Not many younger poets sent me poems about ice but there were loads of dreaming poems. I have always loved poems that dream because poetry is a close relation with its slants, mists, hallucinations, and deep personal cores. I sometimes think that to dream is to write. To enter the opaque, to reclaim the obvious, to have no idea where you will end up or how you will get there. To astonish yourself.
I am so very grateful to the poets and publishers who have backed my themed poetry season with such loving support.
Ten poems about dreaming
the dream is real
the moon is an open eye
high in the sky or winking
at the world below
the wind is the sea’s breath
rustling the leaves in the trees
night is a dark river
flowing through the day
a bird is a song
the dream is real
clouds are ghosts
flight is a wing
Apirana Taylor
from a canoe in midstream, Canterbury University Press, 2009
Insomnia
it is a black night
I lie perfectly still
mine is the long
awake adult body
two small boys
flickering at either side
night sweats
bad dreams
fluttering in and
out of sheets
I lie black
in between
head
thorax, abdomen
trembling children
my wings
Karlo Mila
from A Well Written Body, Huia Press, 2008
My Father Dreams of His Father
My father dreams of his father
walking in the garden of the old family homestead
on Kawaha Point.
I have not been back since he passed away.
As decrepit dogs wander off under trees
to sniff out their final resting places,
elderly men wait in the wings
rehearsing exit lines.
I’m sure my grandfather never envied his dog more
than during those last days.
I’m sure, given the choice, he would have preferred
to slip away under the magnolias.
The garden is tended by different hands now.
My grandmother still walks by the lake,
her little dog in tow. The current man of the house
is more interested in the chasing of swans
than the cultivating of camellias.
My father dreams of his father
walking in the garden of the old family homestead
on Kawaha Point.
I have not been back since he passed away.
Claudia Jardine
from AUP New Poets 7, ed. Anna Jackson, Auckland University Press, 2020
Sentries
I’m frantically chasing my mother who weaves in and out of the aisles throwing down craft supplies. I trip over scissors and quick unpicks
not seeing her face, only clean ponytail and collar poking out over plum cardigan. We run between shelves of antique vases but lose contact with the linoleum
and float out. In this world we drive couches like cars. I’m picking one up from the junkyard with a blue shag cushion for reference. Bumper stickers are glinting
while the couches lie gridlike. We scramble through the drivers’ seats running fingers through the upholstery. In the winter gardens there are fish tanks
nestled between succulents. One has a tangle of thin eels within it. Boys tap on the home of a solitary neon tetra until it shatters. I hold the fragments together
and try to keep the fish swimming in a handful of glass and water. They put me in the newspaper. I run out to catch you in the ocean, my mother
but you keep dipping under. As I look around I notice, embedded in rock formations are those white plastic fans, not rotating anymore just facing the horizon.
Lily Holloway
originally published at The Spin Off, October, 2020
interventionalist god
in my dream nick cave had a long, thick black mane.
it swung around his hips, kissed
with a bright white streak
snaking its length.
he served noodle soup at the concert
full of moving mushrooms, blooming
into elegant dancing technicolour spores;
tasted like purple.
the show was very red, like the blood
of his falling son. my mother
was falling too,
drunkenly, over crimson seats,
hurting her back and lying down with the room spinning.
pissing off the man in the toupee, and toupee’s wife.
nick drawled, don’t worry,
sung a song sad and it broke us,
spun around inside a steel cage,
spray-painted KINGS on our leather jackets
so we could get into his next stadium show free.
afterwards, we matched up our snails in the foyer.
nick was smoking through tears out back,
about to catch a flight, saying,
i think i’ve met someone with your name,
and it was you already.
Hebe Kearney
Lake Wakatipu
A jade lizard bends in a circle,
chasing its tail;
straightens, and darts for a crevice.
Mist swathes in grey silk the lake:
flat-stomached, calm, slow-pulsed,
a seamless bulk.
Vapours spiral,
pushing up to a cloud-piercer,
where snow has been sprinkled
like powder from a talc can at height.
Grandeur stands muffled.
The Earnslaw headbutts shorewards.
