Spoken Walls: A City in Verse

Much Ado About Mothing

They knock on my window every night, tippity tap on the glass.

Desperately clambering to get inside so they could satiate their fatal attraction to the light.

Before electricity, They navigated by moonlight.

Hoping to find a mate or not be late for the great night where they meet up and migrate.

See, it’s survival that drives them to throw themselves against windows and oncoming cars.

An arbitrary situation where you’d think that they’re not doing so willingly, evolution could not have prepared them for this it’s not their fault but that’s not the case.

In mainland regions where there is little salt,

they drink the tears of birds who wept as they slept perched on treetop beds.

Sticking their straws in the eye of the enemy, laying on the head of that which swallowed their family.

Do the birds weep for them?

Do those tears not let them live another day?

Will those beaks hold them tight at dawn?

In their little moth minds there are little moth hopes of little moth mountains and little moth slopes Where they live eternally in paradisiacal night with their little moth babes , flying together Wings fluttering and glinting in the moonlight

To hurl thyself against death in the pursuit of life when life was never promised.

It’s a wonderful blend of bravery and foolishness.

Dare to hope, dare to die trying.

But when the light goes out Where do they go?

Where do we go?

Whose window will you knock on When windows and trees are the same?

Would you finally rest?

Let the ebbing wave of existence Flow within your chest and Give yourself to the night?

Whose windows are you knocking on now?

What seeds are you sowing and Is it you who will reap it?

Hope is a fork with two avenues we all face this fork, even the moths.

On the sign there is a fist and an open hand but it’s not a game of chance rock paper scissors On one hand you could let go of hope You surrender the outcome desire desperation You settle into faith and trust in what the road has to offer.

Ontheotherhandyoucanclingon totheattachmentofyourself In your future projections hope It is a short path upwards because you are building a tower You want it to be a certain height so you labor with all your might until lightning strikes and you fall from as high as you have built the flower of the seed you planted wilted before it bloomed the ground is disappointment.

Although moths do not fall to their death, the car drives on , the hands clap.

An applause that sends them to the other side.

Come through, I do not mean to scare you.

Lighting may not strike,

you will get the tower you so liked!

In the middle of the road, and your own little room.

Moths will be your friends in your sky high tomb.

The moth flap its wings and there is dust The dust from which it is born, the dust where it will return It hopes for survival until it has fulfilled its purpose in the circle of life but little did it know the flying is that which it will miss when it is dust.

So go and live each day like a day you should miss and hold onto mothing.

Because in the grand scheme of time It is what it is.

Alexander, 18 Brown’s Bay, North Shore The moths who sit by my lamp until they die are my inspiration because I have spent many nights by their side. What valiant and pretty creatures they are!

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Spoken Walls: A City in Verse

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4 hours

The other day my teacher posed a question, what makes you angry?

My class said, my sister, chores, public transport, my alarm in the morning. …What did I say? Colonisation.

My British Teacher nervously laughed. I smiled back - but I’m not playing Colonisation makes me Mad AF On social media I’ve seen the quote I am my ancestor’s wildest dreams.

Which is meant to make you proud for how far you’ve come.

How far have we come really though?

I am a city kid, born and raised Tāmaki Makaurau - Beautiful name for a city built on land that was stolen Polluted waterways are my awa Pine covered mountains are my maunga Council parks are my pā harakeke

Where I live Developers cut down native rakau to intensify housing Rakau that I did karakia and maioha amongst to help them heal They’re just hacked wood now I wanted to keep this light hearted and upbeat How can I when this kōrero is full of yearning A yearning to have learnt my reo from my nannies To have land where I come from To visit my marae, touch the tukutuku, and learn my stories Not just see it from State Highway 1 as we drive by Too scared to drive up to the gates in case we’re breaking some kind of tapu Like we are manuhiri to our own marae.

After losing our reo in one generation and taking three generations to bring it back Through schools that used to issue beatings in hopes my reo would rot and die Paying hundreds to learn through a computer screen From teachers who monetise what should be my birth right Travelling for hours to learn how to weave taonga Like the ones British soldiers burned down in churches Along with the women, kaumatua, and children.

