Poetry New Zealand Yearbook Student Poetry Competition 2019 winners

Poetry New Zealand Yearbook Student Poetry Competition 2019

Poetry New Zealand Yearbook Student Poetry Competition 2019

Edited by Jo Emeney

CONTENTS Poppy Hayward — First prize, Year 11 ABCDEFGHIJLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ 5 Lucy Barge — Third prize, Year 11 he breaks faultlines 6 Holly Willis — Second prize, Year 11 Hold 8 Cadence Chung — Third prize, Year 12 These bodies do not hold us

10

E Wen Wong — First prize (equal), Year 12 Boston Building Blocks 11 Phoebe Robertson — First prize, Year 13 She is . . . 12 Bella Sexton — Second prize, Year 13 The bus trip 13 Annabelle Fenn — First prize (equal), Year 12 October 14 Phoebe Robertson — Third prize, Year 13 Kiwi attitude. 15

ABCDEFGHIJLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ VARK. An acronym.

A name, a label, for four different learners.

Visual learners. They are lucky.

A single glance, then bam! It’s cemented in their minds forever.

Auditories. Be scared of conversing with them.

They'll remember it longer than you ever could.

R. Reading and writing. Loved by teachers worldwide.

Hand them notes and there you’ll find a perfect student.

Lastly, Kinetic. The words: watched, heard, read — it all goes over their heads.

Give them something to do with their hands however, and they’ll love you always.

School? Where does school fit into it?

School. A place dedicated to learning.

It excels in teaching VAR learners.

K? What about the K? No, no K. They always forget about the K. ABCDEFGHIJLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ — Poppy Hayward, Logan Park High School

5

he breaks faultlines the fireplace summons smoky memories and his rigid figure black as the moonless sky outlined by the flame he keeps the ash alive my seismic soul shakes fissures in the pottery the carpet is bleeding brown he pulls a string the stage curtains open as the knot tightens the spotlight beams on ashes scarlet stained and pierced by his shard little black magnets connect the frame is set these pixels are her face dilated sapphire eyes her mouth opens as my ears vibrate the curtain closes aftershocks in my heart the stage collapses 6

his shadow pollutes the wall smoke fogs my lungs i pull on my oxygen mask we have met before this is fear — Lucy Barge, Mountainview High School

7

Hold Everything is so small Though I am so much smaller Nothing seems to be big And nothing seems to be heavy either I have viewed all the things that I have needed to I have watched you run past me in circles When I was then When then was now I was there when you did that And I have heard this story before Colours repeat themselves Browns and greens Browns and greens It appears that nothing is new Blurring together We are recycled Collage Our sentences made of stolen words None you haven't heard before What is there left to talk about The hanging silences between Say something to me But you won't Why bother to repeat yourself Over There is no creation There is no point in pushing 8

When we reach that place we sit there Full of everything we fail to connect with Why can't we progress I am so tired We are wishing for heaven from purgatory And I miss wanting to be awake — Holly Willis, Wellington Girls’ College

9

These bodies do not hold us Tomorrow will rise a sun-up dream of forgotten promises, burgeoning over a sky of lust (?)

We will press together slippery with mucus, thick with the smell of life (and death), warm body against warm body, hand against skin against blood, reaching— And O! We are sanguine, aria of liquid, flowing down flowing through time, through hands— Reeking. (Come closer so I can taste the human on your tongue) let me ask: what is more divine than disgrace?

We will stay rigid with truth, in slumber, eyes hiding from the ever-seeing light of day (who judges not by smell but by sinew, pulling each heartstring in a tautening of gristle) Yet we still hold each other, enter each inhale… ...and exhale, to disappear without ever knowing how close our thoughts were to being divine And if today gets too much, then we will retreat into the spaces between breaths, entering only for a fraction of a second (an upbeat to the bar), then slipping back into empty quavers. We think the most divine things when we are dirtiest, anyway.

— Cadence Chung, Wellington High School 10

Boston Building Blocks red bricks hold my vinyl collection its building blocks ink this city in stone, white enamel statues of history told in technicolour tea, in railings of fog like clockwork blue bikes build skylines, parked benches map the nation with soles of empty feet. watch as the water runs as freedom walks on footpaths bare as the blue line blurred behind the sea cultures invert the conical flask a traveller, not a tourist on Beacon street. — E Wen Wong, Burnside High School

11

She is . . .

