A selection from Write On Summer 2003–2004
| Street Lights
I looked into her eyes: deep brown, but hidden by too much make-up. She had a face like mine, eyes like mine. For a moment I saw myself in her clothes: fishnet stockings, tight red skirt, thin brown coat failing to keep out the cold. I’d be waiting in the dark between street lights, head bent, long hair falling over my face. A desperate smile as each car passed. Her drug-crazed eyes followed me to the bus stop. Unlike her, I was going home. To a house with a green roof, a tree in the front garden we’d nicknamed Trunkie, my brothers, a childhood swing. And inside the familiar smell of sausages fried with onions, smothered in curry sauce. My brothers sprawled in front of the TV. Mum drinking what looked like her second glass of wine, laughing a little too shrilly. Would the girl go back to her house? Push open a rickety door to the smell of blocked drains and mould? To a half tin of cold baked beans on the bench? To a bed damp with loneliness? I tried to figure out what her eyes were saying. But all I could read was, Save me. From what? From the drugs, the street, the men … herself? I shook my head, my eyes filling with tears. I hoped she’d understand. I couldn’t help her any more than she could help me. Maybe she had a family, maybe she didn’t; maybe she was a runaway or an orphan; maybe she was eighteen, but I doubt it. A car drove up alongside her. A faded, red Toyota covered in dust. The type my friends and I would scratch CLEAN ME on the back of. The driver rolled down the window. To him the girl would be just another body. A quick coupling in the back seat, before the wife got home. But I’d looked into her eyes. I’d seen me. And it hurt. Olivia Clark, Christchurch In Limbo i drift on the fringes of this world and the next floating in between no permanent base anchors slipping away. i wisp around the corners of your vision eluding you who know not how to grasp. i turn invisible on the boundaries of your mind haunting places where i once was. Reach out, pull me back before i am gone forever. Anchor me inside your heart. Marie-Luise Fink, Auckland The Museum Mummy Trapped in a coloured artefact between musty parcelled bandages black decayed bone skin shrivelled like plastic on fire once a man of honour now a preservative lain in a tomb of glass still as a Royal guard The distant chatter of the gift shop ahead drives the crowd on while the mummy lies forgotten a carcass in a see-through case. Lisa Lowe, Christchurch I Live in a Box I live in a miniscule box called Reality. It has no doors windows or holes. When I write a door appears, opening further and further until I can squeeze out into an endless space. Imagination. There, I’m not Monica anymore I am a cat I am a caa dragon I am a cata dragona dolphin. I am Zeus I am Zethe Ocean I am Zethe Oceaanything. The poem ends. Once again I am confined until I pick up my pen ... Monica Buchan-Ng, Christchurch Fisherman’s Son Sometimes, I wonder, If underwater The climate could change? Perhaps … Maybe thunder Could blast through the coral And send expanding waves Of fast-flowing water Into the schools … Maybe the fish Would zip off to play And swim in the weeds … During the day Maybe they’d learn To escape the sharks Chomping at will. And … in the parks Slippery swings And swaying things, With bushes of kelp That tickle their fins, Would they hear The prash of a river Above their heads? And maybe a sliver Of moonlight would pierce The splashing surface? … would the water become a furnace On a hot day? Would they feel the heat And hear the plod Of human feet?… At the cast of a line They’d scurry away And find a nice seabed At the end of the day. Maybe it’s different But it’s stuck on my mind! Oh well … I’ll leave the ocean’s mysteries. They can keep nibbling on my line. Jared Ipsen, Hamilton |
No Grandad
Returning for the first time was scary. After many days of crying and wishing he was back, I was the one going back, back to my Grandad’s house. His red-brick, white-walled, two-bedroom house was to be my home for the next three days. No Mum, Dad, brothers or sister: just Gran and me. Why was I so nervous? I’d stayed there heaps of times by myself. But this was different. No Grandad! It was four months since his unexpected death. Four months since that evening I stood in front of the white, oval mirror and said, “Please don’t die Grandad.” At the time I thought I was being stupid. Grandad won’t die, I said to myself. He’s only got chest pains and, besides, he’s tough. He’s survived three heart attacks and a stroke! Little