I’m not fluent but I will learn

This my whakapapa
those who came before
those who will carry on after
kia whāia te māramatanga
this is where I come from

Ko te maunga / my māori
disconnected from our heritage
whakamā
embarrassed
whakamā

Our language was lost
our culture was ignored
seen through
slowly dissolved
as a colourless solution

Ko te awa / for us to follow
our descent into the future
our river the new path
reconnecting our maunga to the sea
a new opportunity to recover the untold
I am learning where I come from

Ko te waka / steers us down the awa
strokes of our oars like an engine room
our culture / what we were born with
aboard your waka and deliver
Philippians 4:13 / you are capable
I will share where I come from

The bones that lay beneath the iwi
same soil that will always remain
potential, pride, power
the home of our māori
our ancestors’ stories light our path
my home is where I come from

Our collective / ko te hapū
engari he toa takitini
reconnects me to the book
I am the new chapter
my hapū will always remain fluent
I come from chapters

The walls of my marae / my foundation
He toka tū moana, arā he toa rongonui
four walls 5ks west of Turakina
colours of pride love compassion
my place where I stand and belong
I come from my marae

Ko te ingoa / represents me
my mihi is me
I’m not fluent but I will learn
tēnā koutou katoa
I’m not fluent but I will learn

Lucas Te Rangi
Year 12
St Andrew’s College, Christchurch

Bath time

Patience is a habit
the bath has learned
from her many lovers.
They come
and go,
waxing and waning
like the moon.

Her presence settles over the soul
as easily as over warm flesh,
like the musk of steam or
dew drops.

Her heartbeat is the sound of water
gently eroding
her thighs
as if sculpted from sand,
her breathing
the sound a shell makes
when you hold it to your ear.

Her perfume is incensed
vanilla orange blossom candles
burning wicks like gasoline.

She is where a soon to be mother
sprawls,
belly glistening with sweat and steam and blood,
cheeks sparkling with tears and wonder.
The bath can cup the new life
against her porcelain skin.
Those days, her waters hold
the whispers of a doula.

She is where a med school hopeful
skins herself
of scrubs and good manners,
dissects herself, searching for any
fissures in the façade,
a girl who grew up hearing that she could never
be a doctor
now awaits exam results
like a telegram home during war.

She is where a survivor scrubs herself
clean
of the probing hands
that invaded
the borders of her body,
colonised her
like indigenous land.

She is where a fourteen-year-old girl
discovers
her body
for the first time
and learns how to create earthquakes
inside herself.

The bath cradles each
experience
like a newborn.

After sunset
the moon’s light splashes
across the bath’s porcelain skin.

She too is lonely.

So, for tonight
they find a home in each other’s arms.

Hannah Wilson
Year 13
Raphael House Rudolf Steiner School

Blue

How do you define a man?
dig through skin to find a heart and call it blue
grasp my frail hands in yours
and snap my fingers

scatter the bones over your garden
———————————__——-to feed the shrubbery
gluttonous greed grows quickly
a need for more
you will take it
without looking back
and I will let your vines envelope the old me
until all I have left are nameplates
————————————————chucked under beds
———————————————-___—-collecting dust

I am my old sweater on my chair
the one I wear to hide my chest
cover my scars in hopes of lifting my shirt to find a blank canvas
———————————————-___————a glimpse of what I could be

let the colour spill down my neck
and fill the crevices
with something beautiful that you would like
a mother’s shaky hand greeting her new found son
the sob of a despaired drag queen
————————————————punctured skin illuminated by street lamps
eyes crinkled in delight to be wearing my own skin

but I don’t dare to look
———————————————————————-I don’t want to

the only blue you see
is my bruised flesh
pinched and manipulated
to the figure that stands here
a shadow
of masculinity
the failed experiment of a rebellion

you pull out a camera and I touch my face
willing to mould it to your vision
—————————————————–compressed to your brand of trans
surrendering would be a sigh of relief

to accept
the stamp of womanhood

purchase my period products
crinkling plastic of blooms and blush
———————————————————————-and think yes,
—————————————————————————this is me

linger between the gates of heaven and hell
tainted blue and pink doors

scrutinise each curl
how it folds

fear holds the question in my throat
———————————————-___————Is it enough for you?

