Your poetry is obviously your passion and you deliver it so expertly, making last night a delightful evening for all attendees. You have made the 2009 Annual Dinner one of the best if not the best on record. I was, along with all who were present, amazed by your talent. You are a keen student and commentator on our society and have a special way of producing humorous anecdotal poetry, [and] pieces of thought-provoking importance.
John Larcomb Hutt Valley JPs' Association. 2009
Pinky's poems were all written to be read aloud. Here are 2 samples of the poems included in the book. They can be ordered by emailing firstname.lastname@example.org
As a wedding celebrant, I enjoy sharing a couple's special day. However, I have never understood the allure of the outdoor wedding, especially in Wellington. Everything in this poem happened at wind-battered, bug-splattered, ear-shattered weddings I've officiated at.
WEDDING, WELLINGTON STYLE
In oyster satin low-cut gown
She steps lightly from the car
She's met by howling southerly wind
Drowning out the soft guitar
Her veil has now gone vertical,
She's in hypothermic shock
Her lips have gone a shade of blue,
To match her bridesmaid's frock.
Her groom has had a two hour wait
Hair and buttonhole both wind-torn
Nanna's toppled over leaving
Her high heels stuck in the lawn
Miraculously, the wind dies down
The sun now brightly shines
The bridegroom's suit starts steaming
As the chainsaw next door whines
The bridal veil has settled down
Wee black midges alight upon it
As a bumble bee becomes ensconced
In the little flower girl's bonnet
The tiny girl's high-pitched screams
Almost drown out the cicadas
The mother of the bride swatting
At the massed mosquito invaders.
The jolly labrador frisks round
But hark, what is that smell
As the happy couple say "I do"
The dog does "do" as well.
If you want that quiet, relaxed feeling
Do what John and Yoko said
Imagine, you give peace a chance
And just get wed in bed.
© Pinky Agnew
This was written for one of our real Wellington identities. Robert Jones, who came here from Australia and lived on the streets of Wellington. He was known as The Bucket Man, as he was often seen trudging through our streets, carrying his possessions in a bucket. Robert was also noticeable for the large growth on his forehead. I spoke to him briefly before he died. He politely turned down my offer of money, saying quietly, "I'm alright."
FOR ROBERT JONES, DIED 30/06/03, AGED 61 YEARS
We follow the lives and demises
Of the rich and the elite
But one little man's death has touched us
A citizen of the street.
This Robert Jones was not a knight
A sportsman or television star
We saw him through restaurant windows
Drove by him in a warm car.
How could you say his ruined face
Was beautiful to see?
Yet stooped and draped with ragged clothes
He walked in diginity
We saw his steps grow slower still
As winter began its bite
But his firm reply to offers of help
I'm alright, I'm alright
Amongst us Robert chose to live
Amongst us he chose to die
There is no answer to his life
No use to question why.
Remember Robert Jones's life
By giving what you can
For he was a brother and a son
Someone loved this man.
And smile when you remember him
Because I'm sure I'm right
This cold and frosty winter time
Robert Jones sleeps warm tonight.
© Pinky Agnew