"Poetry arrived in search of me" 2025
- schoolforyoungwrit
- Aug 22
- 9 min read
We asked our tutor and award-winning poet, Philomena Johnson, to select 15 of her favourite poems from young writers, drawing on recent Write On workshops and publications.
For many of these young writers, this is indeed when poetry first arrived in search of them.
Here they are for National Poetry Day, 2025.
“And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived in search of me.”
Pablo Neruda
An editor’s selection: How these poems arrived in search of me.
It has been a delight to read through such an array of poems by these young people and to choose the fifteen presented here. There were a few things that helped me in that choice. When a poem moves me, makes me feel something viscerally, it is then that I want to hold onto those words for a while.
These poets have a dedication to their craft and an ability to create images in the reader’s mind. This enabled me to recognise that poetry indeed had come in search of these young people.
In this collection, the poets help us see with new eyes. Our hearts can now be open to having a cuddle with a rat thanks to Emily’s ‘Ode to Rats’, and no matter whether you believe or not, we see those unicorns in Isabella’s poem. And can we ever look at a photograph the same way again after Pearse has so eloquently reminded us that it ‘is snatched from time itself’?
Inviting the reader to feel something is one of the poet’s many gifts to us. We have empathy for the person in Jaren’s “Another House”, we are on that bike ride with Tessa watching those ‘cranes stalk the shorn wheat fields’, and we’ve all been that girl on the swing in Chelsea’s poem. It is a privilege to feel this through their words.
The sheer delight and sense of play in Zo, Nathan and Samuel’s poems, “How to pick up a duck”, “The knife and the bread” and “Solo Purrs” remind us that poetry isn’t all seriousness. I do love a poem that makes me laugh out loud.
All poetry is play. A play with the language we live in. Many of these poets have used language in surprising ways, using, among others, alliteration, imagery and repetition: ‘the sound of sky rats screaming’, ‘Soul suckers flee’, ‘Misspelled, missaid, mistaken’ and ‘The sky still stained with morning’.
All these poets have freely offered us a gift, and they have done so with humour, vulnerability and innovation.
I now extend an invitation to you all. Dive into these poems, open yourself to what they offer and accept the invitation for poetry to find you, too.
Philomena Johnson graduated from The Hagley Writers’ Institute in 2017, where her portfolio was short-listed for the Margaret Mahy Award. She won the John O’Connor First Book Award in 2024 for her manuscript not everything turns away, (Sudden Valley Press). She also features in Ōrongohau Best New Zealand Poems 2024. Her poetry has appeared in a number of journals and anthologies, including The New Zealand Poetry Society Anthology 2024. Philomena tutors at the Write On School for Young Writers.
THE POEMS that arrived
My Name
My name was picked before birth,
It followed my mum through life,
lurking in the shadows, not yet needed.
Waiting, present but with no use.
Misspelled, missaid, mistaken.
Hailee, Baylee, Jaylee.
Never right.
Constantly correcting.
My last name represents the unison between two
families.
Dad’s side and Mum’s.
Born out of wedlock
and presented with both names to keep the peace.
Kaylee, Year 13
This poem was first published as part of Fresh Voices Rangatahi 2025. You can hear Kaylee read her poem on Write On Speak Out
A Photograph
A trap
waiting for a moment
to crawl through the lens
and be shut off
No artist’s impression
no imperfect representation
no man’s fractured
attempts at depicting
the world around him
This is pure
this is raw
this is snatched from time itself.
This is a photograph.
Pearse, Year 7
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
Another house
Still, the desiccated birch tree
Still, the blackened fireplace
Still, the kitchen
Another day padding barefoot on the carpet
Soft reverence, quiet as a prayer
Careful under this roof
Another week moving furniture
Replacing the smoke alarm
Colouring the walls in ochre
Is this my home
Or just another house
That remembers me under layers
of fresh paint?
