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Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: Memory is a Family Circle by Michelle Elvy

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Memory is a Family Circle

Memory scratches from LPs played on a turntable in
a mahogany cabinet, the one with crystal bottles behind
the little door, all these things we did not yet understand:
Jesus Christ Superstar, whiskey and Hair and cycles of
revolution and change, the dizzy spinning (way before we
opened the liquor cabinet), worlds we were stepping into
as we set the discs in motion.

We handled them with care, as shown by our parents: Set
the needle down gently, just so, and make sure to select the
right speed: the big ones are 33s, your Home on the Range
and Bambi, 45s. We were proud when allowed to handle
the arm, our little hands pushing it over, our breaths
held before the music began. We did not know then
how important speed was,

that these numbers meant revolutions per minute, how
this record meant record, made voices come alive, speak
to us from a distance. We went to sleep with Yvonne
Elliman’s lullabies and Bing Crosby singing from wide open
plains, zephyrs gently tickling our dreams. We did not yet
know that sound is memory, how it’s physical, and real
how dance becomes muscle memory,

how we can still do the hustle today, our old hearts
thumping in time to the music, rocking to raucous 70s
beats that turned over Elvis and Chuck Berry, even when
we grew into rolling stones. And later, when I could
not stop moving, I learned memory is a rolling ocean,
carrying all creatures past present and future, all sense of
what matters most,

hydrogen and oxygen in the right amounts water balancing
everything, the sea floating our boat and carrying us
forward, perpetual rhythm, day after day and so on and
so on. The moon pulling seas, night after night, the suck
of tidal breath as ocean currents and tradewinds move in
constant flow round our beloved earth and we give into this,
this natural cycle of our turning world,

our westbound lives illuminated by everything we’ve ever
learned, ever danced, ever heard from before. My mother
told me: memory is the garden your Ma planted, the cycle
of her farm, the sun and moon and sun and moon again,
memory is this candle we light, she said, it’s the way we
celebrate Christmas each year, not the photos of lost ones
but the way they keep

shining. I tell my children: memory is a ship sailing round
the globe, romping with wind and current, dolphins
and whales and animals we cannot see, all singing in the
depths beneath, their frequencies their own, circling the
globe, too, our ship trailing this phosphorescence, this
remarkable light, this idea of all living things, a glowing
and a disappearing 

Michelle Elvy
from Motion Sickness, At the Bay | I Te Kokoru, 2026

NOTE: after The Family Circus comic originally The Family Circle,
created in 1960 by cartoonist Bil Keane

Michelle Elvy is a writer and editor in Ōtepoti Dunedin, Aotearoa New Zealand. Her books include the everrumble, the other side of better and Motion Sickness, shortlisted for the Kathleen Grattan Poetry Award and Runner up in the John O’Connor Award. Her poem ‘Will’ is joint-Runner-Up in the Caselberg Trust International Poetry Competition. Her numerous anthologies include the forthcoming MAYDAY (edited with David Eggleton and Siobhan Harvey), an urgent call to the world from Aotearoa launching in December 2026.

Poetry Shelf Monday poem: Anchor Me – A work in progress by Serie Barford

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Anchor Me
A work in progress by Serie Barford

Preface

Anchor Me is a syncretic work inspired by the concept of a European medieval anchoress and the Samoan principles of the Four Harmonies, as explained by Tui Ātua.

An anchoress withdrew from secular life for religious reasons. Was permanently enclosed in a specific location. Symbolically buried alive. She was permitted to keep a cat – not a cow or a goat. The geographical co-ordinates of her anchorhold were a beacon for people seeking healing, spiritual guidance, the peace and glory of heavenly communion.

According to Tui Ātua, in order to achieve peace one must achieve harmony. The four harmonies are:

• Cosmic Harmony: Connecting with the universe and the broader spiritual realm

• Environmental Harmony: Protecting and respecting the land, sea, and all living things

• Social Harmony: Respecting and supporting fellow human beings and the community

• Personal Harmony: Maintaining inner peace and health.

