Aug 11
11

Bus Stop Morning – Janet Guo

By | 2021 runner up | 2 Comments

Bus Stop Morning

we jump to shake off the frost
defying our bags of gravity, textbooks and overdue ass-ignments
you ask how many hours i got last night
i sheepishly hold up a hand
you go in for the high five until realisation hits you
and you return with a thwack on my head
“!!!”
my huffs are stifled in the puff of exhaust
fumes that trail behind the screeching bus
it doesn’t ever seem to notice us until it’s too late

laughing
we waste all the time we will ever need
and you wage war upon our unbeatable enemies
of Work, demanding our meagre offering of sleep
of Time, pushing us into the gaping mouth of society
of Age, swarming us with impending responsibility
“work is for the weak
we have time on the bus
just catch up on your sleep”
shuffle on the bus, wear our mask, bag our seats
i fit into your neck like lock and key
your hair my makeshift curtain
that strokes my eyelids shut
and the
lull of the bus
rocks me back to a carefree past
when the future was
more
than    Credits    Applications    University

—————————————–   zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz –

you never knew what to do on the mechanical commute
eyes boring out the window, sitting in the music video that you’ve played a thousand times
the beeeep-shudder-jolt of every stop pacing the tempo
synced along to the freshest earworm living in your head
you watch the footpath roll past us like cassette tapes
layered people, gliding backwards, puffing frozen clouds
the weight of my head on your shoulder, anchoring you in
this moment
one less of what we’ll have left
no more than what we’d ever ask for

the Clock ticks past 8:45, every second herding more students into their classes
the Shepherd will beat us with yardsticks made of detentions for our tardiness, but
you press the button for every stop anyway.

 


Janet Guo
Year 12
Hillcrest High School

 

 

Aug 11
6

Laughing – Holly Willis

By | 2021 runner up | One Comment

LAUGHING

I’m checking 
Proof reading as I write 
You can catch it if you look close enough 
I mouth my sentence after I have said it 
Nervous tick mmm 
Retracing my steps in the sand 
Inspecting how deep I sink 
Where my weight is

I speak low and monotone 
you make me self-conscious 
Dishevelled 
I don’t lift my legs enough when I walk 
it’s more like a shuffle across the carpet

Mmm I say 
I laugh too loud 
It’s trying to make people relax I think 
(it doesn’t)

Don’t worry about me, look I’m laughing 
I texted the helpline last night 
I’m pretty sure my mother doesn’t find me interesting
I’m really really scared of not being interesting
 
I think that I’ve been neglected my whole life 
and I can’t tell you that without laughing

You’re interesting 
she says 
you are mysterious

Riddles are only interesting until they are known

You won’t like what you find 
You dig deeper and deeper 
No water just pebbles and rocks

The stubborn ground you stab your shovel into 
The way your shoulder hurts when you lift it above your head

I hate my room and everything it stands for 
When it’s messy I cannot go in there 
I can’t look you in the eye 
There’s something on my face 
Do not say it 
I’m laughing but 
you’re all not laughing but
I’m wringing my hands
biting 
looking out the window
patting my hips 
hiding my face 
making little sounds 

don’t worry about me 

I laugh it off

 


Holly Willis
Year 13
Wellington Girls’ College

 

Aug 11
36

Dirge – Jackson McCarthy

By | 2021 runner up | One Comment

DIRGE

For Ngaire McCarthy

Nandos, like the chicken restaurant, is what I called my nana
Who stood at Poppa’s grave next to me but turned to the side
Looking so staunch and serious, chin and neck and moko kauae
Like a cardboard cutout against the tense blue sky
The universe wrapped its arms around her
Whispering in her ear, telling her secrets
She knew everything before we did
Like at that moment she saw
The next few months of her life laid out before her
Saw doorways and hospital beds
And knew that when all was said and done
We’d be back at work chopping beans and baking pastries
This is how we honour our dead
We do not mention flesh; no pink, no grey
But turn toward the stars as if she’ll be rocketed up there amongst them
Kia ora, somehow crying sounds like laughing
Kia ora, somehow I am singing before there are words
Into the skies
Of Matariki.