Rewi Maniapoto said to the British Troops:E kore e mau te rongo Ka whawhai tonu matou Ake ake ake.

Am I my ancestor’s wildest dreams?

I hope so, because as much as I didn’t ask to carry this, here I am.

Not having all the answers is hard, but I’m not sorry for asking This Māori girl wants to make her ancestors proud I want my moko’s to talk about me.

Arahi, 15 Central Auckland I wrote this poem about my experience as an urban Māori away from home.

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I have hope

Hope to me looks like her, looks like life, looks like light I just wanna do things right and not ruin them and fight all the time Every night I sit up and think why My day to day feels like a dream - it’s sci-fi I hate how my own thoughts control my decisions I don’t have the precision To pinpoint the issues that come with my indecision It’s like I’ve become so overwhelmed with emotion I can’t even trust that I’ve been forgiven now I’m messed up, far from good condition I’m losing this fight like UFC - TKO by submission It’s real life no belt at the end, beaten down without permission But I’m working on this stuff - just repetition

Learning it’s hard, But it keeps me sane Like a nice smoky char, to mask my pain I love how the rain, feels on my skin Yet I’m still where I remained, trapped like a sin I don’t wanna feel like that again, It’s somewhere I’ve been Life’s a glass pane, can see my success But can’t quite get to the end, I smoulder distress My fires been put out, but my embers burn bright There’s light inside that shines through the night Cause I found someone that gives me butterflies She makes my heart skip a beat and gives me smiles Love shouldn’t be a game why does there seem to always be trials

I love her I really do She makes me feel complete, brand new And see things from a different point of view The glisten and shine in her eye The sparkle when she’s shy she’s there to catch me I give her wings to fly I’m at a cross road but there’s only one direction It’s to follow her she gets all my attention I stop and look at my reflection I can’t see myself without her I’m filled with imperfection But she makes the correction

Brody (Simpl3), 15 Papakura I was inspired to write this poem after I met someone who makes me happy and is an amazing friend, girlfriend and person in general.

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Becoming

Born into this world from my Mother’s Blood and God’s Will.

I am an embodiment of strength and sacrifice.

I took my first breaths in the snow and cold of Canada before I took my first steps on the shores of Aotearoa.

My Mother brought me here on her own in 2006, A single mother at age 24 Home became the same Fale which grew 3 generations before me of Brown excellence, Starting with my Great Grandmother and Grandfather Memea On the grounds of 278, South Auckland, This is where I built my foundation.

My roots tracing back through the Pacific Ocean, To the islands of Tonga and Samoa And although my homelands of heritage are miles away, These distances do not define a disconnection.

Because Papatūānuku grounds me in the same alofa which grows coconut trees, givers of life, On my Island homes.

Growing up in SA, My heart was embraced by a collective.

A diverse community of descendants of navigators and people from both familiar and foreign lands I was taught service above self, To work for the success of a wider Whānau beyond my own doorstep So, I marched forward never alone, Always beside people who wanted all our people to win I was raised by Goddesses I called Ma, Nana and Aunty, Women of divinity and determination, They taught me how to be a daughter of respect and resilience Learning how to be a woman was the blueprint for my making as a man

My identity exists in the places which made me, the people who raised me and the lessons which shaped me And so when you ask who I am, I will say: I am a testimony to my ancestors’ prayers I am a reincarnation of my Mother’s power I am one of many, a collective I am a man of divine femininity And I am still on my journey of becoming, learning, and growing But wherever I am headed, I am a manifestation of way finders.

So, I journey forward without fear.

But with the same faith which brought me into this world, From my Mother’s Blood and God’s Will.

Flo (he/they), 18 Papatoetoe This poem was inspired by a deep spiritual need for me to express my gratitude for all the people, places and lessons which have helped make and shape who I am today.

