Movement of Life
 
I
She is dignified.
Her studies, of the highest value.
Artistic and light.
Her name, Étude
musical, bright.
Her movements light with dignified grace,
peaks of interest, though
she knows no haste.
Étude, she is
precise.
II
The child of joy, her playful grin.
Bounce and beauty,
the epitome of spring.
Her name, Printemps.
Her body light
beautiful, playful
soars
to great
heights.
Printemps, she is
agile.
III
Her name, Libre
coiled in midnight.
Changes dark to light.
Flashes bright, she can take flight
swift, quick.
Only to go back to the deep midnight.
The light motion, gone but never slack
for her colour, though dark is never black.
Libre, she is
free.
IV
High in class, elegant in action.
Her movements fast, though never hasty.
Long material touches her feet,
two fine shoes, their heels meet.
Her name, Mazurka
Attention. Engage.
She has might, though ever graceful.
Mazurka, she shows
pride.
V
On the dance floor
I am anyone but me.
I am Étude, artistic and light.
I am Printemps, beautiful in flight.
I am Libre, coiled in midnight.
I am Mazurka, lively with might.
Four dances to connect
four chances to project
my love of dance,
perfect.
 
.

Katie Hooper
Year 12
Timaru Girls’ High School

Drifting
 
For weeks I noticed
his eyes flickering,
sometimes watching us
and sometimes gazing
through our faces.
His thoughts drifted
from our apartment to
the little village with
red concrete houses that
spread like moss over the
trough of the mountains.
He remembered the clink of his mother’s
silver anklets as she walked
in bare feet along the dirt roads.
Many years had faded from his memory,
lost in a drifting mind,
but he knew that in a year’s time
the kitchen tap would still be dripping,
the radio still buzzing
and we would still leave at nine
and be back before dinner.
Perhaps he also knew that
his grandson didn’t actually get a job
and the rent went up and
that everyone had
already made plans for after
his passing and nobody told him.
 
.

Sarah Liu
Year 13
Epsom Girls’ Grammar School

Soft Cotton Mornings
 
you are most beautiful in the morning
when fresh light washes in like wet paint and everything is okay
in those slow stretching seconds when the sun spreads over the world
everything is awake and singing except us in white sheets
and your skin peeks through soft cotton like a china collection shining
like marble carved by the gods it is smooth
and rich with shape, gliding over
the blades of your shoulders (the apricot sunrise at nine thirty)
you are the best of the morning
ripe perfection augmented by the gold of sun
with your eyes closed resting it is easier to see the universe behind them
the ultimate splendor of life is so clear
in those slow stretching seconds when you are not awake but I,
with the sun and birds, and stars hidden in berry blue skies
find something in your skin
your sleeping peace
and it is pure
and you are so beautiful
 

Leah Dodd
Year 13
New Plymouth Girls’ High School

Groundless
 
It was not in the clouds
I learnt how to fly.
But between jagged twigs,
I flapped and stumbled.
In a warm nest,
I dreamt of battling polar winds.
In furry layers,
I prayed for hardened wings.
All I see is up.
I climb and soar,
groundless.
It is not the sky
that tells direction.
But the dirt and rocks below,
stubborn and unchanging.
It is not stars I reach for
as I near them in flight,
but for the juicy sweat decay
at the foot of a tree.
I fight the binds of earth.
I reach for freedom,
groundless.
If I fly only on mountain tops,
I would touch every peak of polished grey.
But I would forget
how daffodils vary in yellows.
A special loneliness
awaits above the clouds,
a white splendour
over the meaningful imperfections.
If I could fly forever…
I fall,
groundless.
The fine, delicate quill
decorates not a majestic being,
but a lump of fluff,
lying in the way of someone’s hundred-k journey.
A piece of prodigal sky,
returning to earth.
 

Amy Huang
Year 12
Rangi Ruru College, Auckland

Colours of the Wind.
 
The sun echoes out
across the sky,
ignites the silver linings,
creates a soft pink hue.
The contrast against
a blue canvas
mingles, seeps together,
produces a lavender glow.
Over the hill on the horizon
there is nothing but white.
A cascade of peaks,
mirroring the mountain opposite.
Where the sun illuminates proudly
there is a spill of orange,
sharpened,
by a tinge of lemon.
As we turn the corner,
all there is, is grey,
the dull sadness and blandness
pierced by the colours as they link,
and fall.
 

Alyxandra Devlin
Year 13
St Mary’s Diocesan, New Plymouth

White
 
They say that the night
Is darkest before the dawn.
But that isn’t the truth,
At least, beyond simple terms.
Anyone who’s seen
A sunrise knows. There
Is a trend. A gradual
Brightening along the course
Of an hour or so.
The darkest darkness is a
Sham, designed to justify
All manner of karmic injustice,
To hold lowered heads high.
A nursery rhyme told
By the minstrels who
Tell you this is a poem, because
It has verses, and had line breaks
In between sentences.
But, just because a poem
Isn’t a poem, doesn’t mean
It can’t be read.
And dawn comes
Regardless of the darkness.
Unless, it’s really cloudy…
 

Jake Kelly-Hulse
Year 12
Sacred Heart College, Auckland

Dust
 
 
A china elephant
Small, delicate
Sat still on the mantle.
A gift from Father.
But why had she kept it?
Mary Lennox was not a child.
No.
She had no time for childish things
Or childish games.
She was to be “quiet
And polite
And well behaved.”
But mostly quiet.
 
It was strange
Mother had always called her ‘child’
And told her to act as an adult
Was it not?
Perhaps she forgets my name.
How silly she was
To pack a little elephant.
Only a small suitcase she had,
Yet she packs a toy?
What would Mother have said?
 
The elephant glinted
Gleamed
Shimmered, in the sunlight
The Indian jewels shining.
Mary kept it very clean.
It wasn’t that she cared about it.
No.
She just hated dust,
That’s all.
 
 

Holly Brendling
Year 13
Baradene College, Auckland

La Langue Française
 
 
I first came across you looking out of the window
smoking pensively in long streamers, full of care.
you were like a photograph of someone, gazing from an apartment,
head wreathed with tiny flowers,
at the mediaeval clock tower striking noon
over the rain-dressed streets, the 1930s cars rolling
serenely on.
I didn’t like you, I confess.
you seemed pretentious, pedantic,
full of self-centred philosophy.
you were constantly giving people roses:
sensuous dark red roses,
like those for a lover.
imagine my surprise
when I found you smiling that day,
sudden subtleties apparent
under your hushed, beautiful face.
you turned to me
and gave me a whole bouquet.
 
 

Madeleine Ballard
Year 13
Diocesan School for Girls, Auckland