Category: 2013
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MEGAN CLAYTON
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1. A man wanders. He is confused. He is found as far away as New Brighton. His sons are veterans. His sons are boys. His son is dead. His wives are dead. His wife will be in contact with the hospital. …
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ALICE TE PUNGA SOMERVILLE
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1 | 2 red carded (for a not-to-be-named Māori conference) your nametag is red because you don’t speak your own language it is not enough for you to hold this secret tightly: everyone must know red like the adulterer’s A marked, branded, tagged for identification upon recapture …
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ALICE TE PUNGA SOMERVILLE
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1 | 2 Layers Our language is in triplicate: Like those old accounting notebooks With different coloured pages Nestled one on top of the other…
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TESSA CASTREE
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A small boy and a woman She stood on the platform of the Ohakune railway station with her grandson Chaz, aged nine, waiting for the eleven p.m. train that would take them to Ngaruawahia, a small town on the Main Trunk Line. The train had begun its journey six…
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CHRIS HOLDAWAY
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1 | 2 | 3 I thought it was a castle My once-favourite mountain has come inside The city limits—with its round water reservoir on top. In my kid outings I thought it was a castle, perched Above this suburb. Woods and vaulted hallways, without a trace of…
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CHRIS HOLDAWAY
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1 | 2 | 3 Ode to Shelly Beach—, excerpt Down hill—crane lift—to girders and casement widening . . . Day came and for a while beads still Fall over the bridge, as it runs out on trestle tables. Soon, A normal day, with the light I don’t…
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CHRIS HOLDAWAY
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1 | 2 | 3 The Telegram The moon sends me Further down the fairway between pine steeples and birches, So the night feels what I pedestrianly understand as ‘soviet’— Drearily stalking leaves. Through phases of the grass : Enclosed in shoelaces; cradled by a sandal until Carpet…
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ANNA JACKSON
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1 | 2 | 3 The photographer in the library The photographer doesn’t look at the librarian behind the desk silent and tethered until she gathers up her issued books and turning glances and catches a look of such lovely lamentation lifting and opening she gasps, stops and…
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ANNA JACKSON
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1 | 2 | 3 Saoirse at the fridge Saoirse weeps at the fridge door removing nothing, the cold air on her tears, her feet in socks from Singapore Air. There’s a pink stain on the shelf where the milk sits seeping and outside the window someone is…
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ANNA JACKSON
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1 | 2 | 3 Emily, too early Dreams rush through me like trains in the night, the tracks pulling slowly apart. It is different for Emily who says it is more like sewing a seam between two pieces of cloth. It is dreaming, after all, which holds…