Pita

Pita (Maori for Peter)

I wasn’t searching when I found him: he who brightens up my day.
Clever and quite masculine, he took my breath away.
He drove us round New Zealand and he drove me up the wall,
I wanted to impress him: have him notice me at all.
By the time we reached Lake Taupo, he had already gained my heart,
I set out then to get him with no knowledge how to start.
Quiet and unobtrusive he was kind of hard to play:
I knew I’d never get him but I tried hard anyway.
By Wellington, I was smitten though still too shy to say-
Sneaking subtle glances then I'd quickly look away.
I loved the way he spoke my name though it took a while to gel.
I loved the way he opened doors and “Sweetheart” rings a bell.
New Years Eve was very lonely: by nine he’d gone to bed,
At twelve o’clock, the skies lit up and I pecked Bob instead.
Then I learnt that he was leaving – our time was at an end
I was going to miss him awfully though he was neither love nor friend.
In Dunedin, I was mournful: desperate for time alone
I found my chance by accident when I caught him on his own.
It was rather awkward knowing what to say,
I asked him, “are you married” and I regret it to this day.
I wish I’d been more tactful but I was running out of time:
I wanted him to talk to me but I’d somehow crossed some line.
His manner became quite distant.
I should have shut my face.
I’d tipped my hand and now he knew: rejection took its place.
I was sad-
I knew I’d caused this: my ambition way too high:
When I saw him, again at dinner raw emotion made me cry.
I couldn’t face him that minute.
I felt I’d lost my dream.
I’d lost the smile he’d give to me, the winks no one had seen.
As I lay on the lounge weeping softly,
A new thought came into my head:
Retain what you can of your journey: let your poetry reach him instead.
Therefore, I sat down and wrote out our journey, careful not to give too much away.
I called my new poem New Zealand.
I waited for the following day.
Determined I’d not be defeated I left all my self-doubt behind;
Honestly hoping he’s like it and a new thought would enter his mind.
On a coach with my audience captive I read out the words on the page,
Everyone stopped then to listen and for a minute, I held centre stage.
I knew by his comment he’s heard me; I could tell by the look on his face.
The acceptance I saw quite amazed me, the glint in his eye back in place.
At Omarama, I let go completely: our last night the best of them all,
Five of us huddled together drinking and having a ball.
It was then that he told us he’d miss us and I knew that we all felt the same.
I knew I’d certainly miss him and that I’d always remember his name.
I wanted to tell him “You’re special.”
I wanted to bring him back home.
I settled on telling him later, “It was for him, that I wrote that poem.”
I wanted to give him a memory, stir emotions to help him look through
The imperfections he beheld daily: implant something in him brand new.
In the hope someday he’d see me and affection would well up inside,
Moreover, I’d get my chance then to show him responses I had to hide.