did I know that that was to be the last time I’d see him. “Why did I say yes?” I thought to myself on the usually long, boring drive to Gran’s. Today, just when I didn’t want it to go quickly, it did. We pulled up outside the house and all I wanted was to go home, back to my bedroom with ugly flowers on the wallpaper, back to the comfy, soft bed. But no matter how much I wished, I knew I’d have to stay. Don’t get me wrong, I love staying at Gran’s house but it wouldn’t be the same. What would I say? What would I do? What if the same thing happened to Gran? Where would I go? How would I know she needed help? All these thoughts were racing through my head as Mum talked to Gran. Then I saw the photo. Gran and Grandad standing outside their house on Christmas Day. That photo where Grandad had a big smile and wore his favourite jersey, browny-grey, soft and snuggly, the same photo used for the leaflet at his funeral. All I could think about was getting him back, but I couldn’t. Mum had told me often that he would be happy in heaven, but what if he wasn’t? What if all he wanted was to come home and be with his family and friends? Would he just have to suffer? I didn’t want him to suffer. Then I heard Mum say, “Well I’d better get going.” No, Mum, I don’t want to stay, I thought to myself. I felt tears coming. No Judith, you can’t cry. It’d upset Gran. “Have a good time dear,” I heard Mum say to me. I wanted to say, I’m coming home with you, but all I said was, “Bye Mum, I will.” And then she was gone. I was alone. No, that’s not true. Gran was there. “My neighbours are away and I have to water their garden for them. Would you like to help me?” Gran asked. Hey, that’s what Grandad and I used to do. I’d loved watering the gardens with him. It just wouldn’t be the same doing it with Gran, or would it? I could water the flowers with Gran and be helping her while at the same time I could remember the happy times I’d had with Grandad. “Sure,” I replied, feeling better for the fact that even though Grandad was gone I could still have fun. Watering the garden reminded me of that time I was watching him water the roses when all of a sudden he turned round and squirted me. I laughed at the memory. “What’s funny, love?” Gran asked. “Oh nothing,” I said with a smile. “I was just thinking about the time Grandad watered me instead of the roses.” Gran laughed, “Yes, he always loved to play jokes on you didn’t he.” “Yeah. I miss him Gran.” “So do I, Judith, so do I,” she said sadly. “I love you, Gran.” “I love you too, dear,” she replied, giving me a hug. “Now how about making some of that coffee cake that Grandad always tried to steal the leftover icing from?” “Just what I was thinking,” I said with a smile as we walked back inside to make Grandad’s favourite cake. Judith Calder, Winton George’s Last Round Fred’s given him a bump, Oh look now! What a thump! Hear that heavy clump, clump, clump? Poor George’s been taken on the rump! George just winced (Fred’s given him a pinch,) Wait a second—no, since Fred’s turning George into mince. Fred gives him a punch, Then with a munch, As all George’s bones go CRUNCH, Fred the frog has George the fly Fred the frog has George t… for lunch.
School Day
rub, rub, rub the erasers go scritch, scratch the pencils write “blah, blah, blah” the teacher talks bring, bring! the lunch bell rings “YAY!” the kids all scream BRING! the bell goes again “Oh, man!” the kids all groan “blah, blah, blah” the teacher talks again tick, tock, tick, tock … BRING! “YAY!” the kids scream “Oh, don’t forget your homework!” “Oh, man!” Alex Grumball, Otatara My Forest Paradise Feathered ferns outlined in sun, glow. Dark trees own clear necklaces of honey beads. Deep moss is my pillow, bubbling brooks sing a sweet lullaby. I close my eyes and listen to forest sounds, dream of faraway places, of cities and towns. Katie Johnstone, Darfield Reminders A hamster’s cage reminds me of a playground: the whiz wheel reminds me of a running tube. the ladders remind me of the side of a fort. the wires remind me of monkey bars. the sawdust reminds me of bark. the sawdthe hamster reminds me of me. Kimberley Nieuwenhuize, Christchurch Beach Music waves and sand clash like cymbals seagulls squawk like kazoos people bellyflop like booming drums breeze flutters through the trees like flutes people chatter like tinkling xylophones a ship blows its horn like a trumpet Mayke Blom, Christchurch Happy Sound The tinkle of quiet bells twirls through my mind like a ballerina dancing on stage. It makes me want to dance, too. Ashley Hyland, Christchurch |