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Southside Samoan

To be Samoan from Southside means Proving your heritage Relation to struggles can only be owned if you are Samoan enough But I am just as indigenous And not because I fit the bullshit description of what our average Samoan women looks like: * Yes I have calves bigger than your favourite NRL player(s). * Yes my feet are in size double digits. * Yes I am taller than my father. * And I’m probably taller than yours too!

I have been told my features go to waste simply because my fa’a Sāmoa is limited That a malu would look perfection on my thighs.

But does that not defeat your purpose of gate keeping our malu of its importance?

You will continue to tell me I am less of what an ancestry test will prove That DNA is nothing without what sits on the tongue Ka muamua lou guku faako’ā ka ai ou vae

You belittle the effort I make into re-learning my roots Side eye me with wonders of why I’ve lost them in the first place Entirely missing the motive of why our people reside here OUR PEOPLE This New Zealand dream A culture clash, if you wish A barrier between what home could never offer, and...

One day I hope that the dream does not look like leaving your homeland One day I hope that the culture we look to prolong and defend.

Doesn’t exclude it’s sons and daughters.

And I say all this.

Hold my posture with my head held high, So that you don’t mistake my trauma as weakness.

We are told that this is the New Zealand dream But I know now that I am the New Zealand dream My ancestor’s biggest prayer Come true I walk with my back facing the future I look back in order to go forward But you don’t get this ancestral swagger And you never will.

Because this is mine.

The swagger of a Southside Samoan

Helisa, 16 Papakura This poem is important because it’s a response to people who don’t understand the struggle of growing up away from where you are from.

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Michaelangelo

I wanted to write a poem like how Michaelangelo carved out David, to chisel out perfect proverbs, sculpt out metaphors, paint a poem like how Mona Lisa smiled.

I wanted to fly before I could swim, to scrapbook together an Odyssey of golden wings, glide so close to the sun that I could’ve felt the moon’s warmth on my back.

I wanted to stitch together my parents’ broken english, to build a Rosetta stone from fine China, to carve out an Icarus.

I wanted so much that I stopped wanting what I had, and only when your wings melt do you finally feel your own weight.

I realised I forgot the comfort of imperfection at my fingertips, To breathe without caring about the beat, rhythm or rhyme.

I forgot how I wanted to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, to last five minutes into a Chloe Ting ab workout, to sit third row watching House of Gucci.

I want to cry while listening to Space Song, to learn the full Just Dance choreo to Rasputin, to binge all 10 seasons of Friends when we’re on a break.

I want nothing more than to be squinting shortsighted up at a Michaelangelo, smiling back at Mona Lisa, letting the chips fall where they may, and to do all those things, and maybe someday write a poem about it.

Hellen Mount Albert I wrote this poem almost to remind myself to stop caring so much.

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Our Place

I imagine finding my own place one day.

An asymmetrical build of a place with shelves dipping under the weight of my unpublished poems and YA fantasy and leather bound classics.

A counter littered in avocado platters and morning papers and loaves of bread I baked myself hugged by tattered flannels.

I imagine thrifted furniture with the sofa fabric bleached by the sun and wooden surfaces scarred with coffee and tea mug rings.

There’ll be a sun room with old scattered cushions as cat beds for the strays that creep into my life and clawed rugs basking in piles over the floorboards.

I just imagine having this small place that looks like it crawled out of an independent Pixar film on the verge of ratatouille.

“My place” I’ll call it.

And people will stop by and leave and come again and stay the night on my couch.

And I’ll wake up early and head to the grocery store and come back before my guests awake and I’ll have breakfast ready with sliced tangerines and cream cheese on focaccia It’ll be my place and others escape.

Where we’ll dance in the living room and sing in the bathtub and bathe in a pile of blankets and fresh sheets.

Maybe there will be a porch, where I’ll scatter flower pots and philodendron and cherry tomato stalks with ivy choking the railings

We’ll watch the sunset together and contemporary magic on our small T.V screen.