Lipstick stains on pale skin. Cold hands under hot running water Frayed edges on a second hand jumper. Smoke passed from lips to lips. Dark nights. Cool eyes. She is too bitter coffee and too sweet chai. Frost in the dawn light. Flickering street signs. Pale stage lights.

She is the intrusive thought you can’t get out of your mind. A bus that never arrives. Ash on the side. Broken glass on abandoned streets.

Cool air blasted from the car AC. Windows left wide open. She is the cracked side walk. Chipped stones. Tar melting in the middle of the road. The blank space in between the stars. She is hair swept back in the wind. Tunnels that end in the dark. Horror movies in the early hour of the morning. Strangers you pass by. Smudged eye liner.

Running mascara. Bursts of noise. She is seeing an old friend at the wrong time. Someone far too important to tell your parents about.

Flat stones skimmed over lakes. The sound of cracking ice. Warm liquid in an empty stomach. Dog eared books. Stained jeans. Freshly ground coffee beans. She is stumbling over her own feet in the dark.

Calls from unknown numbers. Rain hitting tin roofs. Skin stained with ink. Crumpled photographs. She is the sock that is lost in the wash. Scuffs on leather boots. Burnt out candles. Flickering lights.

The radio cranked up far too high. Over chewed gum. She is sitting on a swing set in an abandoned playground in the middle of the night.

Dogs barking. Moths bumping into the light. Shallow lighter. Burnt fingers. Cracking chalk. Feedback through an amp. She is just another hour till closing time. — Phoebe Robertson, Katikati College

12

The bus trip Northbound, evergreen transitions to deciduous the ongoing thrum of an underfoot powerhouse, drilling deep into the hollows of our eardrums from above, the sun wears a misty veil his piercing gaze seeping through closed eyelids, filtering into half formed dreams to the right, my companions rest hands trapped beneath drooping heads thought patterns, wilting in the grasp of the subconscious while dark circles carry the weight of sleeplessness. — Bella Sexton, Wellington East Girls’ College

13

October October: I could die right here— In the crisp of spring April may be the cruellest month But yours is by far the most vulnerable.

October, your long overdue apology Is caught, a tangled rope in my throat and yet these things they must be said.

I should never have kissed that boy— Not in the smell of your warm rain.

Should not have slept with my curtains open so I could Smile at the stars, thinking of him.

October, I’m sorry! Your air is an aphrodisiac — the smell of lilacs Is but love’s cruel semblance.

October, for these guilts I pledge My very heartbeat to you; October, I shall not go on any longer lest we go tumbling into the snare that is November, And never make it back again, October.

— Annabelle Fenn, Woodford House

14

Kiwi attitude.

Smiles passed.

Hand shakes.

Rum & Coke.

Bass pumps.

Fire light.

Smirnoff Ice. Dirty dancing.

Laughter echos. Vodka shots.

New friends.

Bad jokes.

Lighter sparks.

Pink cheeks.

Chilled limbs.

Smoke passed.

Ringing ears.

Bitter taste.

Deep intake.

Warm breath.

Damp ground.

Empty glass.

Jacket off.

Eyes locked.

Palms touch.

Heart pump.

Stained clothes. Blurred lines.

Shaky breath.

Lips part.

Bottle dropped.

Stumbling pace. Fast ground. Eyes closed. Goose bumps. Dry heave.

Shaky breath. Clammy hands. Body trembles. Food brought back up.

Lost friends. Unfamiliar hands. Patted back. Swirling thoughts.

Spinning mind. Bad taste. Wandering off. Cold place. Wide eyes.

Head lights. Eaten alive. Dark haze. — Phoebe Robertson, Katikati College

15

Massey University Press Private Bag 102904, North Shore Mail Centre, Auckland 0745, New Zealand Showcasing the winners of the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook student poetry competition 2019 Compiled to celebrate Phantom Billstickers National Poetry Day 2019 Text Š copyright individual contributors, 2019 All rights reserved. Except as provided by the Copyright Act 1994, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owners.