10-02-2017, 03:20 AM
Rules: Write a poem for National Poetry Month NZ on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month, have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month NZ.
Topic 02: Write a poem inspired by a hard truth (something true that people often don't like to admit) about New Zealand.
“I am so tired of Kiwis making a virtue of necessity. They should be honest that THAT is what it is – making do on a cute remote island. Nothing more than that. Not an arcane “lifestyle” to be aspired to (cue: clink wineglass of Sauvignon Blanc, look out to blue water, flash impossibly white teeth at partner that you would never see on a Kiwi because most of them don’t do dental).
There’s nothing here to compensate for the forced pennypinching – little opportunity, no rich culture, you can’t easily travel to other places for a change – nothing. The government and migration agencies are dressing New Zealand up and not being honest about what it is really like here – THAT is my biggest gripe.
The housewives use everything but the squeal. Jesus, do I have to want to live like that, though? Kiwis are both shaped and limited by having to live that way. They don’t have time for intellectual pursuits? Just LIVING here occupies enough of their effort, so ok, it’s understandable (Google “culture of New Zealand”, “anti-intellectualism” if you think I am being a snob). I think prospective migrants should read it:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culture_of_New_Zealand#Anti-intellectualism
I don’t think you’re aware of how carefully they manipulate Brand New Zealand to attract people who in actuality turn out to be highly unsuitable migrants.”
This story was originally published on the discussion forum Expatexposed.
Or think of the dairy industry destroying the health of our water. Or listen to Jim.
The Infant of Biafra
The deathsheads of Biafra
Are haunting Bellamys
Where scotch and soda trickle down
The necks of old MPs
And some men talk of justice
But most the credit Squeeze.
The corpses of Biafra
Stand at the mirror when
Our daughters use some hair spray
And paint their lids again
And wear a thirty dollar dress
To catch the eyes of men.
The small skulls of Biafra
Look in the window while
Our children munch their biscuits
And drink their milk and smile
To see the talking animals
Above the TV dial.
The thin ghosts of Biafra
Watch while our sons drink beer
And fork out dough for petrol
And put the car in gear
And drive ten miles to another hop
And let their girlfriends steer.
The starved eyes of Biafra
Observe the women who
Buy toys for their own children
Enough to stock a zoo
And plan a trip to Sydney
When the business deal goes through.
The dark bones of Biafra
Will never leave their door
Because all things are joined in Christ
And the rich must feed the poor
Or lie like broken dummies
In Hell’s department store.
The dead child of Biafra
Will lie on Christmas Day
In the cribs of all the churches
Upon the rotting hay
For those who did not feed Him
But threw His Life away.
But those who showed Him mercy
Will find a Live Child there
To smile at them and give them grace
And hope beyond despair
And sins as old as mountains
Will melt into the air.
NZ poet James K Baxter
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Waiata of bones
At Battle Hill on moonlit nights
the bones sing out. A hundred years
below the turf, and still the tears
and curses rain from bloody heights
upon white gravestones on the plain.
They sing from all the unmarked plots
of Ngati Toa, left to rot
while thieving riff-raff marched again.
The Crown was quick to seize the lands
once all the chiefs were moved, or dead.
No Pakeha would bow their head,
acknowledge blood that stained their hands.
The angry bones will know no peace
‘til wars between the colours cease.
Dear Maori Jesus
Nodding off in the laundromat,
my mind as foggy as these windows,
foggy as a Motueka morning. My kids
have never followed cows to the milking
or warmed bare feet in their shit.
I wanted a better life for them than
fingers rotting, while cash returns
improved for the farmer. Not for us.
Never thought city life could be so tough
but the kids need the good schools here.
Four moko and me in a fibro shed
for five hundred dollars a week.
I work three jobs and it’s never enough.
Harder still, no cooking allowed. How
are we meant to eat?
How do I tell our whanau
‘Don’t visit, there’s nowhere to sleep.
I can’t make you meals,
or show you the places
you’ve always wanted to see.’
We’re cut off from family, not welcome here.
It’s hard to make friends, with no time.
My eldest daughter has been skipping school,
running free on the streets while I work.
Don’t know how to keep her in line.
I stopped believing in God, when Hemi
was crushed by a falling tree. He knew
his work well, but hated to kill
Tane, and plant more intruders
just to keep his family alive.
We haven’t talked for years, Maori Jesus.
Never felt you near, ‘til tonight, when lights
from K Road shine through the fog and the years.
They remind me of Christmas. You care about kids.