And we’ll listen to Vivaldi crackle through ancient speakers and dine on the bench top and think back to the times I could only imagine my sanctuary and I’ll melt in the pleasure of fulfilled dreams.

And I’ll reminisce the people who won’t hear my kettle boil or smell my focaccia in the oven or touch the linen draped over my desk chair or see me in my special place I always thought about and dreamt of.

I’ll let the ghosts of those people haunt me in the gentle kind of way and keep me company when it’s not raining and join me by the fireplace when it is.

And you’ll turn the tap off when I let it drip and catch the manuscript’s that take flight in the wind that sneaks in through my front door.

And you’ll remind me of the days where I fell asleep imagining this place and writing songs and poetry about it, calling it nothing but my soul’s liberation because my ambitions were always held back by my priorities.

So I’ll think of the people that stacked the drift wood I collected from beach visits into a staircase that led me here.

And I’ll think of the recipes I learnt in places before this one.

And the music I heard for the first time elsewhere.

And the shows I began and finished on a different couch, with a different t.v set I imagine this place.

“Our place” I’ll call it.

Hiwa, 16 Manurewa The poem is inspired by an abditory I’ve imagined for a while now and hope to make a reality one day. The hiding place of my catharsis.

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A retelling

of the Titanic

The couple stand on their deck.

Arms wrapped around each other, facing the ocean with their backs against the burning hills.

The sea is no longer calm and distant as she used to be a house turned ship, struggles to float and the trees no longer stand tall; their shawl blown away by a wind no longer merciful.

They stand.

Arms forming a cross like Jack and Rose, on a deck they built years go, both lock eyes, lock lips for the very last time; taste the last bits of salty breeze mixed with burning embers as they bow to the queen before them.

A queen who’s lost all patience, provoked by mankind, pushed to her very limits.

She looms over them, raising her voice as if to say, “Off with their heads!” before sending a crashing wave into their tiny bodies.

The Titanic sinks.

Light fades to black and the credits roll.

She is finally at peace. …

The couple never got to have children, never got to watch them grow, their conscience, a guard that stops life from being brought into a world where it will soon cease to exist.

All at the hands of those who chose to push their peers off of the remnants of the cliff just so they could stand a little while longer.

They chose the present over the future, choosing greed to sustain only them and none other.

Even after having witnessed battles play out, Having watched the ocean rise and fall, the sun go to the gym and get hotter than ever, the sky clear and pour with such overwhelming force, the very tears of Mother Nature as her children slowly fade away.

The shrieks for help, a knife slashing Her soul, She feels the smouldering of the trees, and watches herself slowly burn, each spark building up into a steadying ember, growing into a full on flame.

And they think back to a time where they hoped the captain would’ve taken a different path, avoided the Iceberg he knew was there, hoped that people realised the power they hold, remembered that they not only lived in a society but that they are the society. …

Through square windows and sliding glass doors we see a couple, arms wrapped around each other, a shawl providing even more comfort and protection for them both.

They lean against their balcony, back against the rising green of the hills behind them, facing the vast expanse of blue.

Huyen, 15 Torbay It’s devastating to look at today’s world and realise that all this beauty will be gone if we keep going down this path we’re on.

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I see a man

I’m almost eighteen, but where do I go from there?

Sucked in this endless loop of I don’t knows, and I don’t cares, Wondering where to go or what path do I take, But I have a future and a life to make.

I still remember sitting up at night when I was only thirteen, Still a boy, not yet a man, but somewhere in between.

Looking in life’s rear-view mirror trying to change the lane, I’m trying to change my motives, I’m trying to find something to gain.

Am I the boy who wanted to create change?

Or was this the boy who fought through the pain?

Am I still the boy who made his own decisions?

Or was I the boy who had no vision?

Is this me? the real me?

Wondering how my life would turn out to be?

Who is this man looking back at me in the mirror?

Life was simple back then and the stories were clearer.

I search for peace, knowing violence isn’t the answer.

I don’t play with guns. I’m not a war dancer.

Words are my weapons. They are my power.