Each poem is a monologue: a vignette designed to be read aloud. The  collection as a whole is envisaged as a hopeful, joyful, healing interaction between a 21st century anchoress, her visitors, and the audience.

Note

His Highness Tui Ātua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Efi is a former Head of State, Prime Minister and MP for Samoa. Widely acknowledged to be one of the leading cultural custodians of the Pacific, he is the author of Su’esu’e Manogi: In Search of Fragrance exploring Samoa’s ‘indigenous reference’.

Becoming an anchoress

My world is physically shrinking. I’m increasingly anchored within an 85 m² house built in the 1950s. Imagine apple-green timber, blue window frames, a concrete tile roof perched in an overgrown garden. Feline companions sprawled in the sun.

Little Cat was born into the wild cat colony squatting in a local school. She’s ginger, with lentigo simplex – cat freckles – on her nose. Has short legs, a long tail, topaz eyes. She breached Covid lockdown. Streaked into my house. Hid behind a divan. Whelped six kittens. Five survived.

I kept Little Cat. Rather, she kept me. I’m her human. She evades caresses. Meows for food. Purrs on my bed. Resembles a fluffy sphinx. Tabitha is Little Cat’s daughter. She’s mottled ginger, black, and white. Has green eyes. Nestles into the scoliotic curve of my back at night. Adores me. Distances herself from Little Cat’s swiping paws.

I’m living with metastatic breast cancer. A rapidly approaching expiry date. Greet each day with wonder and gratitude. These poems are small acts of devotion. My ultimate lock down project.

Cuppa for a voiceless visitor

Welcome, my friend. Leave your shoes on the BEWARE OF THE CAT doormat. Ha! Great you’ve still got teeth. Can tweak a grimace into an almost smile.

I’m guiding you toward the big window. A peaceful vista. A focus as the adrenaline surge abates. You’ve flown well. Found sanctuary atop a rutted driveway. Beyond the brown rickety gates festooned with yellow and orange lichen.

Here, rest on the couch. Safe places slow breathing. Are soporific. I’ll boil the kettle. You don’t have to say anything. I can read bodies. And if you want – just sink into the lullaby of my overgrown garden. My anchorhold. Sleep.

Ahhhhh …. you’re showing me your tongue. Hmmmm …. blistered from unvoiced rage, grief, fear, lack of nourishment. And your throat – corded and clenched. I’m guessing you haven’t cried for years. Became a chameleon to remain invisible. Keep yourself safe. Emotions so strungout they ran out. Trauma can do that. Turn us into the living dead.

You’re pointing … to that box of tissues? I’ll put them next to you. They’re ready when you are. That’s such an act of courage and hope. To reach for tissues. To believe you’ll cry again. Find your voice.

May I settle you onto cushions? Create a crash pad to absorb exiting impact? It’ll relax your shoulders. Support your hips. Distribute and support stress. Then I’ll gently cover you with a light blanket. Is that okay? ….. Alright then ….Thanks.

You’re patting my hand. Almost smiled again. That’s a good sign, my friend. We’re loosening the emotional tourniquet strangling your voice. 

Softly breathe in. Breathe out.  Hā ki roto, hā ki waho.

Sip this tea. Swallow. 

NOTE: Hā ki roto, hā ki waho           (Māori)                          Breathe in, breathe out

All is one

Dawn brought news of a significant maritime earthquake. I’m reminded of the Samoan expression: A logo tai ua logo uta – What is felt in the ocean is felt in the land.

For we’re interwoven. What one part of the body feels is sensed by the entire body.

Dahlias on a windy day

Faʻatiu whips the exposed flesh of dahlias. Almost topples an elderly man wrestling flailing gates to posts. He inserts galvanised zenith hooks into matching metallic eyes. Secures an entrance for his car. Grinds a manual gearbox to a halt outside the back door. Pegs each step from the driver’s door to the coir doormat with a worn walking stick.                                         

Welcome uncle! You’ve brought slippers? Lean on the porch wall beneath the electricity meter. It’s a wind shelter. I’ll remove your outside shoes. Slip on the comfy soles you brought. Oooooh! Tartan uppers. Are you going to caper?