Jaren, Year 10
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
Girl on a swing
The young girl sat patiently on a swing
swinging backwards and forwards
in the light breeze.
Morning fell into afternoon
she sat still,
patiently waiting
still swinging.
She had a hunch they weren’t coming.
Noon bled into night.
She sat. Still.
No one was coming.
A tear fell down her face.
The moon seemed dimmer
the wind felt colder
her heart felt weaker.
No one came.
Chelsea, Year 6
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
Perennial
i am the dust of the stars
the dust of my ancestors
the dust of time itself
i am the nothing at the end of a future
so distant it could almost be considered infinity itself
i am the daughter of the daughters
a child of the children
the creation of a creator
whose name is whispered in the stars
i am a fate so improbable that the hand of chance
draws back at the mere sight of me
i am a grain of sand on the beach
a star in the distant aether
a letter on the page of an abandoned book
in a boundless library
i am one amongst the billions
that wouldn’t appear so breathtaking
if we were to stand
alone
i am a sapling emerging from the ash
a clay sculpture hardened by the kiln
a self-sacrificing wick, illuminating the room
i am born of everything that burns away to become new
Naomi, Year 11
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
A flash of green light
Cold wind billowing, people weeping,
ice crawling under your skin. Soul suckers flee,
giants dig trenches, then a blood-curdling scream.
No one wants to help him; no one can.
Only me, perhaps.
A flash of green light, etching the dark sky.
The stars scarper . . .
and the curtain is pulled.
A car pulls into the driveway.
and dinner is served.
Centaurs shooting pointless arrows,
mermaids singing uselessly.
Only, I figured something out
threw a stone, and he was dead.
Instead, they made Potter the hero,
though it was I who did the deed.
Lilly, Year 7
Wind Song
The wind whispers to me
It sings a little song
It tells me to open my eyes
And I choose to sing along
I see the way it wanders
Like a prisoner out of jail
Free to walk and run and fly
I follow its wispy trail
It brings me to a mountain peak
The sky still stained with morning
The hands of death tickling my cheek
A freezing frosty warning
I hear the sound of time
Serenading me
It explores inside my ear
A twisted melody
I taste the peaceful sky
The sun finally departs
The finale finding quiet
A solemn work of art
I have finally found peace
A place where I belong
Because the wind whispered to me
And I sang along
Pippa, Year 8
The Pathway
Cranes stalk the shorn wheat fields
claws kicking up blue and orange specks
unsuspecting beetles trying to burrow in the rich dark earth
On the other side of the pathway,
hidden deer call out
disturbed by my bike as it rushes past
One blink and it passes by
brief glimpses of life seen in between
the net of tree branches
some, flush with leaves
others, aged and dripping with moss
It encircles me until all I can hear
is my tyres on the concrete
and all I can see is the green tunnel
and the groove of the cycle lane
steadily unwinding in front of me
forever unspooling through those shorn wheat fields
where the cranes stalk and the deer call
Tessa, Year 13
This poem was first published as part of Fresh Voices Rangatahi 2025. You can hear Tessa read her poem on Write On Speak Out
How to pick up a duck
First, make sure you don't wear wool gloves.
Next, find a Flemish giant bunny
and some sunflower seeds.
Find a duck.
Now put down the Flemish giant bunny
and the sunflower seeds near the duck.
Make sure the duck is not a kid in a duck suit.
Nom, Nom, Nom, Nom, Nom, Nom, Nom.
The duck is eating the sunflower seeds now.
Put your hands under the duck’s tummy.
Lift your hands up.
Now, you have picked up a duck.
Remember not to wear wool gloves
or the duck will attack.
The Flemish giant bunny
is just for emotional support.
