My Main Man Sam
by Laura Findlay
So here is a story. For quite a large portion of my life I wrote poetry. I would say 90% of it was dribble and 10% was not bad. I wrote and wrote. And my mum would talk to me about poetry and, particularly, a man named Sam Hunt. Mum said I had to be of a certain age to see this rambling, drunken, swears-like-a-ships-captain man. This mysterious and intriguing poet. I can’t remember how old I was when I went to his first show. 12? Maybe older. It’s a blurry memory but I remember two things: being in a room full of adults and this man on the stage, this Sam Hunt, and his voice like wood smoke on a wet day.
I still love him, obviously. I recommend listening to this interview on RNZ or at least watching the 5 minute video.