Ach, nae. You’re never too old, uncle. I’ll dance with you. What’s that? ….  You brought a hip flask. Some whisky – the water of life. And mechanically wrapped slices of cheese.

I’ll put the kettle on. Butter scones for the cheese.

Choose a teacup. Each one has a story…. So do your hip flasks? Ha! Bet they do. We can swap stories. Have a laugh. A cry. Whatever.

I’ll play maw. Pour the tea. … Aye …. you’ve brought what you need for a hot toddy.

I didn’t know your estranged father was an inventor. Cast imagination to the wind. You’ve always told me to sit on my creativity. That it doesn’t pay bills. Turns people into loose canons.

That’s what you feared? …..Not knowing what your da would do next. Being abandoned during creative phases. The devious truth he’d fabricate to excuse absence. The despair of a hungry family competing with imagination for resources and recognition…… Dear oh dear ….

What’s that? You’re fascinated by individually wrapped cheese slices. How automated machines delicately flip, wrap, seal each fragile slice without breaking them. Wish you’d invented the machine. Spent more time with your da.

It’s okay to bawl, Uncle. A watershed relieves a heavy heart….. There’s a hanky in your pocket ….

I’ll open the doors. Let wind rush in – rush out. Cast your sorrow to the wind.

Feeling lighter? …… Peace be with you, Uncle.

Let’s refill our cups. Stand together. Toast your maw and da.

Slàinte Mhath!



NOTE
Fa’atiu               (Samoan)                       Wind and storm deity
Ach, nae (Scottish)                       Oh no!
maw                  (Scottish)                       mother, mum
Aye                   (Scottish)                       Yes
da                     (Scottish)                       dad, pa
Slàinte Mhath!     (Scottish Gaelic)          cheers, good health  (pronounced Slan-cha-VA)

Serie Barford

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, Sleeping with Stones (Anahera Press 2021), was shortlisted for the Mary and Peter Biggs Award for Poetry at the 2022 Ockham New Zealand Book Awards. Standing on My Shadow (Anahera Press 2025) was longlisted for the 2026 Ockham Book Awards.

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: wilding by Brecon Dobbie

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wilding

caught on the strap
of my tote bag
  she crawls
like an infant 
 small 
and ruby-
 red
a coal-spotted
beauty
foraging
for warmth
  oblivious
to my silly little
ruminations
of this new city
   the sharpness
 of its blues
 how the coastline
         curves up
   stealing kisses
 from the sky
     easing into hills
   of ancient
     green
 the houses
    tucked in
     and blinking 
  tentatively
   the wind mouths
                   a prayer
          asking 
   for nothing
       naming me
 just another
    small
         living thing
        amidst
  these mountains
 it feels good
    to be reminded
              of the body
     of its place
         to feel the pull
  of every receptor
       o p e n i n g
 to the world
the sun
   an anchor
 rooted deep
     within the sky
  my feet
on uncertain
            ground
    I swing
 my bag
     over
 my shoulder
        and feel
  a shift
       in the wind
    a flash of wing
   startles
         the light
 her primordial call
                      rings out
      in my chest
 and the air

                             echoing

Brecon Dobbie

Brecon Dobbie is an Early Childhood Kaiako by day and writer by life. She finds poetry to be her place of solace. She writes to make sense of things, often without meaning to. Some of her work has appeared in Starling, Minarets Journal, Noho Tahi, and Poetry Aotearoa Yearbook.  

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: ‘In the mangroves’ by Kiri Piahana Wong

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In the mangroves

Standing amongst the mangroves,
I notice how fiercely they anchor
themselves in the mud, how they
have chosen to make this sticky,
impenetrable place
their home.

I admire that. The idea that you
could flourish in a place others
avoid, that you would love it even.
I try to disentangle myself from
the mud, but my gumboots
are stuck.

I could leave them behind,
of course. I could choose
to simply step out of them,
to walk barefoot
into a new life.