Zo, Year 5
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
Sumner Beach
It was a place of serenity
curling blue
and murky deep water
The wind whipped sandy hair across their faces,
shivering bones that seemed to creak
Slippery feet
but they gripped the board tightly
Shallow gasping breaths sucked deep in their lungs
and the sound of the sky rats screaming
Gritty sand crunched on the concrete
that the water couldn’t wash away
Tumbled in a machine of foam
and washed like laundry
Smiles that spread widely
Wetsuits that peeled slowly
And back to waist deep
the frigid water rose again
Not so serene
roaring green and not very shallow
Sofia, Year 13
This poem was first published as part of Fresh Voices Rangatahi 2025. You can hear Sofia read her poem on Write On Speak Out
Unicorns
Unicorns are magical.
They gallop in the fields.
I love their horns
as they sparkle gold.
Their eyes are pink
and look like fireworks.
Their tails twinkle in the sunlight.
Isabella, Year 3
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
Stride
A brown horse stands in the open field.
Soaked in the warmth of the fading sun,
the evening sky paints the world in hues of gold.
Its mane sways gently in the breeze,
a tangle of wild strands that catch the light,
eyes, deep and knowing
hold the quiet wisdom of the land,
unspoken, ancient, yet still alive in this moment.
Each step it takes is deliberate,
a dance with Earth,
hooves pressing softly into the soil,
leaving only echoes of motion behind,
as if the land itself holds onto every footprint.
It moves with grace and power,
a creature of strength, yet unhurried,
carrying within it a quiet restlessness,
longing for the horizon,
for the roads that never end,
for the winds that never cease.
Bound not by fences or walls,
but by something deeper, older,
a pulse that beats in time with the world,
a rhythm shared with the sky and the stars.
A longing to roam, to be free,
stride.
Ava, Year 8
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
The knife and bread
Sorry, bread, but it's my duty
to honour the people
with glory and cut your booty.
Please, knife, spare my life
for I have a child and wife
to raise for their entire life!
Sorry, bread, but it's my job
to slice and dice,
and to make the owners proud
I must slice your butt.
Sorry, bread. Cut, cut, cut.
Aagh! My life is now ruined
without my beautiful
glutinous maximus!
Why knife, why?
Nathan, Year 8
This poem first appeared in Write On Issue 64 Word Weave
Ode to Rats
Soft, velvety pelts of grey and white,
brown and black and ginger patches.
Sharp kitten claws like tiny daggers
digging into your shoulders affectionately
as they cuddle.
Portrayed as disease-bearing,
sewer-scuttling
ransacking rodents,
but what a fancy rat really wants to do
is gnaw apple slices and play
with no need to run away,
to hunt for or be
prey.
Emily, Year 7
This poem was first published as part of Fresh Voices Tamariki 2025. You can hear Emily read her poem on Write On Speak Out
Solo Purrs
Early in the morning, I chew on my leg,
lick my tail and go poop in the flower garden.
A very good start to the morning.
Then I start meowing and howling and yelling
and mewing until my owner opens the door.
I choose my owner’s favourite shoe
and rip it to pieces.
Then I get very bored and prowl around
looking for pats.
I hear the big roar of my owner's car
driving out of the garage and down the road.
At last, I have the house to myself.
I raid the kitchen, gobble the goldfish
and chug my milk. I hear scampering.
I catch the mouse, eat the mouse
and make sure to leave its brains
on the doorstep for my owners.
I scratch the back of the couch
and tear up a few pillows
before I stretch over the sun-warmed
surface of my mat and purr.
I love being home alone.
Samuel, Year 6
This poem was first published as part of Fresh Voices Tamariki 2025. You can hear Samuel read his poem on Write On Speak Out
The poems selected for this page are by young writers who attended Write On workshops at Chisnalwood Intermediate School, Christchurch East School, Cotswald School, Hurunui College, Tai Tapu School, Te Aratai College, Te Kura o Tuahiwi and Write On Saturday classes.
We commend all schools and whānau that support their young writers by providing opportunities to explore and write poetry.
Some of these poems and many more wonderful pieces appear in Write On Speak Out and in Write On Issue 64.
Use the link above to order your magazine copy now.
(c) Write On and the young poets, 2025
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