Is desiring world peace just an ivory tower?

I see a man that is proud of his heritage I have hope for this world and I have courage

I see a man who is not afraid to show he cares I will fight the good fight, as did my forebears.

I see a man who doesn’t look for the easy way out, I see a man with no hesitation or doubt.

This is not a gang, This is not a clan, When I look to the future, I don’t see a coward I see a man.

Jono Glendowie, East Auckland I felt the need to write this poem to show what I feel makes a real man.

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revolution

Rangatahi

Breathe…

When Papatūānuku welcomes us into this world the first thing we do, is breathe.

Except the first breath of our rangatahi was polluted.

The voice of change was quickly rooted deep within our tongues.

This change was the first language we knew.

Voices vibrant with the diversity of hope.

Hope isn’t something you find after a dark tunnel.

It’s a trust, a belief.

A prayer of action.

A rangatahi revolution.

A removal of past diminution.

A spirited evolution.

Because when you’re in despair, know that hope is the solution.

As the youth of today we were born into a world that we knew we needed to fight for.

We aspire for peace in its absence.

We can only trust ourselves to save this Earth, because it was neglected by everyone else.

We can’t look to the future, when we are the only future we know.

In order for hope to arise, we had to undergo loss.

Our origin story was birthed from struggle.

These past years have left the world fearful.

We were spoon fed disaster.

The sour sensation slowly stripped our taste buds.

But the tongue is the fastest healing organ of our body.

It heals the damage.

So hope became our tongue. and we began to speak… H.O.P.E. Healing. Our. People. Everywhere.

For where there is a willingness to change there is a way.

The light of change is enough to pave the way into a dominantly brighter future.

Our hope will ignite, forming a flame, burning the foundations built upon fear.

We will tend to the world where destruction is dominant.

Restoring peace where violence is prominent.

Extinguishing the disease of doubt, And any space that attempts to keep our voices out.

We are bonded with rays of hope.

As a community we walk in unity.

With each of us holding an equal opportunity to break the tether.

And with every rangatahi as hopeful as one another we become the light because wishing for light in darkness does not mean it will arise.

Hope is entrusted to each of you.

As a collective, We are essential to the world’s survival.

We are essential in the change that is brought by tomorrow.

We are essential because we have become our only HOPE. So… breathe deeply, be the beacon of hope guiding others to our rangatahi revolution.

Kate, 16 Mount Roskill A rangatahi call to action to arise in hope and use our voice to positively influence others.

We need to be the change.

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A word from the saints

A word from the saints Grace. From the saints Peace and love. From the saints When I say I’m a Christian I fear your throat goes tight But I’m not justified through flesh but through faith not sight I only have 1 hope and dream to live out That’s to one day see my glorious saviour and I’ll rejoice and shout But what if you’re wrong?

If we all have our own truths, then which one is true?

If we don’t believe our own truth is true then whose hands do our faith lay in The ‘I AM’ The true vine The great shepherd I know for sure that these names make more sense than a big bang I believe that big bangs only result in mess and disaster Because of Jesus I am nothing but a fixed disaster Saved from the lowest depths of my life, he helped me

Reached out to my arm when I paid too much attention to the storm Because of Jesus, I am a fixed disaster A word from the saints When I’m away from the world I’m happier than ever Wish I could explain it better, to those who do not understand Why I sit in my prayer closet Using my tongue, as a rocket Shooting to the heavens, and this world, I rock it Like how I be rocking mountains with my faith Nah ….. People take scripture too literal So they scatter like sheep that are afraid But I am more delayed to stay in a world That makes me afraid

A word from me My faithful God has made a big impact on me Healed the unhealed Comforted the grieving He saved me through grace As a battler of depression, bullying, trauma and healing All came to an end through HIS grace I only hope to one day be rejoicing at His feet The same way I came running to them in times of need A word from me I only hope Hope our people engage In less hate and more love My truth H-O-P-E

Lauraly, 16 Papakura It’s so important for me to be able to share my truth and hope and aspirations that have all been encouraged by the grace that God has shown me in my life.

