Tuesday: Poetry Shelf Playing Favourites: Serie Barford picks Albert Wendt
Wednesday: Poetry Shelf Playing Favourites – Philippa Werry chooses Bill Manhire
Thursday: Poetry Shelf Te Araroa Dispatch 3 – poems and images by Jillian Sullivan
Friday: Poetry Shelf conversation and reading – Here & Thereafter by Alice Miller
This week I have ended up with a lot of unanswered emails – I aim to get to them over the coming week. Thanks for getting in touch! You are welcome to send me review copies but I can never promise to review them all. Send to: PO Box 58 Waitākere 0816.
If you have a poem that fits my ongoing series Speaking Out To For With – do send – political gets personal, personal gets political, poetry speaks out and sideways and whether quietly or loudly. paulajoygreen@gmail.com
And do send poetry news!
Wanted to add so much more here but after a week of storm power cuts in ten minutes we have scheduled cut for the day!!
Here & Thereafter, Alice Miller Liverpool University Press, 2026
When we’re young we know poems matter, later we still know but have to admit there’s no way they can. After all, much more than sandcastles are vanishing. With these odds, one part must keep singing and it’s that proof we keep.
Alice Miller from ‘Old Romantic’
Paula: Often when I read a new poetry collection, it shifts and resettles what poetry can be and do, refreshes the light and dark of the world. Your new collection is an incredible conduit for light and dark. What was tough and what was illuminating as the book came into being?
Alice: Thank you. It feels quite mad writing poems when the world’s perched on the brink of apocalypse and we’re only coming up with more alarming ways to tip ourselves over the edge. But with poems, I still want to multiply the world, to blast it open, to see a thousand places at once. The machinery of poems—the page, the line break, the stanza break—are all so exciting. What lightness is acceptable in such darkness? I don’t know the answer, but this book certainly grapples with that question.
I left the death certificate of my grandmother in our mailbox for days, as if to invite
her back to Berlin where she was born, as if she might like to have come last night
to the Akademie der Künste for the talk by Claudia Rankine
about the new words we’re not allowed to say.
from ‘Future Proof’
Paula: I also embraced the collection as an echo chamber. I was drawn to the movement between past and present, especially the past and present of Anna, your German Jewish grandmother, especially on the brink of WWII, and especially as we face multiple brinks and unfoldings of war in 2026. How did contemporary circumstances affect you as you wrote?
Alice: Yes, there are very noisy echoes between past and present here. The month before my son was born, Russia invaded Ukraine and troops were shooting at a nuclear power plant a thousand miles from where we live in Berlin. And I realised, oh right. I’d thought my family stories were these dramatic war stories (and they are, about the Holocaust, WWII bombings in London, the creation of the atom bomb), but I also saw how much they’re just stories from a continual flow of conflict. As I was writing about my grandmother fleeing Germany in the 1930s, the German Government was supporting Israel to carry out a genocide in Gaza, and we were all forbidden from saying the word “genocide” in public. As if our silence could erase the fact that it was occurring.
I don’t think we can stay here. Anna left to get as far as she could from Europe and now we see it again. But what use leaving for those who can’t? What use speech?
Out on the Strip, a woman sings, glint of gold at her wrist. Moon’s own slice of sky. Ragged waves pull at sand, again, and again.
from ‘Gaza’
Paula: I love how you return to the mantra, the personal is political, and flip it so acutely to the political is personal. I get to think and feel your poems. Your poetry is intimate at the level of self and family stories and equally vital in a wider more global reach. How important is it to both speak out and challenge and to share an intimate self?
Alice: I’m so glad that works. It was important to me that this book did that, or at least tried to. I found the balance really difficult.
Paula: I love Bill Manhire’s endorsement: “There aren’t many historians who sing, but singing is exactly what Alice does in this new book”. You sing so much into being, into remembering, into imagining: the horrors and catastrophes, a newborn baby, forgotten stories, home, most especially home. Your book is still singing in me. Are there other poets or whose poetry books who sing in you?
Alice: Definitely. I love Diane Seuss’ Modern Poetry, which I recommend to anyone who’s lost their faith in poems (it happens to us all sometimes). We were lucky enough to see Anne Carson read recently, and she’s such an extraordinary writer—and performer, too. I keep going back to Jericho Brown’s The Tradition and the ways he plays with form. I’ve also been reading Vicente Huidobro’s fragmentary, urgent Arctic Poems, translated by Tony Frazer. Closer to home, I definitely need to catch up, but I’m a fan of recent (recent to me!) books by Rebecca Hawkes and Erik Kennedy.