After lying prone for years,
rocks shift downwards
at speed, eager to wheel
through air, crash in a gully,
and not move.
The lake buttons up to dive deep,
leaving a perfectly blank black space,
through which you might fall forever.
David Eggleton
from Edgeland and other poems, Otago University Press, 2018
Daisy
This town is just one great big farm. The main road runs alongside these power poles tilted over green green paddocks, the lines all sagging, the poles on the piss. You hit it at forty k and slug down the main street, past the Strand, the Top Pub, the Nott. Past blue election billboards and wooden fences painted red with Water Gouging and Inheritance Tax. The arterial line is just panel beaters, tractors, pots of pink flowers dripping from shop windows. She says they look like icing. And these cows. There are forty-two of them, all painted up to look cultural. Blue like an old tea cup, pearls and roses dribbling over the rim. One unzipped at the side, with muscle and guts peeking out like baked beans and salmon. One flower power cow, real LSD yellow and orange, like it sorta wandered over from Woodstock and got lost for years and years. Little kids run across the road just to touch them. Name their favourites after their pet cats. Rusty, Mittens, Boots. They’re bolted to the pavement so at night they just haunt the main street, all washed out and hollow. But the worst is that giant one right at the start of town. Two stories high, with black splotches like flames of tar. I have these dreams that the paddocks are on fire and the ground is opening up and all you can hear is mooing. The Mega Cow watching over his herd like some great milky God. The trains rattle past at dawn and wake me up. The cows hardly blink.
Aimee-Jane Anderson-O’Connor
from Ngā Kupu Waikato: an anthology of Waikato Poetry, ed. Vaughan Rapatahana, Self Published, 2019
Tilting
The woman on the bus said
I’ve never been on a bus before
as she lifted her bag
a miniature suitcase
black and shiny as a beetle.
Next time you’ll know what to do
said the driver as he stood on the brakes
pointed to the building on the left and said
The lift’ll take you to The Terrace.
There were no ledges on The Terrace
just buildings tilting and leaning
and the wind to push against.
That night, unpacked and tired
the woman climbed on her black beetle bag
and flew across the harbour
soaring above its flat cool face
staring deep into its mouth
and wondering about earthquakes.
The next morning the bus driver couldn’t shake
the woman from his mind.
As he left the depot
his bus pshishing and grinding through peak hour flow
he checked his mirror
but she wasn’t there
instead he saw the edges of his bus converting
row by row, slice by slice
into a huge loaf of bread.
The aroma filled the aisles
stirring the appetites of even
his sleepiest passengers
and when he neared the end of Lambton Quay
all that was left of the bus, was the crust.
Some like the crust, some don’t, he thought
as he chewed and chomped
until the last crumb fell
into the gutter, into the drain
into the harbour, and out to sea.
What now? he said
peering skywards, catching a glint.
Trish Harris
published under the title ‘Openings’ in New Zealand Poetry Society Anthology 2015/2016
bone / tired
I am tired to my bones
this exhaustion
has wrapped around my ribs
sunk into my jaw
slunk
down
each vertebrae
I take deep slow breaths
each exhale
rattles the cage of ribs
I don’t sleep anymore
I just rattle around the house
the rooms empty of the wakeful
I touch each wall
like a talisman
like an averter of the evil eye
to avert whichever evil
might choose us tonight
I keep vigil
I don’t sleep anymore
rattle the bones
of the sleeping
I am rattled
to my bones
I don’t sleep anymore
the bones of my shoulders
have permanently rolled inward
they hunch
waiting for a fight
for a blow
I have never been in a fight
just in anticipation
of the fight, the flight
there are 27 bones in the human hand
I count them all
in lieu of sleeping
I am tired to my bones
I don’t sleep anymore
Rose Peoples
Pasture and flock
Staring up into the sky my feet
anchor me to the ground so hard
I’m almost drowning, drowning,
in air, my hair falling upwards
around my shoulders, I think I’ll hug
my coat closer. I’m standing
on hundreds of blades of grass, and
still there are so many more
untrodden on. Last night, in bed,
you said, ‘you are the sheet
of linen and I am the threads,’ and
I wanted to know what you meant
but you wouldn’t wake up to tell me
and in the morning you didn’t
remember, and I had forgotten
till now when I think, who is
the blades of grass, who is the pasture?
