Tag Archive: poetry


Tonight, mid-vote proceedings of the Legislative Council on the Conversion and Suppression Practices Bill, I paused to join communion at Dwell.

Amidst our contemplative silence, this poem by Jan Richardson was read and I prayed for those who know their first free breath today, and those who feel a cold shadow of fear. We sit at the same table – eat the same bread, drink the same cup, pray for protection from the same God… we all find welcome, and blessing, at this table.

Consider the map that’s brought you this far. We each carry ‘no map but the one you make yourself‘. Somehow mine always leads here. Back to this table.

The Map You Make Yourself by Jan Richardson

You have looked
at so many doors
with longing,
wondering if your life
lay on the other side.

For today,
choose the door
that opens
to the inside.

Travel the most ancient way
of all:
the path that leads you
to the center
of your life.

No map
but the one
you make yourself.

No provision
but what you already carry
and the grace that comes
to those who walk
the pilgrim’s way.

Speak this blessing
as you set out
and watch how
your rhythm slows,
the cadence of the road
drawing you into the pace
that is your own.

Eat when hungry.
Rest when tired.
Listen to your dreaming.
Welcome detours
as doors deeper in.

Pray for protection.
Ask for the guidance you need.
Offer gladness
for the gifts that come
and then
let them go.

Do not expect
to return
by the same road.
Home is always
by another way
and you will know it
not by the light
that waits for you

but by the star
that blazes inside you
telling you
where you are
is holy
and you are welcome
here.

staying in bed with a book

There’s nobody home
So go away
Nobody home but me
And I don’t want company
Just this view and the sun
And music in all the rooms

Don’t phone –
I’ve taken it off the hook
Don’t knock on my door
I’ve locked it
Don’t worry about me –
I’m fine
So leave me alone
Tomorrow
Or the day after
Or sometime next week
I’ll become again
A social animal but
Not today
Today… just
Keep away

Bub Bridger
Wellington #NZWOMANPOETS

field of purple daisies

The pause between moments
Smells like woodsmoke
Feels like velvet
Sounds like rain
Tastes like dark chocolate
Looks like purple fire.

Between inhale and exhale
There is a whole lifetime
Between past and present
Universes coalesce and dissolve
The world of between
Non-existent, never-ending.

We live there sometimes
Stopping our hearts to live between the beats
Unable to stop the world around us
Unwilling to let go and let time roll forward.
It cannot last, we know this,
But living in the pause can soothe
Can comfort and strengthen us
Allowing us to hold on to the peace of between
And face the inexorable now.

 

Becky Ellen-Johnson
Kapiti #NZWOMANPOETS

 

A rainbow doesn’t have pink I tell her
If God wanted girls to wear that colour
you’d see it in the sky.

Fingering each rack with disappointment
she rejects a blue top, a skirt in purple
even a belt in sparkles and gold.

Grandma, you don’t understand
everyone has pink
Barbie has a pink car and shoes.

Pink is weak, silly and girlie, I grumble
you need a colour that shows your strength
a royal blue or brilliant yellow.

She leads me to the teen department
a field of sequined and shiny black leather.
Witches are strong, she says and grins.

 

Martha Morseth
Dunedin #NZWOMANPOETS

Reaching for Mercy Greenbelt 2018 Proost Talitha Fraser

“Here is poetry arising from the beautiful souls of poets you have passed on the street, never knowing they carried words that must be spoken… the poems are at times angry howls of protest or cries of lament, at other times they are saturated with hope.”

What makes a poem spiritual/Christian and therefore worthy of inclusion in this anthology? This is not an easy question to answer, at least in part because poetic spirituality is not a familiar part of our dominant religious culture. I have found it helpful to read the poetry written by the Sufi poets- Attar, Rumi, Sanai etc. They write poems that are not about instruction or impartation of theological truth (although they might achieve both) neither are they always about ‘God’ at all- rather they are written by people seeking truth, beauty and honesty. Sometimes they tip over into mysticism, as if what they are writing has gone beyond even their own understanding. Poetry like this creates open spaces for our spirituality to adventure; we feel it as much as we understand it…we just ‘know’ it when we read it. The poem soars inside us.

…So here we are. The starting page of a new book. A book full of people reaching for mercy.

Chris Goan

It has been a privilege over the past year to work with Chris Goan the curator of Proosts’ Poetry Collection Vol. 2 “Reaching for Mercy” and to travel to the UK for it’s launch at the Greenbelt Festival. Chris has a way of seeing people and holding space for how they see the world that’s captured and collated in this lovely collection by 8 editors and over a 100 contributors from all over the world… it’s not just “pretty” poetry, it’s protest too. Across all the themes: truth, wild, resisting, lament, hope, post truth, everyone is welcome, whole… there is a poignant paradox of sure hope and disbelieving grief in responding to the way the world is.  I think this collection speaks to our times. I hope it speaks to you.

 

Our model at events is to read one of our own poems and one by another contributor as a way of bringing that broader community of beautiful ordinary souls together. These are the pieces I read at Greenbelt…

God, did you see the news today?

God, did you see the news today?
We’re killing one another.
We’re killing in places killing has gone on so long we don’t know how to stop…
We’re killing next door.
We’re killing one another.

God, did you see the news today?
We’re laying waste to the world
to consume, consume, consume
an appetite “stuff” cannot sate.
Our elders know. Our elders tell us.
We ignore their wisdom.

God, did you see the news today?
People are saying hateful, hurtful things
what is right, what is wrong
what is holy, what is profane
…as if we know. As if we could know.

God, did you see the news today?
Were you there when we turned the boats away?
We are denying people food, electricity, sanitation, shelter, medical care…
We are denying people their basic human rights.