Louie Feltham
Year 12
Samuel Marsden Collegiate School

Transparent eyeball

It is easy to pretend to be everything.

A mother picks up a stack of bricks to mend her wall,
a child runs through sprinklers,

a bird flies too high and breaks its wing,
blood and feathers and hollow bones.
The heart of a hummingbird
locked in a box.

Did you hear?
The hummingbird has the biggest heart.
2.5% of its weight.
Surely a human heart is similar?
Google and the growing number of tabs
suggest otherwise.
Weird that a hummingbird
has a bigger capacity to love,
but not weird at the same time.
Humans are assholes.

A tree falls and keeps growing.
A house crumbles under the weight of thunder.
A secret longs to be held,
and your eyes roll over themselves
like plastic in a child’s ball pit.

Life is the shadow of death
that can only be seen in starlight,
and when Joy sleeps,
it dreams of Despair.

A shopping cart is exposed at low tide,
rusting and lonely with its two back wheels
reaching for the sky.
It was submerged when I last walked past.
Sunlight dancing across dull metal
and making it look like something magical
rather than something forgotten.
I took a picture.

Sometimes I just want to be held
like a lover on the battlefield.
A sword through my chest and
my blood spilling over the floor
and her
like cheap wine.
It would be nice to be
held with no consequences,
with no second guesses about tomorrow
because there are none left.

Truth deceives us more often than death.
Has the grim reaper ever lied to you?
Or Hades, with his helm of shadows?
Instead fear Aletheia, for the truth
lies in her hands.

I think the shadow behind me is growing.

You are transparent.
Or translucent?
No matter,
for you are not here
and you are not you
and I am an afterthought.

Seeing all and being nothing.

Natalya Newman
Year 13
Huanui College

Some of all the parts

15 March

You lied to me about hate
I was told guns belonged in action movies
for Batman to chase away the bad guy
My TV lied to me today

—————————————-Gun
———————————————It’s a gun it’s a gun it’s a gun
————————————————–he’s got a bloody gun, get down

His hate is here
staining the silver screen
fanning out the blood of the fifty-one
on New Zealand’s darkest day.
His hate is here
in the hollow faces and hospital beds
in a facebook livestream
in the middle of a Friday prayer
tapu to the fifty-one

They are us
the fifty-one

They are us
flowers swathed in cellophane
handwritten notes upon the damp ground
desperate whispers upon a throng of white crosses
They are us
Welcome brother

They are us

As-salamu-alaykum
Peace be unto you

9 December

You lied to me about greed
I thought being greedy meant
taking too many cookies from the jar
My newsfeed lied to me today

—————————————-It’s level 1
———————————————It’s level 2
————————————————–4…… run

Upon a craggy crater
ignored by a bunch of businessmen
blinded by dollar signs
the plume was grey and thick
A boat of tourists put
upon a craggy crater
forty-seven shiny faces arrived
twenty-two didn’t come back
swaddled in a coffin of pumice
and powdered ash

All for the benefit of
a fistful of pennies
All for the benefit of
a fully lined pocket
All for the benefit
of 13 people
who valued their bank account
more than the pulse of twenty-two hearts.

Today

You lied to me about racism
I was taught that New Zealand
‘wasn’t racist’
My instagram feed lied to me today
Racism is here
in the curve of a sunrise
in the shadows of a doorframe
in the howl of a dog

—————————————-Where’s your passport
———————————————Where’s your passport
————————————————–Where’s your fucking passport?

The humiliating mantra shot
through the doors of the panthers
on not one morning
not two mornings
not for a whole month of mornings
but for years and years of mournings

Forgive us
for the way we turned your mornings
into a callous hourglass
which forced you to count down the hours of the moon
Forgive us
for the work that tore apart your flesh
and your family
Forgive us
for the shame you felt
Dragging your patterned tapa cloths
in the wake of a bleeding sun
Forgive us
for making your home a cage
with shackles designed from ignorance

But maybe most of all

forgive us

for the way we stripped away your mana
and hid unashamed in broad daylight
when we so carelessly
stole away yours.

Ella Paterson
Year 12
Tauranga Girls’ College