It is awfully cold, and my coat
smells of something unusual.
It almost seems as if it is the stars
smelling, as if there were
an electrical fault in the sky,
and though it is almost too dark
to see I can see the sheep
moving closer, and the stars
falling. I feel like we are all
going to plunge into the sky
at once, the sheep and I,
and I am the sheep and I am
the flock, and you are the pasture
I fall from, the stars and the sky.
Anna Jackson
from Pasture and Flock: New & Selected Poems, Auckland University Press, 2018
Aimee-Jane Anderson-O’Connor was awarded the 2018 Charles Brasch Young Writers’ Essay Competition, and the 2017 Monash Prize for Emerging Writers. Her work has appeared in Starling, Mayhem, Brief, Poetry New Zealand, Landfall, Turbine, Flash Frontier, Mimicry, Min-a-rets, Sweet Mammalian, Sport and Verge. She is Poetry New Zealand‘s 2021 Featured Poet. She writes thanks to the support of some of the best people on this great watery rock.
David Eggleton is the Aotearoa New Zealand Poet Laureate 2019 – 2022. His most recent book is The Wilder Years: Selected Poems, published by Otago University Press.
Trish Harris has written two books – a poetry collection My wide white bed and a memoir The Walking Stick Tree. She teaches non-fiction on the Whitireia Creative Writing Programme, is co-founder of Crip the Lit and edited their 2019 pocketbook, ‘Here we are, read us: Women, disability and writing’. She says she’s a part-time crane operator…but maybe she’s dreaming?
Lily Holloway has a Teletubby tattoo and is forthcoming in AUP New Poets 8. You can find more of her work here
Anna Jackson lectures at Te Herenga Waka/Victoria University of Wellington, lives in Island Bay, edits AUP New Poets and has published seven collections of poetry, most recently Pasture and Flock: New and Selected Poems (AUP 2018). Thoughts on dreaming and on being dreamed about can be found here and here.
Claudia Jardine (she/her) is a poet and musician based in Ōtautahi/Christchurch. In 2020 she published her first chapbook, The Temple of Your Girl, with Auckland University Press in AUP New Poets 7 alongside Rhys Feeney and Ria Masae. Her work has also been published in Starling, Sport, Landfall and Stasis. For the winter of 2021, Jardine will be one of the Arts Four Creative Residents in The Arts Centre Te Matatiki Toi Ora, where she will be working on a collection of poems.
Hebe Kearney is a poet from Christchurch who now calls Auckland her home. Her work has appeared in The Three Lamps, Oscen, Starling, Forest and Bird, a fine line, and the Poetry New Zealand Yearbook 2021.
Dr Karlo Mila (MNZM) is a mother, writer, award-winning poet and leadership programme director. Of Tongan and Pākehā descent, her creative and professional career has focused upon Pasifika peoples in Aotearoa. Her book Dream Fish Floating won the best first book of poetry in the NZ literary awards in 2005. Karlo lives in Tāmaki Makaurau with her three sons. Her third poetry book Goddess Muscle was published by Huia in 2020.
Rose Peoples is from Te Awakairangi/Lower Hutt. She is a student at Victoria University and, having finished her law degree last year, decided that the logical next step was to embark upon a Masters in Literature. She is a bookseller at Good Books. Her work has previously appeared in Cordite, Mimicry and Starling.
Apirana Taylor, Ngati Porou, Te Whanau a Apanui, Ngati Ruanui, Te Ati Awa, is a nationally and internationally published poet, playwright, short story writer, novelist, actor, painter and musician. He has been Writer in Residence at Canterbury and Massey Universities. He frequently tours nationally and internationally visiting schools, tertiary institutions and prisons reading his poetry, storytelling and taking creative writing workshops. He has written six collections of poetry, a book of plays, three collections of short stories, and two novels. His work has been included in many national and international anthologies.
Ten poems about clouds
Twelve poems about ice
NZ Poetry Shelf 