Kiri Piahana-Wong

Kiri Piahana-Wong (Ngāti Ranginui/Chinese/Pākehā) is a poet and editor, and she is the publisher at Anahera Press. Kiri is the author of two collections of poetry, Night Swimming and Tidelines, and co-editor of the anthologies Te Awa o Kupu and Short! Poto! The Big Book of Small Stories. Kiri is passionate about poetry, decolonising literature, indigenous voices and breaking down barriers for marginalised writers. She also loves nature writing, food memoirs, romance novels and her eight-year-old son. Kiri lives in northwest Auckland.

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: from ‘The Elements’ by Richard Reeve

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from The Elements

II

Already ahead of ourselves. Knowing what to do.
Look to the distant wave, crunching over reefs
far below in a bay that is open to the ocean.
The foulest of weather sweeps in off the sea;
leaves bow to the rain, branches bend,
bark peeled from tree trunks flaps in gusts.
Knowing what to do (however improbably),
we are always already ahead of ourselves, already involved.
Before there were footprints, storm, the sea.
Look out to that broken water, look into the gale.
Pay attention to rainy flux in its perpetuity.
Build yourself a house. Walls work for a while.

IV

To talk about the town is to talk time itself.
Already ahead of things, knowing exactly what to do,
they established a smelter and container port,
these after the whaling industry had dried up,
after earlier ways had been pushed into the margins
and the forest cut down for pasture.
For all time now, the port resists the waves;
for all shallow time, although that will pass,
the action of wave on breakwater, wind on steel,
destined to prevail in the natural course.
One day too the smelter, a trapped river
crying out across the sandflats, will fall silent.

VIII

Hard to say what will happen to Waituna.
Hard to know the fate of the old trees
in Omaui Reserve, what that forest will be
after the elements have rubbed out our age.
Hard to assess the fate of a water drop
suspended on a tip of flowering flax.
Hard to predict what will happen with the gorse,
whether mānuka mothered by its thorns will thrive
or whether the gorse will choke Waituna.
Hard to say how the town will evolve,
what will replace the decrepit buildings
that in their day were renowned establishments.

XV

A friend involved with the company that built it
picked Flat Hill, which might be a fairly non-descript area
though clearly it was someone else’s land
before the wind farm, before the grand conversion
of contours into platforms on which to seat the towers,
another example of the elements corralled
into servicing the ambitions of the newcomers.
By which I mean the ambit of our species,
the crackle of a moka pot on the small hob here
being likely the wind’s work, a fact of coffee brewing
on the back of the storm breaking over the hill,
the blades of the turbines stirring the dark.

XXVII

The water is not the colour you supposed it to be.
Tea-black clear, the gravel at the bottom
shining like teeth through the penumbra,
water where the eels are, raupō and wire-rush,
water bubbled by expiring peat, swamp tears,
it is not what you and I, trading thirdhand knowledge
about the qualities of the wetland, could know from a distance.
Paddle in a puddle, wetland getting in the shoe,
cold, wind-cold, water-cold, getting between the toes.
Get into that, perfectly still under mānuka
the frigid lagoon, a present haven for the ducks.
Take note of the solace she gifts her visitors.

Richard Reeve

Richard Reeve is the author of seven collections of poetry by various presses. He lives in Warrington, to the north of Dunedin. The Elements was written after a time spent in Bluff in 2023 at the kind invitation of Marcus Lush and Vanessa Underwood. It will be published by Maungatua Press at some stage.