Paula: I picture us in a cafe drinking coffee and sharing favourite lines from the collection, lines that stop me in my reading tracks. Like: “how the poet knows how / to keep the whole world from spilling into her”. And like: “always the river / stepped in up to my neck, soaking me in time”. And this: “and how tremendous we are / when we go back home / if only we can remember / which song home is”. Can you share a couple of favourite lines?
Alice: I love this idea. I tried to add to this, but I find every line insists on clinging to the next! But I like your collection of lines very much. Thanks, Paula.
In the dream my friends were all suddenly architects. It had something to do with holding things up. A bridge had collapsed, and everyone I knew was talking about how they would fix it, or else how they wished they’d never studied architecture and instead become an actor. There were lemurs on the fallen bridge; fur-covered creatures leaping between weeds that now were building their green shots through the broken concrete.
from ‘Bridges’
a reading
‘Everyone’s Here, Stranger’
‘Unpromised Lands’
‘Now and Never’
‘Relief’
Alice Miller’s fourth poetry collection is Here & Thereafter (Pavilion, 2026). She is also the author of a novel, More Miracle than Bird (Tin House). Alice lives in Berlin, but she and her family are planning to return to Aotearoa in 2027.
Join us to celebrate the publication of Watching Television in a Love Motel, an unforgettable first book of poetry by Haro Lee. The book will be launched by Jenna Todd.
Friday 17 July, 6pm Upstairs at Time Out Bookstore: 432 Mount Eden Road, Mount Eden, Auckland Free event — all welcome!
In this unforgettable first book of poetry by Haro Lee, television – like love – binds us and liberates us; inspires, infuriates and illuminates us.
Watching Television in a Love Motel is a poetic chronicle of Haro’s time in Aotearoa, South Korea and the United States of America. In four parts – ‘Daytime Television’, ‘Primetime Television’, ‘Late Night Television’, and ‘Graveyard Slot’ – she looks at her past, family and self with the help of the unwavering cultural force that is TV. Big subjects are caught in its glow: God, drugs, love, anti-motherhood, intergenerational trauma, loneliness, failure, and 3am existential anxiety.
The final section is a love letter to a dying neighbourhood in Seoul. Set against the heartache of a rapidly developing nation, this is the story of one girl and her life with a beloved grandmother.
Haro Lee was born in the Year of the Rat in Tāmaki Makaurau. Her work has been published in The Spinoff, Michigan Quarterly Review and Poetry Northwest, among others. Watching Television in a Love Motel is her first book.
Join us and Time Out Bookstore on Tuesday 7 July at 6pm to celebrate the publication of AUP New Poets 12, with Anuja Mitra, Loretta Riach and Zephyr Zhang, with Anne Kennedy, our marvellous New Poets editor, who will launch the book.
The book isn’t officially out until 9 July, so come along to Time Out and get a special early copy, and hear these talented poets read from their collections. This event is the first in Time Out’s Winter Poetry series, so mark your diaries for all three events this July and August.
AUP New Poets 12 brings together three careful observers of the everyday and the ineffable. Anuja Mitra, Loretta Riach and Zephyr Zhang tell of wandering through cities, ghostworking from office cubicles and sweating through heat waves and tax season; of grappling with questions of alienation, belonging, lust and grief.
Though irreverence and a generational malaise might hover at the poems’ edges, tenderness forms their centre, as when Zhang encounters a house on the back of a truck in the small hours of the morning:
I would say look! how lucky we are to know that magic still happens if we stay awake to see it
With humour, vulnerability and flair, these collections navigate being young in precarious times – and mark the arrival of three confident new voices in New Zealand poetry.
photo credit: Liz Sullivan all other photos: Jillian Sullivan
Leaving Martin’s Hut
I’d already learnt two lessons – that water is the one thing
you cannot lose. And that joy is not hand painted in nature
just for you. It doesn’t speak out from trees, moss, sky.
It’s not something you harvest by walking by. Not a given.
