being part of something where everyone shares the same focus. Lam’s command of the music, coupled with de Ridder’s direction, added the special X factor. All the details you might miss listening casually were prominent and dominant when they should be. The magical combinations on the stage brought all the small details perfectly to the fore as well. It made for almost effortless listening. Lam treated us to a beautiful Chopin encore, which proved her talent beyond doubt.

I have history with Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor. It was a set piece for my music O-level years ago. We could see how much de Ridder enjoys Mozart and his vocation as a conductor. Once I’d pushed aside the remnants of what I once learned (classical symphonic form, one of only two symphonies Mozart wrote in a minor key), it was a really lovely performance by conductor and orchestra to close an excellent evening of music.

Wellington Repertory Theatre brings to life Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s beloved The Hound of the Baskervilles, transporting Sherlock Holmes (James Boag) and Dr Watson (Mike McJorrow) from 221B Baker Street straight to the Gryphon Theatre. Jon Jory’s adaptation of this treasured classic takes us to Devonshire, where Holmes and Watson investigate the mysteries that befall the moors surrounding Baskerville Hall and the curious connections of the nearby inhabitants.

Each actor brings forth very distinct characterisations. Boag’s Holmes is as charismatic as he is clever and McJorrow presents a very gentlemanlike Watson. Thomas McGinty provides much-needed comic relief as Henry Baskerville and aces his perky personality perfectly.

I find the set design (Scott Maxim) to be very clever, quite literally bringing the concept of upstage and downstage back to the theatre. The sloped set feels very reminiscent of the rolling hills of Dartmoor. Whilst the design is simple, it is effective, especially in combination with other scenographic elements.

The lighting design (Devon Heaphy) transports us imaginatively to Victorian England and encapsulates each of the many settings well. A particular stand out is the design for the moor at night with eerie blues and greens, some of which appear from under the set.

The sound design (Alan Burden) creates a vibrant soundscape that takes us from the streets of London to the plains of Devon. However, it would have enhanced the ambience if soundscapes occurred throughout each scene and not just at the beginning.

The fusion of these elements creates a stunning theatrical picture, taking the audience right into the action unfolding onstage. Additionally, the wardrobe design (Carol Walter) provides period-accurate costumes reminding us of the temporal setting of the play.

The game’s afoot with this one. Unlike many mysteries, Wellington Repertory Theatre’s The Hound of the Baskervilles leaves you till quite literally the midnight hour to piece together what is happening. Make sure you buy tickets now to this gripping mystery before the Baskerville Hound takes hold of you.

Kutisar is a poor chai-wallah (teaseller) who makes chai down at the bustling Bangalore Central Railway Station. On what starts as an ordinary day, Kutisar’s life is forever changed when seven abandoned young girls show up at his tea stand and offer to sing for their supper, mesmerising all passersby. Unfortunately, this includes The Fakir and his crook men, who control the station and want a slice of the proverbial pie. While Kutisar and the sisters do secure temporary police protection from Officer Pushkin, refusing The Fakir is a slippery soap...

Dispensing incorrect and hilarious platitudes and winning everyone over while he’s at it, Kutisar, or the Guru of Chai, becomes a father figure to the girls in this tale that spans decades and transports the viewer straight to modern-day India, where tradition clashes with Starbuck like a cockfight filmed on an iPhone. Though, ‘transports the viewer’ is an understatement. Watching Jacob Rajan’s consummate, cinematic performance of all 17 characters is so completely captivating, it’s like seeing your new favourite movie on the big screen. Not once do you lose your place as he deftly shifts from a snotty wee girl to a pretentious poet to a mystical (but stupid) moon and back again.

Indian Ink Theatre Company’s Guru of Chai is one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. I leapt to my feet the moment the house lights dawned, shaking my head in disbelief and hollering along with the rest of the stunned, staggered audience. What a privilege to witness such a confluence of theatrical magic. A heart-warming, heart-racing story; a stirring soundtrack (composed by David Ward, performed live onstage by Adam Ogle, an entrancing energy unto himself); a simple yet striking set punctuated by magician’s secrets (John Verryt); a prismatic intersect of light, colour, and sound, brought to life by a world-building actor second to none. All elements that masterful director Justin Lewis has steeped in a cup of sweet, spiced, soul-soothing chai that I savoured (some of) before spilling the rest all over my person, so feverish was my applause.