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: Birthday card by Kay McKenzie Cooke

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Birthday card

My mokopuna made me a birthday card written in cloud-white
pen on bright blue card, the words so faint I need to read them
up close in order to take in each word and letter.
I have stuck the card to our fridge with a magnet I’ve taken out
from my Te Reo kete— a small tama who stands hands on hips
with pounamu tiki, toki tucked into his waist band, tāmoko
on his right arm. My grandson used GRANDMA as an acronym,
with Marvellous for the M, writing it as, ‘MARVYOULIS’.
He’s still learning the ins and outs of English—Saxon,
Latin, Old Norse mashed together like parsnips and carrots.
I’m learning too. Te Reo. Slowly. Learning that it is te takata,
it is te whenua. It is te hau raki, te hau taitoka, te hau rāwhiti,
te hau-ā-uru. The wind from the north, the wind from the south,
the wind from the east, the wind from the west. It is rain.
Tā te manawa. It is replacing ‘ng’ with a ‘k’. Mauka for maunga.
It is Kāi Tahu dialect. It is learning to feel sound rise
from your puku, your wairua, ready for breathing out
through soft lips as line, sentence, song, chant; with vowels
that need room to lie together, to blend, to marry. It is consonants
for my tongue to tap and roll like thunder, or manu
on the brink of flight. My mokopuna made me a birthday card
written in cloud-white pen on bright blue card, the words so faint
I need to read them up close in order to take in each word and letter.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

Kay McKenzie Cooke (Waitaha, Kāti Māmoe, Kāi Tahu) lives in Ōtepoti Dunedin between the harbour and the sea. Her new poetry collection titled, My favourite set of lights, is being published by The Cuba Press and is due out in November.  

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: ‘Connection point’ by Emma Barnes

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Connection point

There are ways to connect the electricity within us, responsibly. Patterns can be prescribed by the regulating bodies and the sub-departments within. Specific failure switches can be installed to handle operator incapacity. You can hire a qualified professional to complete the work. The best way forward, for us, right now, is just to touch each other. You can generate static electricity if you perform a set of actions in the stipulated order. Other, harder to capture electrical effects may be present in some scenarios, depending on the connection point. I have noticed flutters, zaps and sometimes a pronounced pulsing. You may notice other types of electrical phenomena. You can note down anything you’re feeling on the notepad provided. Or just tap it out in Morse Code on my arm and I’ll document it later. Yes, it is an effective technique to softly run your tongue across my bottom lip a moment before you kiss me. Please note, other participants may not respond to this gesture in the same manner. Yes, I can feel the effect in other anatomical locations. Can you? I see. I see. Perhaps you should introduce a canine tooth to the equation. Maybe we will see an uptick in voltage.

Emma Barnes

Emma Barnes (Pākehā, they/them) lives in Aro Valley, Te Whanganui a Tara | Wellington. Their poetry has been published in journals including Landfall, Turbine | Kapohau, Cordite and Best New Zealand Poems (2008, 2010, 2021). They performed in Show Ponies in 2022 and 2023. They are the author of the poetry collections I Am in Bed with You (2021) and IF WE KNEW HOW TO WE WOULD (2025) as well as co-editor with Chris Tse of Out Here: An Anthology of Takatāpui and LGBTQIA+ Writers from Aotearoa (2021). They work in tech and spend a lot of time picking up heavy things and putting them back down again.

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: Before Top Surgery by Holly Painter

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Before Top Surgery

I.

On the way to the hospital
I see breasts everywhere:

yellow-tagged dairy cows
professional lactaters;
sagging barns beside
red-topped grain silos;
murmurations of sparrows
blobbing and dispersing
over the Catskills foothills.

II.

We wait, masked and distanced,
in the mid-December soundscape
of Frank Sinatra and Mariah Carey,
tap at the Times crossword,
take turns visiting the gift shop,
scan the wall of last millennium’s donors,
share selfies the kids took yesterday.

III.

The sleep is in my arm now
and I’m sarcophagused
in toasty blankets.

The surgeon’s been in.
I stood like a Renaissance Jesus,
palms up, gown shrugged off
to my elbows as she marked up
my torso like a new play
for the offensive line.

When I wake, I will be
a mismatched children’s puzzle:
giraffe on the top, lion on the bottom
as if men and women were ever really
different species and not
variations on the same themes
of salty carbs and worrying
and walks around the block
just to see if anything’s different today:
the neighbor’s pinecone wreath
tiny icicles on the mailbox
dark-eyed junco at the feeder
fat with feathers
and the dream
of sunflowers.