That moment you laid down his head. Such deaths
do not transfigure in forest light. There is only mud and
the sucking sound of each footstep in mud and the wet silt
smell of mud. No panacea for the upside down of grief.
Nothing means anything here, nothing cares you are there, you
almost don’t care you are there so debilitated by wet earth.
Whatever you came looking for does not arise nor descend, nor bathe
your eyes. Beauty is not an answer.
If there is an answer. There are only the trees,
their roots in clods and moisture, living on.
Boundary Hut, Mavora Lakes
A way station here, six left early. In the rain, another tramper approaches. She eats with us, shows us the food she packs: Nutella,
corn chips (squashed), couscous, oreos (dipped in Nutella). “Where is home?” I ask. She thinks. “Seattle’s my built home, Utah where I was born. Now,
I don’t know where I’ll live.” “When I hitched to the supermarket,” I tell her, “I felt like an alien in the aisles, my big pack, clumping boots.” “And I don’t smell
good,” she says. “And I shop like a child: candy, candy, chocolate, noodles. But it’s a simple life. Walk, eat, filter water, try to sleep, walk, eat. Maybe get to
talk to someone. Walk, eat. When I planned the trip it seemed daunting. But on it, it’s a small thing. Just walking.”
Pass Burn
Some streams are built of gravel, fine stones a boot can safely weigh upon, and others you come across in a gully consist of boulders like the hind quarters of a slumbering elephant. Pass Burn,
unpassable just the day before, writhes before us; the final crossing to Greenstone Hut. This bronze-hued water curving and breaking; jade green, yellow, tawny, white frothed, entrancing
if you didn’t have to slide down the bank and enter it, arms linked behind packs, legs almost trembling with the fizz and surge. You slide each foot along the stream bed as if it is unrelated to the wildness your knees and thighs encounter. Halfway,
it seems we will make it. Like the young people we met on the track, who, when we asked how the crossing was, called back, “It’s fine. It’s fine. You’ll be ok!”
Leaving, again.
It’s still raining, the rivers on high water alert. I’m grounded, read Whatsapp,
South Island section, those anxious for news: “How is the river level?” “How is the track?”
“Can anyone offer me a sitting-room floor?” I’m steeped
in grandchildren, lucky to rest in warm shelter. The reek of my wet socks
quelled by appliances. From Twizel, ’ll forge onwards, grateful then for any
lift from a stranger, a floor during rain. I cannot comprehend it yet, this final
cutting loose – first my home, then family, all backstops gone. The question why
am I walking this trail invokes another question – how can I ever
return?
Things they carry
Sean carries an 11-kilogram log on his shoulders. It’s glossy black with silver names. He’s raising money for Make a Wish. I ask him if the log helps him. “Sometimes, in the wind it holds me in place. I can’t imagine walking without it. I love it,” he says.
The French woman carrying her mountain bike on her shoulders up to Stag Saddle tells me it’s the worst decision she ever made. Riding down the ridges on the other side, towards the lake, she will forget that.
One young woman collected bones on the way, attached them to her pack. A Czech Republic man fastened his microcloth blazened I am William on his pack.
I missed the woman carrying the abandoned kitten, Tomo in his coolie hat, the man raising funds carrying two golf bags full of clubs on his shoulders (“I saw him cross a river like that,” a tramper tells me. “It didn’t look easy.”
And then there are those who carry what’s incomprehensible, invisible, unspoken.
Comyns Hut
At Comyns Hut there is a rat, so the hut book warns, and the app.
I don’t take the last top bunk in a room of strangers, (southbounders)
their robust togetherness sharpens my sense of loneliness. Fatigue.
I’m slow to raise the tent, and after those river crossings, too tired to collect water,
too sore to walk to the long drop, too self-conscious to talk to anyone. Grief
gets away on you when the lid of wonder falls. I boil half my water for cooking,
lie back on my mat. When its dark, I’ll pee outside. Always a solution to
practical matters. For loneliness, much more is required. I have only the
consolation of the sleeping bag, of horizontal rest. May the earth
hold me, infuse me, somehow give me strength to move on from here.
Leading up
The path was always leading, it was the only imperative.
The day thankfully blue-skied, thankfully no wind, not even
searing with heat, just that direction, which climbed into the mineral air.
Surely, sometimes, I thought, or said out loud, I won’t have to go up there?