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Today

Celebrating

Today I will trust, I will learn to trust that god has a path that I am on, Today I will follow my bloodline and explore my generational heritage Today I will relax and take things slowly, I will block out the negativity and anything that is unholy Today I will be fair and explain things if people let me, Today I promise to do the same and not be petty, Today I will act like a window but block out the clouds, block hate with my shield which can be displayed as a rain jacket.

Today I will feel the jolt of static electricity that flows through my veins, which helps me arise from a slumber like the sun rises over the horizon

Today I will pay my respects to the Tangata Whenua of the land on which I walk upon.

The Maori people Today I will show my family love and restore a bond as broken as shattered glass after a fight.

Today I will live the dream but not my dream -- The NZ dream.

Today I will bloom like the flowers and emerge from my sprout just as pretty, Today I will exercise….. Sike!

Today I will launch myself more into society like a ball from a CANNON.

Lorenzo, 16 Manurewa This piece is about my hopes for today (but also every day). This is important for me because this is my future I will be living.

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Ode to black women

This is an ode to black women The ones who are always at the forefront The ones who single-handedly raise their children even when the world tells them they can’t like Maya Angelou said still I rise Still, we rise So why do you act as if we have fallen Why do you crumple your shoulders in defeat When the weight of the world has always been there why do you falter and fall at the words They throw at you Where has your hope gone?

Don’t you know that your roots run deep?

Don’t you know that you are the descendants of African warriors Whose skin absorbed the rays of the sun with hair that defies gravity Brown eyes that sparkle brighter than the sapphire

That the stars could never resemble Don’t you know the world started with them And it shall end with you Black women, your ancestors used their voice For you to be where you are Your voice just like theirs holds the power of a thousand soldiers So please for the sake of the next generation use it Don’t silence it, don’t allow them to silence you Like how they tried to silence your ancestors You are not an angry black woman You are a woman with something to say Your voice matters and so do you And so shall your descendants

And a time shall come Where you no longer have to use a dead girl or boy’s name To win poetry slams Where everything about your skin won’t be seen as a metaphor For everything black to be death intended But your skin will be known as a glorious symbol of natural greatness for your skin is made out of brown sugar, honey, cocoa and gold it holds the strengths and promises of a thousand warriors So hold your head up high Your ancestors didn’t survive everything That nearly ended them For you to dehumanize yourself To make someone else comfortable For they may have tried to bury them But they didn’t know that they were seeds That you would become the call of your ancestors

That you would be the harvest that I foretold in prophecy In the season of black excellence where you are the embodiment Of the people who were asking not to be forgotten In the season of black excellence where if you stand together you will always win Where you glorify your blackness, love it in all shades Light, brown, dark and make no apologies for it Where you had not known the weight you carried Until you felt freedom Where you know that black is a blessing, black is a blessing, black is a blessing you are a blessing

Natalie, 16 Papakura This piece is about imagining a bright future where black women don’t feel the need to be ‘tough’.

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Holding on to hope

I hold pride in my failures They are what separates my shooting stars from meteors Something that holds me together is pride which connects me like a tether Hope can feel as light as a feather but flip quickly like changes in the disastrous weather My family holds together like the ground, supporting the weight of a world too loud For that I should be proud but like the earth that changes and shifts My family does the same and sometimes drifts When I look up to my family it’s terrifying like rope constricting and constraining me to the expectations of the person they want me to be

Hope has followed me from when I was younger and doubting My future avoids there misleading as I embrace my diversity which pulls me away from normality for there is only one me I hold hope in my heart that I will not fall apart Hope clings to you when life pulls you down When hope strings you round and round Tugging you away from everything, quiet or loud like a being bound only to be rewound like a cassette tape thats been re-found For though I am not someone to be in front of a crowd Hope is something I hold onto for dear life now.

Sammy, 16 Wellsford This piece is inspired by how hope can change so quickly and how holding onto it is so important for life.

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