Runners Up 2006

Due to formatting restrictions, several poems below have been laid out slightly differently from the originals. To view them as the poets intended, download brochure (887 KB PDF).

Andrew Aitken-Fincham - (Year 13, St Andrew's College, Christchurch)

Madeline

She shows me her brand new skirt
Sie zeigt mir ihren neuen Rock
She loves the colour of the theatre lights
She loves to practise her lines
Alone
With plastic actors and dollar bills
The blondest brunette

She rolls up every breath
As if it wasn't safe
To breathe
The more she practises, the worse she gets
At breathing

Every night she stands and delivers
Words being chipped from her mind
And spat out
Convulsing
She wonders whose weight she's carrying

She feels like her feet are spinning
In a different direction to her head
She sees more when she closes her eyes
Sees music
Her words can't describe
Colours

She dreams of a dainty curtsey
To an audience more than lights
Instead
A disjointed dance
And line after line
She falls

She loves the colour of the theatre lights

Lisa Cochrane - (Year 13, Epsom Girls Grammar School, Auckland)

Ray

I paused when I heard,
via long distance call,
that you had moved from my world
to another,
secretly glad that I could have my mother back
to make cut lunches.

I said goodbye later that night,
hurried into and then out of a room
where children should be neither seen nor heard,
too scared to ask questions,
a few minutes to make my peace.

Nine daffodil heads opened that week
- one for each of your girls.
We cut them;
the symbol of your battle.
We carried them that day
till they were droopy and worn
when we left them with you.

Three years ago
you slipped out of my life.
At the time I was secretly glad,
confused only
that my mother
put Salt Shakers into your coffin
for 'later on'.

Dora Sharpe-Davidson - (Year 13, St Andrew's College, Christchurch)

Imogen

The air is unwashed.
She fills her head with words
and pink dresses, goes out to dance
forgets to ask her mother.
She's home by three
the cellphone cradled in her palm
like some big metallic bug.
She doesn't speak.
Her hair flat and still,
her pupils busy.

Imogen's tired of this house;
its doors cold and weighty
with winter, the curtains held
in two tight pigtails
and those light bulbs; tiny skulls
their faces flat and defeated.
She hides in the smallness of her room
watches the thrown stick
swallow the sky
with a pointed tongue.

Sophia Graham - (Year 13, Epsom Girls Grammar School, Auckland)

Like Tea and Crumpets

I was almost Victoria Jane. Like tea and crumpets.
Like train stations. Like long gloves.

And then I wasn't. I was ‘baby Graham’
and at night, my mother,
smuggling me out of the hospital nursery,
would whisper names in my ear,
trying them on me like hats,
testing to see which ones tripped off her tongue,
and which got lodged at the back of her throat.

Daddy wanted to call me Grace. Like his grandmother.
Like lace handkerchiefs. Like hymns.

But my mother said Grace was a name for old ladies,
so the tag on my wrist was unchanged, my birth unregistered,
and my uncles, playing with my toes and counting my fingers,
laughed and called me Gertrude, Horatia, Augusta.

My aunt said that my name should be Lila. Like scented pillows.
Like dusty books. Like soft jazz.

Still my mother read books
and tried to find a name I could live up to,
while my daddy tucked me into my cot,
with satin trimmed blankets.

And then I was Sophia Claire. Like Greek philosophers.
Like Italian screen sirens. Like pink roses.

I was Sophia Claire. Like wisdom.
Like clarity. Like me.

Chaturika Jayasinghe - (Year 12, St Cuthbert's College, Auckland)

Thumb - luv

'I, txt jnky,

tk u;>;->

2 b my lwfly wded

txt m8.

2 hv & 2 hld, :‑X

Frm dis fne 2 da nxt,

4 top ups & 4 no crdit;

,n poor sgnl & free air tym, *<):0)

2 txt & 2 pxt ‑

2 share our thumb ‑ luv

'til low bttry do us prt."

4 eva & eva & eva & eva

Graeme Ninness - (Year 12, Awatapu College, Palmerston North)

A Universe in my Head

Have you seen the Eyzrian land With carpet’d hills of golden snow The thorngrass plains flow to the sand Where Ranweck’s marble spires grow	Have you seen the province of Eyzria? It is hilly and has gold-coloured snow There are large thorngrass plains And a marble city called Ranweck
Go yonder to the Jindra Head And see the diamond shrine of old A tribute to the ages dead When men were proud and kingdoms bold	In the province of Jindra Head There is a shrine made of diamonds Constructed many centuries ago When the world was better
Sail o’er the blinding crystal sea Where lie the vast Memorial Isles A solemn land of spirits free Tranquil lakes and woods for miles	There is a bright clear sea And islands which are very big It is a nice, happy place With large amounts of nature
And turn your eye to Markeroth Where rain is fire and grass is ash Few see the thunder-breathing moth When all is gone in one mere flash	In the place Markeroth Which is burned and nasty There is a rare moth that creates thunder The place is very dangerous
To see the towers of Zendril tall Like silken hands to clasp the sky A frozen land of fair for all Though secrets black lurk ‘neath the eye	Zendril has tall towers They are white, and look like hands A democracy in a snowy climate Although it has bad things also
O to gaze upon the astral plane Descending to the planet’s gleam Is but a curse when visions wane To know your world is but a dream	Looking at space Then looking at the planet Is not good When you know it's not real

Jennifer Niven - (Year 13, Samuel Marsden Collegiate, Wellington)

Life Cycles

I found a foetus in my egg
A fleshy body slopped into the bowl
Where a fat yellow yolk should have been
No sunny side for this guy

What’s up with you said dad
Period pain I said and went outside
To sit on the cold back steps
And listen to the six o’clock news
Drifting
from the silhouette of
old Mrs Reiher’s open window

Then I found my little brother
(In his fat yellow fireman’s hat)
Hugged him, in case he didn’t know
That shit happens
And when you’ve grown up
You’re not supposed to cry about it

Sarah Wilks - (Year 13, Samuel Marsden Collegiate, Wellington)

Little Sister

After stories last night
I couldn't help but notice
The perfection in your milk white cheek,
The smooth and absolute softness of it,
Like a mound of icing sugar.

Then, erupting with laughter,
Your eyes glimmered
And your mouth grinned open,
So I was washed with the smell of toothpaste,
As your warm body twisted away,

Leaving me cold.

Lilian Yong - (Year 12, Epsom Girls Grammar School, Auckland)

Cellar Door

This is the Age, you say,
and elbows send the bitter cup
that scrunches your eyes and shrivels your cheeks
into a precarious tilt.
(You said that it would grow on you.)

Oh, I say,
your excitement not catching.
Things are still, stagnant.

The best days of our lives, you continue,
and later, when you can't get the window
open fast enough, I see that you
had carrots, discoloured, descending
in a thin soup of acid and wine.

And later, between more facial contortions,
you say it will only get better,
and I can't help but smile.

International Institute of Modern Letters Te Pūtahi Tuhi Auaha o Te Ao