That craggy summit, that narrow lifting path? I shook with obedience,
I was my own cavalry galloping onside, bellowing orders, ready
to rescue; that grey button always an option, like surrender. Oh, but one
foot after another, even when the track disappeared, even when my knees
flamed behind the bone. What was that impulse anyway, to keep
going? Love of shelter at the end of day, love of comfort? Oh,
mattress, I honour you. A tap for water, a level surface to cook.
All this, and something like curiosity, always wanting an
answer to what the track did next.
Waiau Pass
It’s a white Christmas on my tent, as if the sky condensed to frost (waking in the night to pull on hat, jacket, socks) all the while black granite up ahead. Like some execution you’re being led to, but willingly. You won’t rescind, no community or graffiti will save you, you’re walking right up to it, eyes wide. Besides, there are others, younger, clambering up to the pass. They’re not thinking trial, it could even be a mall for them – turquoise lake, stone, sky, so you pretend to be like them (but not as agile) pretend pretend If you fall backwards right now you will die. But you have a choice not to.
Jillian Sullivan
Jillian Sullivan lives in the Ida Valley, Central Otago. Her thirteen published books include creative non-fiction, novels, short stories and poetry. Her latest book is Map for the Heart- Ida Valley Essays, Otago University Press.
Too many Draculas are coming down the road. It’s sunset, they’re fixing their heads on right. They need the deep, dark night. They need blood on their teeth, they’re wondering who they’ll meet. Maybe me, maybe you, maybe some brand new Draculas. Here take this stake, and see how many you can get. Pick them off one by one. Don’t give up yet, you can always use the cross. Get the slow ones first, they’re often weak from starving. They think they’re ageless, but Jesus take a look! Anaemic is surely the word that comes to mind. Their posture is good, but frequently they trip. That’s when you act. Find out where they feed. Now you can watch whole sections of the city crumple. So much rubble, so much blood. Also too many Draculas these days writing poetry: they should stick to screenplays. Also, too many Draculas getting library cards, they take out all the books and never bring them back. And now they’re putting pressure on our hospitals. They flop and lie about, just picking at their food. They dream all day of secret lairs and lonely paths. It’s always hit or miss. They blow us all a kiss then promise to unlock an age of economic bliss. Too many Draculas, too many Draculas, all climbing up the waiting list.
Bill Manhire
from Lyrical Ballads, Te Herenga Waka University Press, 2026
Too many Draculas
Last November, the National Library hosted ‘Laureates line up’, a poetry reading event featuring nearly all living New Zealand Poets Laureate.
During the evening, Bill Manhire read from his new book Lyrical Ballads which came out in February 2026. ‘I spend far too much time on social media’, he said, and mentioned a post about Dracula’s grave (or lack of) at a church in Whitby, before reading his poem “Too many Draculas”. I didn’t follow the reference about why Dracula’s grave was (or wasn’t?) at Whitby (and why Whitby?) From a few puzzled looks around me, I thought others were equally mystified.
Thinking about it later, I realised that it didn’t make sense because I hadn’t ever read Dracula, only Frankenstein – which has been the case with everyone I’ve mentioned this to; people think they’ve read Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897) but they’re all thinking of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818).
So the first gift this poem gave me was the enjoyment of hearing Bill read it; the second was the unexpected pleasure of reading one of the classics for the first time, and the third was how it led me down so many fascinating rabbit holes (perhaps, a bit like Bill on social media).
The story about how Bram Stoker came to be in Whitby and what inspired him his book is such an interesting insight into how creative imagination works, again, perhaps much like Bill’s, prompted by that social media post which could have been someone snapped a pic of the notice pinned to the door of St Mary’s Church in Whitby: ‘Please do not ask staff where Dracula’s grave is as there isn’t one. Thank you.’
I love the playfulness in this poem which seems both serious and not, and the way the end and internal rhymes lift and lighten it. The opening declaration (“Too many Draculas are coming down the road”) raises all sorts of questions: which road? Where are they going? How many Draculas is too many? The casual, almost flippant “Maybe me, maybe you”, five lines in, also makes us wonder who the narrator is addressing with their helpful and precise instructions about methods of approach: stakes, crosses and targeting the weaker ones first. I’m entertained by the way the narrator’s voice shifts at “Also… Also…” from its initial matter of fact tone to one that is more petulant, even whiny, the same complaint repeated five times: “too many Draculas”.
