Kiri Piahana-Wong is a New Zealander of Māori (Ngāti Ranginui), English and Chinese ancestry. She is an editor, poet, writer, ESOL teacher and lawyer; and runs Anahera Press, the mission of which is to publish writing in all genres that promotes cross-cultural understanding. Kiri is also a performance poet, and MC at Poetry Live, New Zealand’s longest-running live poetry venue. In her spare time, she can be found checking out the surf at Piha Beach.
It was a hard year.
My sister’s mental illness. My
mother’s poor health. New lines
on my father’s face.
I lost my ability to
write, and, for a while, to
talk. I inhabited my own head. I
felt very alone.
I interspersed reading the
Bible with reading Jenny
Bornholdt’s These Days.
I think Jenny helped me
more, although I liked
Psalm 69. In this psalm,
David is going through a
terrible time, and it made me
feel marginally better, like
watching news about
famine in Africa, and realising
we have a cupboard full
of food, plenty of water,
and a house that doesn’t
leak (except in particularly
heavy rain).
I concentrated hard on the small
things: like keeping myself
warm. I wrapped
myself in poetry and
merino fingerless gloves.
Whenever the sun came out,
I ran outside and basked,
alongside my cat. We
would do this 4–5 times
a day, until the sun
went away.
It helped.
A little.
Hoki atu ki ō maunga kia purea ai e ngā hau a Tāwhirimātea.
Return to the mountain. Let the winds of Tāwhirimātea refresh you.
in honour of Hone Tuwhare
for Melinda, Sophie & Nathan
& no one knows
if your eyes are
blurred red from
the wind, too
much sun, or the
tears streaking your
face that could be
tears or just lines of
dried salt, who
can tell
& you never can tell
if you are seasick,
drunk, or just
hungover – the
symptoms are the
same
& sea and sky merge
until the horizon is
endless blue line
in every direction,
so that you are sailing,
not on the sea, as you
thought, but in a
perfectly blue, circular
bowl, never leaving
the centre
& you wonder who is
moving, you or
the clouds racing
by the mast-head
& you wonder if
those dark shapes
in the water are
sharks, shadows, or
nothing but old fears
chasing along behind
you
& the great mass of
land recedes, until
you forget you were
a land-dweller, and
you start feeling the
pull of ancient genes
– in every tide, your
blood sings against
the moon
& food never tasted
so good, or water
so sweet – you’ve
never conserved water
by drinking wine
before – and rum;
and coke; and rum
and coke; and can
after can of cold
beer
accompanied, not
by the roar of traffic
on the highway,
but by the creaks
and twangs of your
ship as she pitches
and moans through
the dark ocean,
all alone
& you wonder –
where did that bird,
that great gull perching
on the bowsprit,
come from?