 

Jackson McCarthy
Year 12
St Peter’s College

 

 

Aug 11
11

Cultural Tripartite – Angelina Zhou Narayan

By | 2021 runner up | No Comments

Cultural Tripartite

CULTURAL APPROPRIATION ON CULTURAL DAY?

Lining up for the Japanese curry, I look around
See how I’m shrouded by flowing hanfu, proud patterned layers of the hanbok
Picking out a loose wire from the kameez I bought in a Fijian department store a few years back
The royal blue is restricting, the flash intertwining gold pressing against my chest
The stares are what a hen painted into a peacock gets
The compliments are what you give a pretty ornament from the souvenir store.
I’m often told I don’t look Indian
When I get home, I claw my way out of the gauzy layers
They cling to my skin, then my culture is once again
Folded neat, stashed compact in the same bag the cashier gave me.

OUTSIDER ATTENDS FIAFIA NIGHT

Saying grace, anticipating the kai
I look, and the sense of belonging isn’t there
But trays of tuna swim in coconut milk, an entire pig rests upon crumpled foil
Mountains of bread slathered in butter
I gravitate towards the scent of curry, roti
Politely decline the sapasui
I cling to my Chinese mother to fend off the foreign feeling
What’s an Asian woman doing at a Pasifika event?
Then they look to my iTaukei dad, and we’re no longer outsiders.

FRIED RICE IN MANDARIN IS CHAOFAN

Stilted greetings, switching tongues
Wishing I could interpret their lilting vowels, the steady-stream-flow of syllables
They switch the setting when their eyes see me, they ask
Do you eat chicken feet?
When I come to dim sum, I don’t order fried rice
That shows how cultured I am
They say I’m pretty for a mixed-blood
Can you speak Mandarin?
Not really, but I can say what fried rice is.

 


Angelina Zhou Narayan
Year 13
Burnside High School

 

Aug 11
6

Who’s A Dog’s Best Friend? – Darcy Monteath

By | 2021 runner up | One Comment

who’s a dogs best friend?

i aint ever seen a dog walk a man.
imagine him; chained up ankles, sand rubbin’ raw on the peak of his knees,
sippin’ on drain water, dust mites n’ diesel.
he’d be spoilt, that man, no doubt, no doubt.

i aint ever seen a dog walk a man
but i seen menace of metal have a go at the belly of our ma
give her a big ol kiss goodnight or
take a bite out of her – the greedy bastard.

always wantin’
always grabbin’
never givin’
never sharin’

i aint ever seen a dog walk a man
all he ever does is be chewin’ on wasp nests n’ thickets
long rope n’ thistles, batteries n’ teabags
oh, he spits em out all right.

he spits n’ it seeps right into the skin of our ma and we weep, n’ weep, n’ weep
but there aint no use crying over spilt milk

i heard a man say that once
so i stole it
‘cause if a dog can walk a man,
then we can have all the power in the world.

i aint ever seen a dog walk a man
but i tell ya what i have seen;
big metal mouths that slobber on seeds
watchin our ma grow cysts of concrete and chemtrails

and she coughs’ n’ coughs’ n’ coughs
till dogs n’ cats n’ everything that bleeds
start coughin’ up the blood of man
till it’s a dog’s world no more.

i aint ever seen a dog walk a man
funny thought that, huh?
man’s best friend or whateva

well this dog’s been waitin’ on his
since man even got here.