Our first moments within New Zealand’s School for Incorrigible and Delinquent Girls are met with pious austerity. Yet creeping in on the fringes is a rumbling rebelliousness in the form of giggling girlhood. This can be said about We Were Dangerous on the whole. Skirting along the prim and proper edges of Whānau Mārama New Zealand International Film Festival’s opening night screening of the SXSW Special Jury Award for Filmmaking winner is delightful subversion and daring disobedience as three girls fight for power over their own bodies.

The year is 1954, and a failed escape plan has landed Nellie (Erana James), Daisy (Manaia Hall), and their cohort on the rugged, isolated former leper colony of Ōtamahua / Quail Island. Their matron (Rima Te Wiata) is devoted to reforming these juvenile rebels into obedient young ladies primed for marriage. Louisa, a wealthy Pākehā girl whose parents sent her away to curtail errant behaviour, joins the motley crew. Fuelled by the natural isolation, the three grow ever closer, taking action into their own hands when they become the subjects of a eugenics experiment. What ensues is a combustible firecracker of a story about class, colonisation, sexuality, race, and standing up for what’s right.

Executive producers Taika Waititi and Piki Films’ irreverent and unmistakable ability to make levity out of dark subjects permeates the film. The heartfelt and genuine tone, however, is entirely the fruit of writer Maddie Dai, director Josephine Stewart-Te Whiu, and producer Morgan Waru’s labours, who together craft a narrative so sincere and honest it’s impossible to not fall in love with it. Cinematographer María Inés Manchego captures the island’s raw, stark, and powerful beauty with an intensity that matches the girls’ fiery spirits.

The choice to assign the film’s narration to the matron provides humour, contrast, and irony, but it also made me yearn for her character’s redemption. I ached for her jealousy to melt into tenderness and lead the girls into battle. I have to agree with Deadline’s Damon Wise: at the end, I found my thoughts with her rather than the girls – they have their whole lives ahead of them he says, she only has her past.

A fierce – albeit short – story of strength in the face of hardship, We Were Dangerous is perfectly summed up in Nellie’s own words: “Ahakoa, he iti he pounamu. Although it is small it is precious.”

A single word forms the title of Jake Arthur’s second poetry collection. But it’s an evocative one. The Tarot card pack, dating from the 15th century, was (and is) used by practitioners to draw conclusions about past, present, and future.

Your scepticism about such prophesying may be well founded, but you can cast it aside for a perusal – I’m going to avoid the word ‘reading’ – of Tarot, which comprises extraordinarily compelling poems based on this ancient card pack and its preoccupation with matters spiritual, amorous, and prosaic. We are going to get a reading, though, in the form of revelations and advice for a young man.

“We’re bequeathed youth / and slowly it’s repossessed / Like a reversed equity mortgage” from His Mien illustrates Arthur’s characteristic juxtaposition of images to make an observation.

I loved Lost Bantam, a ballad recounting Jim the sailor’s fate. Jim suffers “the hurdy-gurdy of his sealeglessness”, falls overboard and is stranded on an island. “He knew the map of the world was complete / But here he was on an oversight”. His encounter with another human being on the island leads to an encounter of a special kind, superbly rendered by our poet with language that simultaneously describes and conceals.

Of the many memorable poems here, one stands out as bound to give you shivers down your spine. This is Life hack, a mixture of prophecy and lament. It begins “Apt it would end in a fit of pique. / The world I mean.” and goes on to tell us what fate we may be headed for. But the language! It’s mind-blowingly beautiful in its wistful imagery, even when describing horrors. And Arthur concludes it with a despairing question for us all. This is our poet at his finest.

Jake Arthur has a PhD in Renaissance literature, and his erudition shows. But he’s not showing off. On the contrary, Tarot is an extraordinary display of the poet’s gift turned to devastatingly salutary and heart-wrenching effect.

Kitten by Olive Nuttall is a slice-of-life narrative about Rosemary, a trans woman in her early twenties trying to find her footing whilst battling grief and figuring out what she wants. Rosemary’s knee-jerk decision-making as she tries to feel something accelerates the pacing. Forced to revisit the place of her youth, she does all she can to navigate her past as she returns to Hamilton to be with her dying nana. She knows she’s doing the wrong thing most of the time, but just can’t seem to stop herself from doing it, like watching porn while her nana is dying in the next room, or getting into the car with the person who abused her. 

