Aug 19, 2014 | Poems
I walk where embers hiss and sigh
I hear the voices call of theft
I see the bird rise in the sky
Crimson roses lean and guide
weave the thorny warp and weft
I see the bird rise in the sky
There is a dance to learn and I
dream of masks which hang bereft
I walk where embers hiss and sigh
Morning sings its swift goodbye
doubts wind back to lands I left
I see the bird rise in the sky
Where sunsets end and searchers cry
Above the stone-filled river bed
I walk where embers hiss and sigh
I see the bird rise in the sky
Renée
Aug 12, 2014 | Poems
Mountain, I sing that my place to stand is
defined by your shadow and your rising
is a natural boundary to my world.
You stand tall over the land of my life
where Te Awakairangi flows. I ride
State Highway 2, drive the summit over
to other world Wairarapa where you
sit familiar, siding another face.
Your wind-smothered road, its winding trek through
kahikatea, beech, gorse and totara,
the deep drop to unseen resting places
draws my respect. I drive through the draped clouds
and sing with the blackbirds. In my mihi
I say Ko Remutaka te maunga.
Sandi Sartorelli
Aug 5, 2014 | Poems
Please,
she whispers
to the Universe.
Help her go to sleep
I take reusable bags to the supermarket
I Party vote Green
I give drunk girls taxi fare —
to the Hutt.
Please.
Papatūānuku,
voice like honeysuckle and bees
whispers in the baby’s ear
“Love,
listen to the rain on the roof
give in to the gentle rock of your Mama
close those beautiful eyes”.
The baby looks up
“27 minutes of rocking and I will do it”
Deal.
You got this Mama
Papa says
A drop of rain falls though the roof
lands on the woman’s cheek
its salty.
I got this
the woman says out loud.
Naomi Taylor
Jul 29, 2014 | Poems
There’s an attitude you need for living here.
It’s not resilience, although you might need that
as well. No, it’s a kind of defiance.
Wellington is good at defiance. In the face of gales
that in other cities would snatch off roofs or lift trees
out of the ground by their roots, it hunkers down.
It doesn’t flinch at the odd tree felled on a car,
building materials hurled across a yard –
they’re minor matters – it just has to stay head down
and wait for the wild wind to blow on through.
In the face of scorn, it pulls out flags and slogans
– ‘the coolest little capital in the world.’
Its cafes brazenly spread in all weathers
out on the street in a stoical al fresco.
It resolutely rides the trains. No matter the breakdowns,
stoppages, frustrations, it pours itself
through the railway station morning and night,
a show of strength for good enviro–practice.
And on still days it glitters enchantingly
round the glassy harbour, preening itself
on all its virtues, and stubbornly defying the odds.
Adrienne Jansen
Jul 22, 2014 | Poems
Each morning in the small hours
my mother pads from bed and back
with a pause for stargazing.
Her body wakes her. The stars watch her.
What connects them: this she puzzles
and finds pleasure in no answer
but three elements: flesh, spirit
and steely starlight. I count
she thinks, because I am aware
and care to look at stars for a moment
allowing them to wake me, more than
my body does, being a craft
merely. While their gaze judges
with benignity the watcher of the watchers.
I am close to stars in the night.
Elizabeth Smither
Jul 15, 2014 | Poems
Waxy brown parcels tied with string
are delivered and collected from the house
in the Rue de Jacob. Tea and molasses, tubes
of haemorrhoid cream and lozenges go to Italy
for Romaine Brookes. A scarf pin and a handbag
stuffed with ten pound notes goes to England
for Dolly Wilde’s rehab. Death comes to the Archbishop
and The Glass Harp are on order. Katherine Mansfield’s
Letters arrived today. They say you are the heroine
of all the outstanding books this season.
Mary-Jane Duffy
