Category: Aotearoa Found in Translation

An occasional boat
by Siobhan Harvey

Aotearoa’s first waka were clouds
wearing, like precipitation, our future
gene-pools in their bellies. They began life
in Hawaiki, Portsmouth, Apia and Hong Kong.

Even now, in settlement, our people turn to their ancestors,
the clouds for connection, understanding and loss.
And the clouds oblige with reassuring rain, silvereyes,
stargazers, dragons, trains and even an occasional boat.

Matariki Poem
by Shreya Nair

as evening approaches
the sun radiates a dim light
blurred in ablaze, settling down
behind the horizon, exhausting the
world of warmth.

the wind blows in harsh spite
the air is damp and cold
but a bonfire sits, crackling
with essence, shedding
billows of warmth.

moaning slightly,
the children head off to bed
eager for sunrise to arrive.

holding kai and offerings
in hand, family and friends
circle the fire, chanting hymns
to welcome back Matariki.

The season of its first rising.

Their soothing voices reverberating
in the darkness, accompanying
the crooning waves.

Scintillating in the winter sky
Matariki appears, the eyes of god
marking the dawn of Maori New Year.

Iwi gather in unity and
remembrance of loved ones.
Singing in unison and rejoice.

SLEEPING WITH MOUNTAINS
by Rosanna Raymond

At night I sleep with mountains
covered with birds on sticks
and a bird beak peaking down below
And me turns to we and we flock off in our effect
as the clouds form an embryo across the sun
It’s all part of a coconut order
Celestial petals are waiting for some drum drum fun
centipedes, jellyfish dancing on their thighs
and the blood of virgins smeared on their cheeks
We dance on the skin of the land
flushed in a red stained light, the same light
shed by Hines’ vulva as it out an end
to mans’ quest for everlasting life
My bones are cold, almost hollow
they carry and echo, but my flesh is tasty
and keeps me on the go…going….gone
But not for good
For I am afraid the sky will down
and leave me at the feet of Ranginui
looking for assistance
Karanga mai, karanga mai, karanga mai ra
listening to the hidden voices,
bathed in salt water
welcoming me, settling my distance
and waiting for me to come home

An open letter to Mr Peter Brown of New Zealand First
by Renee Liang

Dear Mr. P. Brown,
I agree absolutely the matter of Asian immigration
Demands serious attention. After all, Mr P Brown, the true definition
Of a true blue Kiwi, like yourself, is, firstly,
A love of the All Blacks. Not in the literal sense
Unless you’re down the Loaded Hog on Friday night,
But I mean, really love the All Blacks, who were robbed
Of their right to the World Cup.
Secondly Mr P Brown, I know you can sing
The national anthem in both English and Maori
After all, true blue Kiwis like yourself, Mr P Brown,
Can. Maori is, of course –
the language of those poor bottom dwelling bastards
soon to be displaced by ‘mini societies of Asians’.
And we all know the Asians rob people.
It was probably them that robbed the All Blacks.
And now they’ll rob
Those poor brown people of their rightful place to be
At the bottom of New Zealand society.
I feel your pain, I really do, Mr P Brown. I feel it here.
Better, far better, to have a flood of brown people here
than yellow.
With a name like Mr Brown, Mr P Brown, who can blame you
For being a defender of the poor oppressed in our society.
Like Winston Peters, who’s never played the race card, ever.
He’s brown. And you work with other brown people too.
They clean your office toilet, flush your shit down the loo.
An Asian cleaning your loo just wouldn’t be patriotic, would it,
Mr P Brown?
There’s no telling what the Asians would do if they became
Substantial. The greater the number,
The greater the risk.
Sell substandard goods from China?
Our Prime Minister’s only a woman,
She couldn’t tell the difference.
Real quality is Kiwi-made. Macpac packs, Pumpkin Patch.
Those Asians will never integrate.
All they’re interested in are the A’s and
Sending their kids to our best schools.
Their kids won’t ever be Kiwis.
Having them here would only cause
Division, resentment and friction. And not the kind
Of friction you get, Mr P Brown,
By putting your hands down your pants.
Oh and – you can always tell an Asian by the way they look.
They’re yellow, you see. Squinty eyes, and
always in the library. None of them can drive.
And none of them speak
English properly. That brings me to my third point –
All true blue kiwis speak English, don’t they,
Mr P Brown? Even the brown people.
They signed the Treaty in English, after all.
And my last point, the most important. A true blue
Kiwi is born here, Mr P Brown, right here on this soil,
Part of the whenua, they say. So people
Not from this land have no chance
Of integrating into our just, free, and above all,
Tolerant society. No chance at all, Mr P Brown.
I mean, we wouldn’t want a mini-London
On our hands, would we, Mr Brown?
You’re right.
There’s no telling what they’d do,
These immigrants. They should never have been allowed in.
There’s no telling what they’ll say next.

