“Careless poetry is potentially hazardous”, instructs Cilla McQueen in one poem in The Radio Room, yet “a cheaper poem” can still be “as efficient if not as attractive.” In another, she describes how poetry is “warm to [her] skin, five dimensions coiled inside, colour deepened by [her] tongue.” The 11th collection by the current NZ Poet Laureate features (alongside rather ascetic, distant illustrations by the poet herself) many pieces that are very self-conscious and assertive of both poetry the craft, and McQueen’s own identity as the artisan.

On the spine of this, McQueen “throw[s] a thought-line” each across time and space to myriad other topics, including her Celtic heritage and the evocative South Island landscape in which she grew up. For example, in ‘Ynys Elen’, McQueen uses the isle’s titular Radio Room as a metaphor for the simultaneously intimate and remote connection that she feels with the land of her ancestors—how, even as the “antipodean poet / grafted from ancient taproot in this bedrock” in the “familiar bracken”, she wonders “who made these stone steps, this comfortable niche / beside the spring”, and if she could still understand “that language at the root of [her] tongue.”

The choice of what is arguably the core theme of the collection is, however, somewhat questionable—by the end of it, one cannot help but feel that the intended (or, even worse, unintended) audience of this compilation is mostly fellow writers of the genre. That said, while there remain a few isolated pieces that focus exclusively on the writing of poetry, this almost all-enveloping premise of the collection does make The Radio Room feel more like an introspective autobiography, allowing for a fascinating glimpse into the life of an accomplished poet described not only in poetry, but through the use of it as a metaphor in itself.

Aside from that, other stand-outs in the collection include several affectionately playful dedications to the late celebrated Maori poet, Hone Tuwhare. These pieces showcase the meticulous brevity of McQueen’s poetry at its best—the approach is immediately warm and amicable, with very vivid and visual descriptions.

In several poems, McQueen also infuses her English verse with a sprinkle of Te Reo. Although the fusion of such vastly different languages can occasionally make for awkward flow, her attention to sound allows the foreign words to segue almost seamlessly. The result is a collection that is evocative of bicultural New Zealand and its rich Maori heritage—the distraction of having to flick through a dictionary is made worth the trouble when rewarded with the depth of introspection of such poems as “Talking to my tokotoko.”

The rest of the collection touches on a mix of other seemingly random subjects, including stitching a sock, a “grub” with “soft pea-green skin”, and the workings of musical score. This somewhat eclectic formula for the collection (which also includes a few pantoums) reflects admirably on McQueen’s versatility as a writer—throughout the book, her voice shifts from a quiet enigma in the opening pieces ‘A ghostly beast / Our cow’, to comical, sensitive and insightful in ‘Private View’, to cynical and scathing, as in her lament of the corporate bulldozing of the New Zealand landscape to make it “pay for being itself” (‘Reprise’). McQueen’s latest offering does not bore with monotony nor does it confuse with arbitrariness, but rather delights with its potpourri of forms, voices, and perspectives.

This collection, although attractive enough to merit re-reading, ultimately underwhelms. That said, The Radio Room does assert itself as a wonderfully diverse collection, benefiting from McQueen’s attention to exacting vocabulary and sound. Its poetry  not only “listens” but “speaks to the heart” in “river-weft orisons” that reveal this great Kiwi poet to be as witty and as sharp as ever.

Language notes: Te Reo (“the language”) refers to the Maori language. Tokotoko loosely means cane/walking stick. Ynys is Welsh for isle.