Poem 240

Lewis Evans’s work is these days not so much valued for his artistry as for its representation of a landscape forever altered in 1931 – we don’t know what shake ups will make sense of ourselves and/or the work of our lives – today the stars might fall, there’s always the chance they could fall into place – there’s also something here about taking the wider view, not peering too closely at the detail of a life (or a watercolour) in order to assess it …

… when I wrote the poem I owned nothing of Lewis’s … now I have one of his watercolours of Te Mata Peak on the wall and a photo at the bottom of the stairs of him in a family group in the early years of last century …

Pre-Earthquake Scenic View

My great-uncle Lewis had polio
and lived in a wheelchair
at the bottom of the garden
       painting watercolour landscapes
       to help pay for his medicine
blue ocean rolled in everywhere
and broken old boats as dead as his legs
       on the shore
there wasn't a bluff or inlet or estuary
safe from his wheels
trundling sketching all over Hawke's Bay
              one of his brothers pushing him
              for days at a time
the crippled man on the road
making things to get him through
        that no one wanted

his death wasn’t enough
to make him famous
                                      though an earthquake 
leant things a topical aspect
it was only Uncle Lewis turning his hand
to help with his legs
        but I've always admired
his sheep the way they live in the distance
            only blank white patches
            if you come too near

the best picture I've got of him
he never painted
        himself wheelchair and tartan blanket
        at sunset
        pulled up by the sea