Rosemary is a vibrant character who feels as if she lives beyond the page, like the girl in one of your uni classes who was always late because she had to get an iced coffee and always had the shortest skirt on no matter the weather. Kitten packs personality, charm, and draws influence from internet culture, written with the same kind of self-aware lens you might find on an influencer’s post. Nuttall’s writing style is like a delicious mix of text messages, stream of consciousness, and perfectly encapsulated tweets as she delivers punchy, laugh-out-loud one-liners and poetic moments while exploring sexuality, abuse, and grief. 

Fuelled with a pink Y2K anime nostalgia, Rosemary dissociates on the internet as if repainting her youth, desperately searching for what her teenage years could have been. She navigates the cocktail mix of enjoyment and disgust at being subjected to the male gaze as she figures out how she feels in her skin. But as she dives into virtual realities, online dating, exploring BDSM, queer kinks, and her sexuality, she can’t ignore the glaring truth of the traumatic events that she has to confront. 

Kitten is sexy and clumsy, delving into the complexities of family dynamics, self-love, and forging a path forward while dealing with trauma.

Turbulent Threads was the perfect accompaniment to a languid weekend, of which lately, there seem to be few. The main protagonist stands tall on the cover with her pensive gaze and violin in hand with the promise of a tale to tell. Set in Victorian Dunedin in the last decade of the 19th century, Turbulent Threads was a fulfilling read that took me back to a different time – one so vivid, it was easy to imagine early life in New Zealand.

In Greer Gillies, author Karen McMillan has brought to life a young and spirited woman who is an accomplished seamstress and violinist, educated and wise yet simultaneously naive, sheltered, and inexperienced. Left to fend for herself at Larnach Castle, Greer’s talents and desires seem destined to crumble as a humble servant after the sudden death of her beloved father.

At Larnach Castle, Greer easily falls prey to the charms of a wily and handsome swindler but is blinded to the merits of a genuine suitor, patiently waiting in the wings. Her resilience tested time and again, she is spurred on by the dream of a different life where her talents, desires, and skills know no limits.

Greer finds hope in friendships and love as she dares to be different in a time when attitudes towards women were slowly starting to change, but not soon enough. Women were fighting for the right to vote, to be seen as worthy contributors and people in their own right. Turbulent Threads offers a transformative glimpse into an era of change.

In what became a one-sitting read, I found myself wanting a little bit more drama, but was still engrossed all the same by the muti-layered characters and detailed prose.

Turbulent Threads is a sweeping coming-of-age tale of a young woman succeeding in the face of adversity, forming enduring friendships, and forging a progressive path.

Still Is, the final collection by one of New Zealand’s most acclaimed poets, is redolent with recollection, nostalgia, and resignation. How wonderful that the medium of poetry is so uniquely suited to such moods! Here are 90 poems ranging widely over everything from washing lines to a night at the movies to nature in all its glory. Erudition comes near to obscuring meaning at times, but closer acquaintance brings rewards.

In these troubled times actually features hanging out washing! From such a banal-sounding activity, O’Sullivan muses about the messages that might be sent under cover of camisoles, vests, and shirts. “our taut lines / stretching their crisp goodwill / one city, one continent, to another…” represents a grand poetic vision – even if it’s a vision comically undermined by the last three words.

A note of resignation appears in No choice much, any longer in which the poet laments some of the challenges of his vocation and invokes nature and the change of seasons as a comfort. Indeed, nature is celebrated in several other poems, and we are reminded that O’Sullivan lived and gloried in Port Chalmers.

I am bound to revel in To be fair to the Sixties – tempted as I am by the capital letter that justifiably signals such an era – to a prose piece recounting a 21st at Makara Beach with friend Herb “who took a psychedelic starter as we did in those days” and in the company of “a junior lecturer who these days would be cancelled”. O’Sullivan gifts these words to the one of the party left standing: “Silence is poetry bareback, without the horses”.

The National Network gets a going over with Life on air, for example giving O’Sullivan the opportunity to catalogue those birds whose songs are sacrosanct.

Finally, we have The obituarist, our poet’s wry comment on what may be written about him on his death. Vincent O’Sullivan can take comfort from his literary legacy: he’s no longer with us, yet he still is.