I have planted beetroot next to the peace seeds
I have planted cauliflowers next to the protest pots
I have planted oregano next to the hope seedlings
I have planted spinach in our home garden

The Poetry Shelf Breathing Room is getting so much love – and it is an absolute joy hanging out in my physical poetry room, pulling favourite books off my shelves, choosing poems that I love to linger over, to slowly breathe in. A perfect tiny retreat in this upheaval world.

But I do want to resume the idea of protest. Last year I posted clusters of protest poems, poems speaking out against the GAZA catastrophe and the Dunstan mining issues. This week I have been mulling over poems as protest and decided, yes poetry can be the protest placard, but it can speak/protest/spotlight/challenge in myriad ways. There are so many disturbing issues in the world and at home at the moment, issues that need audible voices of dissent – whether in print media, social media, on radio airwaves, in award speeches, in theatre, in music, in poetry.

When we speak out we can make our messages clear, as Dario Fo did in his Italian theatre decades ago, and we can also write poetry that is nuanced, that speaks for as much as of, that speaks against and also speaks with. Poets have done this across time, through the travesties of world wars, the plundering and poisoning of the planet, the widening of the gulf between rich and poor, the cruel and ignorant hierarchies that privilege gender and race, slave labour and privileged greed. I am thinking of education systems that stunt learning rather than nourish multiple options, health systems that deny access to the best drugs and care while stretching nurses and doctors to breaking point. I am thinking of the dispossessed and the hungry, water that is failing, flora and fauna that is at risk.

I am thinking of a world where a few maniac babyboychild leaders smash the lives and homes and futures of mothers fathers sons daughters aunts uncles friends scholars journalists frontline workers for reasons that are in no way linked to the good and wellbeing of our planet.

So at a time when my own writing pen has frozen, and my heart is breaking, and my energy jar manages a handful of daily drops, I am determined to keep Poetry Shelf as a connection point for poetry readers and writers in Aotearoa New Zealand.

So often we don’t know the stories hidden in the person standing next to us, the toughness and the challenges they are navigating in a world that is bent over and slam winded.

Let us counter leaders that have no concept of compassion, empathy, wisdom.

Your support and contributions and ongoing kindnesses are poetry gold.

let us speak out to for with

First Impressions

Vice-President Spiro Agnew brought his wife,
an Apollo 10 astronaut, a fleet of newsmen
and a score of aides to spread his message of goodwill
through the Pacific,
but hundreds of long-haired ruffians stood outside
the Intercontinental Hotel in Auckland
yelling, ‘One two three four
we don’t want your stupid war.’

He could tell in a flash they were
the brown-rice, I-Ching ruffians
the kidney-bean, carrot-cake–with-cream-cheese ruffians
the Carlos Castaneda, LSD ruffians
the Ban-the-Bomb, Give-Peace-a-Chance ruffians
the Mother-Earth, home-birth ruffians
the Be-Here-Now, flower-power ruffians
the I-love-Woodstock, Moosewood-cookbook ruffians
(give a year or two).

He could tell that in an instant.

After all the kerfuffle and the police batons drawn,
he raised his eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders
and said with all the goodwill in the world,
‘They have nothing constructive to offer.’

Paula Green
from The Baker’s Thumbprint (Seraph Press, 2013)