Baggage
by Michael Botur

I’m imported from an Old World of atavists
and anti-hijab jabs from enlightened Presidents;
continent of all-conquering currency.
My plane disclaims its Eurocargo on lava tarmac.
We’re ethnic scraps scraped off the plate. Wide-eyed,
I salivate at this space, this colonialist’s bait,

I drool like Conrad
when he saw the necklace-lain Congo jewel.
Each Mangere mangrove here should move
aside so I can stake my Tricoleur, because I’m
insecure. I even heard the settlers changed
their name to Pakeha

from European: such insurgency! A slap, a speed
hump, yup, but it can’t stump the rules of retrospect
which state that history, if sealed, congeals, and cannot
be contested or repealed. So, I lug my luggage with me
In case I must declare identity.

The hotel shuttle is a quarantine. Each passed pub’s
a Celtic, Welsh embassy, but
I’m excluded from the hubris,
I’m just noxious: I’m ambassador
for Ferdinand, Wilhelm, Windsor, Louis.

Decamping here, establishing my principality
I seed elms, firs, chestnut trees.
And hug each oak, so damp and England-old;
I clutch a pocketful of francs.
I long for the Louvre, thirst for the Danube.

But, needing residency, I put my Heineken aside and drink
a Steiny, let my tongue absorb the way you talk: an accent of
parrots, cheese, beaches, wheat, and frosted skis,
And islets, quad bikes, estuaries;
ANZACs, Allies swathed in Swanndri,

Baled hay, udders stuffed with curds and whey
Hawke’s Bay Chardonnay, manuka tea. I swallow
spiteful eyefuls of the Sky Tower, a phallic affair,
a contest which can’t compare
with my established Eiffel.

I obfuscate my origin and carry just the core
of it. My flag, my baggage can be boxed,
unlocked upon May Day,
Queen’s Birthday, Bastille Day,
exhumed when we zoom in on the future,

when at parties, they’ll interrogate me: Mate, ya Kiwi?
And my mouth’ll empty –
No rugby fealty or passport can speak for me.
I’ll search my carried baggage, check the mirror.
Then we’ll see

Croatia, Polynesia, Asia
are connected by a common sea
uninterrupted by nationality. Europe was a squeeze
so this refugee begs residency, because you need
My trendy, exotic biscotti and without you,
I wouldn’t have a space to breathe.

a rope for my third man
by Ila Selwyn

a rope
for my third man
yanks me home
step off the plane
Aotearoa grasps an ankle
my soul down under
we don’t speak the same language
upside down
back to front
I have to up-end myself to see
my grandfather moon
you can’t even see
the cherub in your hemisphere
dump Orion on his head reduce
him to a pot
I seek the sun
south at Tutukaka
drive north to the snows of Ruapehu
the logic is clear
you’re protected by a layer of tough wool
my northern skin is far too thin
emotion fuels my tank
I slam on the brake

Equator
by gus Simonovic

If words are the stars,
poems are constellations.
You need to know the figure
to shape out meanings.
And wherever you move
every nightsky speaks
a different language.

I crossed the line –
and left my northern stars
at that invisible border.
They were confiscated
by the equatorial customs office.
But I smuggled my poems with me
so I can still speak to you.

I exchanged my Little Dipper
for Magellanic clouds.
Instead of Polaris
Sigma Octanis brightens my horizon.

And I reach up high and I dig down deep
like every plant that has been
pulled out by its roots.
Lucky to have Leo and Orion
to help me bear my Southern Cross.