People are grieved and weary.
Longing for a world that is different
but not knowing where to start.
Not knowing how to start.
All victims, variously blind.

I’m not pointing fingers, I’m raising my hand.
I need Your help. We need Your help.

Amen.

 

And I was also very proud to read this piece written by my sister Abby. It felt significant to feel like I was representing some voice of Australia and New Zealand all the way around the world. It includes language and it includes my family. It speaks to home, belonging and identity… thanks for your work and words Mana Wahine… x

 

My Truth belongs to me
Abby Wendy

My Truth belongs to me. I will hold it tight, hold it close.
I will bury it deep.
My truth is a tūrangawaewae for the roots of my heart.
I will water it.
My truth is a nesting place for my wairua.

My truth is reflected in ten thousand random moments.
I am shining like the sun in the secret power of my own unique truth.

My truth requires no scientific proof – I believe it.
My truth requires no majority support – I believe it.

If I whisper my truth in your ear, will you stand with me? Would you trample the roots of my heart, buried deep, in my sacred place of belonging? Where will my spirit rest, if my truth becomes ash?

I will hold it tight, hold it close.
I will bury it deep.
My Truth belongs to me.

 



Copies of this book are available from Proost, if you know me it might be worth waiting as I’ll likely do a bulk order to Australia and you can get one from me directly if that’s easier… If you haven’t heard of it, Proost is a small publishing outlet aimed at gathering together resources from the creative edges of Church. Proost have lots of interesting stuff on their site – animations, songs, Easter and Advent resources, books… so have a look around while you’re there!

woman sitting in a fig tree Pipemakers park

Thin the slung chain,
silky slack, infrangible;
blood beads heavier than water.

Birthed we are like Russian dolls,
one from another from another,
mother, daughter, granddaughter,
red smudges on each cheek.

You stand at the open window
being never too happy in your own
time & place as she is always,
straddling blowsy branches, singing.

I bend between, frisking marjoram,
twisting in weedy aisles a breathing
space. The bright links burn on my neck.

 

Bernadette Hall
Alexandra, Central Otago #NZWOMANPOETS

rainbow skipping rope

England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales Inside, Outside, puppy dogstails

A constant refrain of my playground days and I remember setting up two dining room table chairs to practice at home as well. Because once you succeed at ankle height you get to move up through ‘kneesies’ and ‘underbums’ through up to ‘necksies’ if you were really good. And then you got to go to the next rhyme… or the next move… Diamonds?! I can’t even remember how that went… skipping, clapping games, knucklebones… 80s playground mash up… GO!

Down down baby, down by the rollercoaster. sweet sweet baby, I will never let you go shimmy shimmy cocoa puff, shimmy shimmy pow! shimmy shimmy cocoa puff, shimmy shimmy pow!

On top of spaghetti
All covered with cheese
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed

It rolled off the table
Right on to the floor
And then my poor meatball
Rolled out of the door.

Bubbles go haatchi tachi (knee, knee, flick)…

you are my darling…

Bubbles…  hatchi tatchi

Bubbles… hatchi tatchi

Bubbles… hatchi tatchi (getting faster and faster until someone breaks the rhythm)

Shoo!

 

Under the bambushes under the sea Boom boom boom boom
True love for you my darling
True love for me

When we get married
We’ll raise a family
With 16 children all in a
Row row row your boat Gently down the stream, Fling your teacher overboard And listen to her scream.

Under the bambushes
Under the sea
Bom bom bom
True love for you my darling True love for me

When we get married we’ll raise a family A boy for you
And a girl for me
I-tiddly-I-tie sexy

 

Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?
[Name] stole the cookies from the cookie jar. Who me?
Yes you!
Couldn’t be!
Then who stole the cookies from the cookie jar ?…

 

Concentration, concentration, now begin Keep the rhythm, keep the rhythm moving. Start now… 1 -2, 2-8, 8-4…

 

Out of breath? Me too. Apparently you have more energy when you’re 8…

The characters in this story are 5 and 6 but it is WAY to scary for kids that age (Badjelly turns kids into sausages).  Spike Mulligan does all the voices in this creative and absurd story and there’s a fairly intense soundtrack (fyi his work was a big influence on the Monty Python crew).  Essentially little kids Tim and Rose wander into the woods after their lost cow Lucy and meet various enchanted woodland characters like Binklebonk and Mudwiggle…  OMG a rumour website tells me Tim Burton might be making this into a movie 2020 – that could be fun… stinkypoo and knickers of fun.

Folks might also remember one of his most famous nonsense poems and a good example of his style:

On the Ning Nang Nong 

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There’s a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can’t catch ’em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
cause it’s the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong

Aah, like so many of the great lights of comedy it seems Spike struggled with nervous breakdowns and depression… this piece is called “Manic Depression” and is very evocative. Vale Spike Mulligan – we are grateful for your silliness and sensitivity and the gift of your art.

The pain is too much
A thousand grim winters
       grow in my head.
In my ears
        the sound of the
             coming dead
All seasons, all same
        all living
        all pain
No opiate to lock still
        my senses.
Only left, the body locked tenser.

 

carefully balanced stack of rocks art andy goldsworthy

I woke to an awareness of You
It is profound
and yet not articulate.
Some reaching out and
re-membering You Are Here.
Not far, but Near,
in this and all things.

I am an emotional creature…

labyrinth west footscray park

I am an emotional creature…
I love You.
Most days that doesn’t feel enough.
I want to do more for You.
I am grateful for that hunger.

Love. We look for it.

 

Talitha Fraser