“Also too many Draculas / these days writing poetry; they should stick / to screenplays”. Somehow you can read this declaration, treating these mythical beings as an accepted part of life, as both solid fact and weird non-nonsense simultaneously. The Draculas are muscling in on territory that isn’t theirs, taking up opportunities (poetry! library cards!) that the rest of us want for ourselves and simply not doing the right thing. (They take out too many books and don’t return them!) Perhaps Draculas are to blame for everything going wrong in our society, which might be a consoling thought – it‘s always good to have something or someone else to blame. We think we know them from legend but who are they, really, the Draculas among us, making these wild gestures and promises? For a poem that seems so sure of itself, there are a lot of unanswered questions. By the final lines, the roaming vampires ( a word never used in the poem) have morphed from bloodthirsty and threatening creatures of the night to bumbling losers that ‘flop and lie about’, stuck on hospital waiting lists.
Philippa Werry
This is a poem that is “delightfully weird” (as it says on the THWUP website about the whole collection) but somehow hard to stop thinking about.
Bill Manhire (CNZM’)s latest book, Lyrical Ballads (2026). His books include Wow (2020), Some Things to Place in a Coffin (2017), Tell Me My Name (with Hannah Griffin and Norman Meehan, 2017) and The Stories of Bill Manhire (2015). He has won the New Zealand Book Award for Poetry five times, and was New Zealand’s inaugural Poet Laureate. He founded and directed the International Institute of Modern Letters at Te Herenga Waka—Victoria University of Wellington. He has edited major anthologies of New Zealand literature, including, with Marion McLeod, the now classic Some Other Country: New Zealand’s Best Short Stories (1984). In 2018 Manhire was awarded an Icon Award Whakamana Hiranga from the Arts Foundation.
Philippa Werry writes fiction, non-fiction, poetry and plays for children and young adults. Several of her books, both fiction and non-fiction, have been shortlisted for awards, including her verse novel Iris and Me, a fictional biography of writer Robin Hyde, which won the Young Adult section of the New Zealand NZ Book Awards for Children and Young Adults in 2023. Her most recent book is Degrees of Happy (Cuba Press, 2026).
Nearly always she remembers her dreams vividly At breakfast this morning she recalled she was flying through a noiseless storm across the Straits for Ruapuke and her father who was sitting on his grave in their whānau urupā wearing a cloak of raindrops and she looked down and back at her paddling feet and saw she wasn’t wearing her favourite red sandals She stopped in mid-flight in mid-storm and called Alapati get me my saviours! Woke and didn’t understand why she’d called them that
It’s been about thirteen years and that makes you the man I’ve stayed the longest with she declared unexpectedly as we cleared the breakfast dishes To her such declaration are so obvious and like raindropsyou can flick easily off a duck’s back but for me it will stay a nit burrowing permanently into my skin I won’t understand why
If I tell her that she’ll probably say You love guilt too much You read too much into things and need someone to blame So shall I blame her for staying thirteen years and plus? For not wearing her saviours and reaching her dead father who would have taken off his fabulous cloak of rain and draped it around her? Shall I blame her for not having met me when we were young and we could have been together much longer?
Or shall I as usual let it pass content that I am blessed to be with her and in her dreams one day she and I will fly togther through the voiceless storm to Ruapuke and her waiting father? She will be wearing her saviours and we will arrive safely
September-October 2005
Albert Wendt from Mānoa to a Ponsonby Garden, AUP, 2012
I chose to respond to this poem because I often sat at the breakfast table with my motherand grandmother, recounting and interpreting dreams. My grandmother said that Sāmoan dreams are conversations with ancestors and atua. I kept a dream journal for years. Dreams connect me to ancestors and ancestral knowledge. Provide glimpses of past and future events. Enable me to guide and help people.
Then I became ill. Was prescribed endocrine therapy, a treatment for hormone-positive breast cancer. Aromatase inhibitors and targeted therapy medications affected my mind. I slept a lot. Experienced brain fog. Couldn’t dream. Felt incredibly vulnerable, abandoned, frightened. Oncologists proffered antidepressants, controlled drug ‘holidays’, and counselling. This side effect of my treatment wasn’t, and still isn’t, relevant to them. They say, “It hasn’t been reported in any clinical trials or studies.”
