Blog Archives

Poem – C K Stead

Tohunga Crescent Across our street the Allen Curnow house sold and garden-tidied and refurbished, respectably letting as “AirBnB” is home to wild parties, and just once a riot bringing cop cars, a paddy wagon, pepper spray and more than one

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Poem – Primo Levi

Singing … But when we began to sing Our songs, senseless and good, It seemed then that everything Stood as it once had stood. The days were merely days. Seven made a week. Killing we thought was wicked. Of dying

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Poem – Tayi Tibble

Watching the Boys Play Rugby like flies swarming in black tidal pools or a milky way of sluts in short shorts and long socks, Catholic schoolboys teasing each other in the scrum. Bull-headed matadors depending on the score. The music

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Poem – Anna Jackson

An extract from Dear Tombs, Dear Horizons Remembering the Villa Isola Bella, Katherine Mansfield wrote of the warm stone on the terrace, leaning against the warm walls, the heat at her back, the furry bees in the air, and the

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C K Stead – Poem

Unusual Obsequies for Nicholas Tarling who died swimming In Shallowsleep, that life-of-the-mind that comes at three or four a.m., hearing big rain beat on the roof and spill from broken gutter to concrete path, and quoting to myself (faultlessly) a

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Poem – Tom Weston

An art historian explains 
how time began What seemed to be her effortless best. Speaking was her art, the silk purse she grafted from the sow’s ear of discontent, what she found congenial. It’s all about me, she knew, artist

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Poem – Nicola Slee

Return There is an ocean I am always returning to travelling halfway round the world to come home to its long bay I walk along the edges of surf searching for greenstone and pāua shell feel the grit under my

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Poem – David Eggleton

Moa in the Matukituki Valley: A Cento Mountains crouch like tigers, resentful, and Moa’s seeking eyes grow blind, upstream, wading towards the taniwha. Moa’s a strange bird, old and out of time, driven from the bush by the Main Trunk

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Poem – Nina Powles

Collisions On her last visit to New Zealand her father took her picture at Makara Beach. She’s smiling, and her hair is being tossed by the wind. I went there once just after a storm had passed. The waves were

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Poem – Peter Olds

‘The Clear’: Prospect Park to Charles Brasch Here, I can own you. Here, on this seat they’ve placed in your honour, there’s nobody to move me on. There’s nobody to tell me my poems are good or bad. There’s only

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