Darcy Monteath
Year 12
Logan Park High School

Aug 11
10

Westside Stories – Ruby Buffet-Bray

By | 2021 runner up | 2 Comments

Westside Stories

White girl raised west side
Oratia to Kelston; postcodes define the lines between the haves and have nots
At 0612 you’ll find
Sunnyvale station; home of the world’s greatest domestics
And where my westside story begins

Grew up right side of the train tracks
Raised by woman clutching the kids with their right hand
While opening their eyes with the left

Stealing mama’s money
We bought big macs at the mall
Consumers of a capitalist agenda
Always tryna be right
Signing petitions and tiktok till midnight
We’re all witches
Casting spells of nostalgia
Blowing up our cul de sacs like firecrackers
10 year olds with back eyes
We listen to their pleas as water boils over
Scalding skin like sunburns

I saw my neighbours’ kids begging at the fruit shop
Two dollar donations don’t change society’s failure to care for future generations
I see kids drop out like flies
Struggling to get a job
Empty dinner plates pile over cracked kitchen tiles,
All the while we tell them it’s their fault
Never wondering why they fell
So this cycle continues

‘Cause at 14 they’re no longer children,
Already corrupted by this broken institution,
Birth certificates are their witness statements
2 days old when they got their first life sentence

White girl raised west side
I never felt these problems
But I see them every day
Mama fosters kids
I see how she fights for them
Oranga Tamariki forgot its meaning
Child welfare – they just store kids till they’re 18
Don’t mind the teen pregnancies and ODs
It just runs in their blood
Or maybe they’re just bred that way
Maybe it’s forced down their throats till it’s the only way left to breathe
We don’t tune out their voices,
We tear out their tongues
Tape them to walls and congratulate the work done
Like we’re artists not grave robbers for the living
I went to my first party this June
0 6 4 2, the other site of westside
Friday night heard white boy say the n word
I kept my mouth closed like I wasn’t horrified by his words,
Laughing I barked out the syllabus of my privilege

Pretending knees on necks weren’t bred from anything less

I went to my first party this June
Rich white boys listened to gangsta rap talking Bloods,
Buying weed with their mamas’ pocket money
Taking photos throwing up westside like boyy you go to MAGS
Follow your daddy’s footsteps you won’t ever go to prison
It’s easy to pretend we don’t have privilege

This is the other half of westside

Culture shock only 2 ks down the road
Mama told me not to put my address on the CV lest people judge
Things only become ghetto when you call it
Titirangi to Glen Eden
Already seeing the effects of gentrification
Thursday night parties are what westside’s built on
So don’t you dare call it ghetto
Raised by advocates and educators we like to think were the good ones

Try fight the good fight, use that privilege where it counts

But if my white saviour complex only sticks when it suits…
Can I really call myself an advocate?

So I swear these lips will never stay sealed

Keep fighting till my knuckles bleed
My baby brother Māori
And I refuse to let this coloniser curtain cut him
Break these shackles
Burn down these white-washed walls
Get into parliament and rebuild West Auckland from its ashes
This new generation, we’ll start the revolution
No longer waiting for you to get comfortable
These bombs are set to explode
Buckle your seatbelts,
This new westside story starts now

 

 


Ruby Buffet-Bray
Year 12
St Dominic’s College

Aug 19
5

graduation – Victoria Sun

By | 2020 runner up | No Comments

graduation

At our last sleepover
it is hailing, a great excuse for
instant ramen. My friend yells from the kitchen,
asking how much spice I want.
None,​ I say.
She shouts back ​weak​.
I surprise her with a back hug
which she leans into
after reaching around with her hand to smack me.

Then we want
something sweet;
with the only three spoons we can find,
we pass around a tub of ice cream

and I am crying
because I am leaving
for my promised-land, but
without my friends, I am a more scared adventurer;
I shine less brightly and feel the cold more often and I already miss
looking forward to shelter on return.

It’s okay,​ they say, and I tire anyway
so we fit into a pile
on the bedroom floor.
Sleepy, we play truth-or-dare which is fun
even when we know most of the answers to the truths.

 


Victoria Sun
Year 13
Epsom Girls’ Grammar School