Please, help mine survive this.
Topic 02: Write a poem inspired by a hard truth (something true that people often don't like to admit) about New Zealand.
“I am so tired of Kiwis making a virtue of necessity. They should be honest that THAT is what it is – making do on a cute remote island. Nothing more than that. Not an arcane “lifestyle” to be aspired to (cue: clink wineglass of Sauvignon Blanc, look out to blue water, flash impossibly white teeth at partner that you would never see on a Kiwi because most of them don’t do dental).
There’s nothing here to compensate for the forced pennypinching – little opportunity, no rich culture, you can’t easily travel to other places for a change – nothing. The government and migration agencies are dressing New Zealand up and not being honest about what it is really like here – THAT is my biggest gripe.
The housewives use everything but the squeal. Jesus, do I have to want to live like that, though? Kiwis are both shaped and limited by having to live that way. They don’t have time for intellectual pursuits? Just LIVING here occupies enough of their effort, so ok, it’s understandable (Google “culture of New Zealand”, “anti-intellectualism” if you think I am being a snob). I think prospective migrants should read it:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culture_of_New_Zealand#Anti-intellectualism
I don’t think you’re aware of how carefully they manipulate Brand New Zealand to attract people who in actuality turn out to be highly unsuitable migrants.”
This story was originally published on the discussion forum Expatexposed.
Or think of the dairy industry destroying the health of our water. Or listen to Jim.
The Infant of Biafra
The deathsheads of Biafra
Are haunting Bellamys
Where scotch and soda trickle down
The necks of old MPs
And some men talk of justice
But most the credit Squeeze.
The corpses of Biafra
Stand at the mirror when
Our daughters use some hair spray
And paint their lids again
And wear a thirty dollar dress
To catch the eyes of men.
The small skulls of Biafra
Look in the window while
Our children munch their biscuits
And drink their milk and smile
To see the talking animals
Above the TV dial.
The thin ghosts of Biafra
Watch while our sons drink beer
And fork out dough for petrol
And put the car in gear
And drive ten miles to another hop
And let their girlfriends steer.
The starved eyes of Biafra
Observe the women who
Buy toys for their own children
Enough to stock a zoo
And plan a trip to Sydney
When the business deal goes through.
The dark bones of Biafra
Will never leave their door
Because all things are joined in Christ
And the rich must feed the poor
Or lie like broken dummies
In Hell’s department store.
The dead child of Biafra
Will lie on Christmas Day
In the cribs of all the churches
Upon the rotting hay
For those who did not feed Him
But threw His Life away.
But those who showed Him mercy
Will find a Live Child there
To smile at them and give them grace
And hope beyond despair
And sins as old as mountains
Will melt into the air.
NZ poet James K Baxter
Form : any
Line requirements: 8 lines or more
Waiata of bones
At Battle Hill on moonlit nights
the bones sing out. A hundred years
below the turf, and still the tears
and curses rain from bloody heights
upon white gravestones on the plain.
They sing from all the unmarked plots
of Ngati Toa, left to rot
while thieving riff-raff marched again.
The Crown was quick to seize the lands
once all the chiefs were moved, or dead.
No Pakeha would bow their head,
acknowledge blood that stained their hands.
The angry bones will know no peace
‘til wars between the colours cease.
Dear Maori Jesus
Nodding off in the laundromat,
my mind as foggy as these windows,
foggy as a Motueka morning. My kids
have never followed cows to the milking
or warmed bare feet in their shit.
I wanted a better life for them than
fingers rotting, while cash returns
improved for the farmer. Not for us.
Never thought city life could be so tough
but the kids need the good schools here.
Four moko and me in a fibro shed
for five hundred dollars a week.
I work three jobs and it’s never enough.
Harder still, no cooking allowed. How
are we meant to eat?
How do I tell our whanau
‘Don’t visit, there’s nowhere to sleep.
I can’t make you meals,
or show you the places
you’ve always wanted to see.’
We’re cut off from family, not welcome here.
It’s hard to make friends, with no time.
My eldest daughter has been skipping school,
running free on the streets while I work.
Don’t know how to keep her in line.
I stopped believing in God, when Hemi
was crushed by a falling tree. He knew
his work well, but hated to kill
Tane, and plant more intruders
just to keep his family alive.
We haven’t talked for years, Maori Jesus.
Never felt you near, ‘til tonight, when lights
from K Road shine through the fog and the years.
They remind me of Christmas. You care about kids.
Please, help mine survive this.