Holly Painter

Holly Painter is the author of the poetry collections At last we listen closely: cryptic crossword poems (Black Spring, 2026), The pressure of all that light (Rebel Satori, 2022), My Pet Sounds Off: Translating the Beach Boys (Finishing Line, 2020),andExcerpts from a Natural History(Titus, 2015). Holly teaches in the English Department at the University of Vermont and also directs the Center for Research on Vermont.

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: Crossing by Rhian Gallagher

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Crossing

We crossed too soon at Pearl Flat
and found ourselves lagged on a kind of island
backward looking into the future; it was dusk
when we made that mistake, not knowing
it was a mistake, pegging the tent to the river meadow

event cascading to event, all night
the rain outpaced our breathing; the morning woke
slumped under the glossy rock sheets, the waterfalls
bursting from their plaits

below in the mizzle, the rain raining, tussocks
siphoning the fall into their throats. Our mood
darkened like the front – our sodden coats,
the tent sagging like a body in pain

yet, would we ever again
spend so many hours
close-reading a river
with an almost intimacy
rehearsing our long diagonals
through tangles and water-weight
the glittery flutterings.

We made a mistake, such were our days
on Pearl Flat, then the river rose and swept
what-was-left of our plans away.
We don’t own anything the sky seem to say
even ourselves we don’t own
the weather comes – it’s out of our hands.

Rhian Gallagher

Rhian Gallagher grew up in Aotearoa New Zealand. She then lived in London for 18 years, returning to Aotearoa in 2006. Her first poetry collection Salt Water Creek (Enitharmon Press) was shortlisted for the Forward Prize for First Collection, 2003. Her second collection Shift (Auckland University Press) won the NZ Post Book Award 2012. Gallagher was the Robert Burns Fellow in 2018. Her latest collection Far-Flung (AUP) was long-listed for the Mary and Peter Biggs Award for Poetry (Ockham Book Awards) 2021.

Poetry Shelf Monday Poem: All the world’s a stage, & all the poets have main character energy by Chris Tse

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All the world’s a stage, & all the poets have main character energy

Man taught a machine to write poetry with the bones
of bards past. Man forgot to tell the machine how to
worship the moon & let the intrusive thoughts win.
The machine will never understand how poetry is
gathered in the tight corners of poets’ obsessions—
or how being a poet is accepting the role of brazen
leader of the lovesick, keeping their congregation
fed & watered until the next Lorde album drops.
A machine will never understand the unbreakable
bond between main character energy & seasonal
affective disorder. A machine is a poor substitute
for poets who wield white space as a placeholder
for catharsis. You know their kind. The lost-in-
their-own-world poets who imagine every walk
to the dairy as a musical number. The vengeful
metaphor poets who get their driver’s licence
just to casually cruise past an ex’s house with
a kauri trunk hitched to their car. The chaotic
good poets who reject social mores by leaking
a group chat line by line as a thought experiment—
their hypothesis being: poetry is just gossip with
line breaks. Man trained a machine to analyse
the entirety of human creativity & surmised
that the point of poetry is sacred self-expression.
But we all know it’s not that deep. Spoiler alert:
it’s doing shots at karaoke during a transcendental
rendition of ‘You’re So Vain’. This is our way
of dealing with the world constantly falling apart
& knowing that our coping mechanism options are
limited. Be a sonnet. Be a loop. Be entered. Be exited.
Be ceremony. Be colloquial. Be a monologue
played for praise. Be audacious enough to break
the fourth wall. Life is a sitcom & you are the star;
everyone else is the studio audience lapping up
each punchline & plot twist. In this poem, you can
piss on the machine & it will tell you it’s raining.
Poor, wet machine. Looking without seeking.
History without experience. Voice without conviction.

Chris Tse

Chris Tse is the author of three poetry collections published by Auckland University Press and co-editor of Out Here: An Anthology of Takatāpui and LGBTQIA+ Writers from Aotearoa. He was New Zealand’s Poet Laureate from 2022-25. His fourth collection of poetry, Dance-Floor Romance, will be published by Auckland University Press in September 2026.