Table of Contents
Peter MacDonald
Sam Hunt once said he could have become prime minister, as an accountant. Yet he chose a radically different path: poetry. He realised that while many follow ledgers or wield formal power, poets lead society in subtler ways, through observation, reflection and the quiet uncovering of truths that others would rather keep hidden.
Beware the Man
Beware the man who tries to fit you out
In his idea of a hat
Dictating the colour and the shape of it.
He takes your head and carefully measures it
Says “Of course black’s out.”
He sees himself in the big black hat.
So you may be a member of the act
He makes for you your special coloured hat.
Beware! He’s fitting you for more than that.
Hunt was acutely aware of the man with “the big black hat”. He saw him everywhere: politicians, newsmen, CEOs, bankers, military officers, Popes and all their minions. The poem is deceptively simple, yet it exposes the subtle ways power seeks to shape and contain individuals. Poets often get ‘offside’ with authority because they reveal the truths that others would prefer hidden. Hunt has done exactly that for decades.
Hunt’s genius is uniquely New Zealand. His language is colloquial, rhythmic and performative and his poetry sounds like Kiwi speech and reflects Kiwi landscapes, from Bottle Creek to Paekakariki. Yet, like many worthy Kiwi writers, Hunt remains relatively unheard of internationally. Isolation has kept him in a New Zealand bubble: many world maps barely show our country and people simply don’t see it.
There is a tension in Hunt’s self-reflection and he has described his own poetic performance as walking a wire: risky, immediate, exhilarating and volatile. Ironically, while in Sydney he met Philippe Petit, the famed tightrope walker who, in 1974, walked between the Twin Towers, in New York 1974. Over three weeks, Hunt observed Petit’s focus, daring and disciplined risk taking and it left a lasting impression. In a sense, Hunt realised that performing poetry in public, as a pop cultural icon in New Zealand, demands the same balance, courage and precision as a tightrope walk. The stakes may not be life or death, but every word, pause and gesture matters. The audience watches, expectations hover and the poet must remain fully present, telling the story truthfully and ‘charming it crazy’. In this sense, each performance is a high wire act of attention, risk and artistic derring do.
Comparisons with Robert Burns are illuminating. Burns wrote in Scots vernacular, critiqued class and authority and shaped Scotland’s cultural identity. Hunt does the same for New Zealand: a public poet, performing road songs, exposing social hierarchies, yet celebrating human warmth. Like Burns, Hunt’s irony and subtle critique reveal society’s hidden truths. And, like Burns, Hunt’s international recognition is limited, not for lack of talent, but because the unique culture he writes from, the one that made him, is geographically and culturally remote.
This is the irony and brilliance of Sam Hunt. He could have counted ledgers or legislated nations, yet he chose poetry the art of subtle truth telling. In doing so, he demonstrates that true authority does not always come from power: it often comes from insight, reflection and the courage to reveal the world as it is, whether at home or unseen beyond our shores.