She dreams comforted me when drugs stole my visions. The poem opens with the adverbial phrase, “Nearly always”, priming the audience to expect the reocurrance of a high-probability process, event, or condition. We encounter Reina, who refers to her partner, the narrator, as Alapati – the Sāmoan version of Albert. She vividly recalls dreams, and in a recent moemoeā had flown through a storm toward her dead father, who was sitting upon his grave, on an island called Ruapuke. She was propelled through ātea by paddling feet, but unaccountably desired to wear her favourite red sandals – her ‘saviours’. The dreamer has agency within her moemoeā. She stops flying and issues an imperative, Alapati get me my saviours!
I’m reminded of another pair of red shoes, the magical ruby slippers given to Dorothy after she’s swept away by a tornado from Kansas to the land of Oz. What is it about red shoes and flying through tempests? That’s another story. Perhaps a poem. I also note that Reina, though ancestrally linked to the Atua of thunder, flies through a noisless storm toward her waiting father, who wears a cloak of raindrops. She flys through her bloodline. Embodies the magic and mystery of sound.
I enjoy the interchanges between Albert and Reina. The in-ya-face declarations and imagined banter that demonstrate intimacy, angst, self-awareness, and most of all – the enduring substance of a treasured relationship. I’m delighted that after their sojourn in Mānoa there’s life in Ponsonby. Aroha. Alofa. And I imagine that one day, when all is as it should be, this couple will fly to Ruapuke, and the two hills will watch them arrive safely. And Reina will be wearing her saviours.
Serie Barford
* moemoeā (Māori) noun, dream
* atua (Sāmoan) “God” or a deity/supernatural spirit. Across Polynesian cultures, it refers to powerful spiritual entities or ancestral gods.
*ātea (Māori) a wide expanse, outer space, or a physical gap.
*aroha (Māori) love
*alofa (Sāmoan) love
Serie Barford was born in Aotearoa to a German-Samoan mother (Lotofaga) and a Pālagi father. She held a 2018 Pasifika Writer’s residency at the Michael King Centre, performed at the 2019 International Book Arsenal Festival in Kyiv, and collaborated with filmmaker Anna Marbrook for the 2021 Going West Different Out Loud poetry series. Her poetry collection (2021), Sleeping with Stones, was shortlisted for the Mary and Peter Biggs Award for Poetry at the 2022 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. Standing on My Shadow (Anahera, 2025) was longlisted for the 2026 Ockham Book Awards.
Maualaivao Albert Wendt CNZM is of the āiga Sa-Maualaivao of Malie, āiga Sa-Su‘a of Lefaga, āiga Sa-Patu of Vaiala and āiga Sa-Asi of Moata‘a, Sāmoa. An esteemed poet, novelist, short-story writer, playwright and painter, he is also Emeritus Professor of English at the University of Auckland, specialising in New Zealand and Pacific literatures and creative writing. Wendt has been an influential figure in the developments that have shaped New Zealand and Pacific literature since the 1970s and was made Companion of the New Zealand Order of Merit in 2001 for his services to literature. His Adventures of Vela, a novel in verse, was published in 2008; and his co-edited collection Mauri Ola: Contemporary Polynesian Poems in English was shortlisted for the 2011 New Zealand Post Book Awards.
Todd Barrowclough’s interview with Albert at ANZL Academy of NZ Literature
Suzanne’s face I can still find among hard copy photos I keep under the sun seat but her voice her voice fades I didn’t or couldn’t record it & only I can witness the time she says to my mother at our bush-held home
I don’t like them there o’possums Mrs F.
Midnight snuffling possums were too common to bother me but the owl the one we call Morepork or Ruru the owl is a call wanting a reply a call into darkness towards the untouchable stars
answer me answer me
& I listen wait for another owl’s reply if there’s no answering call the owl calls again over & over & I listen as silence seeps into me
& absence makes itself known to me.
Sue Fitchett
Sue Fitchett is a conservationist, volunteer fire fighter & Waiheke Islander. Authored Palaver lava queen (AUP: 2004), On the Wing (Steele Roberts: 2014) and Between (The Cuba Press 2025). Co-author or editor of several poetry books & anthologies. Work has appeared in various publications in Aotearoa/New Zealand & overseas & exhibited in art shows. Louis Johnson Bursar 2001-2002.
NZ Poetry Shelf 