We received too many poems to be able to include them all in Now and then, but want to include some others here. This poem is by Diana McMahon.

My line is short

I am here
now

                                    looking back….

                                                     my line is short

I am Canadian born
Kiwi by choice
daughter of Sophia/Zorcha
my mother, Polish born
survivor of Hitler’s camps
daughter of Alexandria
my grandmother, Ukrainian born
displaced by war
daughter of …name unknown
my great-grandmother, Russian born
memories
war torn fragments

I am here
now

                                                           …looking forward

                                     my line is short

I am
mother of Terra
my daughter has no daughter

yet

 

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We received too many poems to be able to include them all in Now and then, but want to include some others here. This poem is by Ian Craven.

In the Top Paddock

When you died

you left projects unfinished

clay pipes in pyramid stacks.

 

The tractor waiting,

clover nestling its tyres in the top paddock

where the fence

stops brown tussock marching down the hill.

 

Coils of wire lie tangled

with green twine and old hay

and cabbage trees rattle above rabbits

lounging in the last sun.

 

While bent to the wind

tough pines look South to the dark Hokonui

and sheep graze the Western boundary

unperturbed by distant dogs.

 

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This poem, by Erin Donohue will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

Inheritance

I drive the same roads Grandad drove for decades
Wake, every morning, in his old house

Stand in the same spot he did and look at the same ocean
Feel the same slow awe. The same swell of gratitude

The thought feels colossal: What am I supposed to do
with all of this remembering? He is everywhere and nowhere

Tawa for Sunday dinner, at the head of the table
easing a cork out of the grape juice

At the beach, on Christmas day during the heatwave
watching us in the water, holding the towels

Hobbling lengths of the balcony
learning how to walk on a new hip

On the lounge floor
his back slick with sweat, doing sit ups after his run

At the table, where I sit writing
the sun hot on his neck, reading the paper

Or watching as we run
barefoot and lanky, down to Aunt Lily’s house

In the food court or at church or somewhere between
Titahi Bay and Tawa with a grandchild, maybe me, in the back seat

Even on the other end of the phone, waiting to hear
And I think, what would Grandad say?

Thank you, thank you, I was so lucky
Look at all of the places I was loved

I am a writer and editor from Te Whanganui-a-Tara. My debut novel was published in
2017 and was a finalist in the NZCYA Book Awards. My work has been featured in
The Spinoff, Landfall, Starling, Turbine | Kapohau and more. I am currently working
on a collection of personal essays.

 

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This poem, by Alison Kroon will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

Good women sharing

Yes, I have a Doulton plate
that once belonged to someone famous
in Dunedin. So I was told.
And a very nice jug, Art Nouveau.
But my favourite thing
is Grandma’s recipe book,
mostly in her handwriting,
each recipe named
according to the OC
(Original Cook).

Cauliflower pickle (Mrs Kemp).
Fruit salad jam (Dorry Jackson).
Elderberry wine (Margaret Wilson).
Sponge (J Clouston)
and a cure for boils.
Fish pie (Mrs Ian Mills)
and meat paste which
my brother Bruce still makes.
Belgian biscuits are there
on a loose piece of paper
in the handwriting of a Mrs Baird.
But best of all, I’ve always thought,
is this:
Chocolate cake, Mrs C Deaker’s.
The one the Queen praised.

As a long-time teacher, I’ve found that most students find joy, and thus success, in reading and
writing poetry. As do I! In my almost-retirement, I’ve joined a poetry for seniors group, and our
gatherings have become a weekly highlight. This is my second poem to be published and I’m
thrilled!

 

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This poem, by Tui Bevin will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

Beannacht

Blessed be this long awaited child
son of Kirsten and Florian
brother to Rosalie and James
born in Dunedin on the last day
of Antipodean autumn
in the pandemic’s third year.
He is Michael,
gift from God, reminding us
of Uncle Michael in Tallinn
but to James he’s Mini Michael,

he is John
for his great-grandfather
and Irish four-great-grandfather
whose grave we look after,
he is Peter
as Peter and Henrik Peter
were his Danish great-great-grandfathers
and Peter means rock,
and he is Beyer

from his German Omama and Opa.
It means bellringer or being from Bavaria,
but these Beyers are neither.
It took a week to name him
Michael John Peter Beyer:
named from his past,
named for his present,
named for who he will become,
his name for all time.
Blessed be Michael.

*Beannacht is Irish for blessing.

Having retired as a health researcher, I enjoy the challenge and freedom of
writing poetry and memoir. My parents immigrated here two years before I
was born so I never knew my relatives. Much of my writing now is trying to
help my grandchildren understand where they come from.

 

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This poem, by Nicola Harris will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

Out-of-date

I tried for invisibility as my mother ordered
her first McDonalds at a too-slow speed.
I sighed in annoyance as my dad failed
to work the VCR – again. I swore
under my breath as I tried to teach them
to double click a mouse: “click-click”.
I rolled my eyes as self-service machines
baffled them, and the queue stretched out behind us.

Now I ponder the many unused apps
on my phone. I don’t know how
to change the settings on my rare
Facebook posts. I plug in a mouse
and keyboard so I don’t have to use
a too-sensitive touch screen. I press
the CHQ button on the EFTPOS machine
when I mean CREDIT, and the young assistant
re-starts the transaction with the
encouraging smile reserved
for the out-of-date.

 

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This poem, by Rahi Key will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

The future is wobbly

When I think about generations,
they can be your ancestors or come after you.
The future is wobbly, and the past is solid.
I think about families passing down knowledge
and maybe the people in the future
will be learning about you too.

I am 9 years old. I live in Wellington. I like most types of writing, I like dancing, I also
like playing with my dog.

 

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This poem, by Don Franks will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

The Club

Walled off with corrugated iron
like a gang headquarters
my mother’s hangout
The Eastbourne Women’s Bowling club

For lack of funds
“the green was rough as guts”

unlike the men’s
“We didn’t have a bar” my mother said

The membership kept playing and dwindling
in between times
issuing fresh sandwiches and scones
for men’s club gala days

“Why didn’t you merge with the men’s club?”
“The men didn’t want that”

Finally
“It wasn’t worth keeping it going”

Soon bits of fence fell off revealing
the green as rough as guts beside
an old prefab, two windows smashed

The men’s two-storied white pavilion
and billiard-table green set round
with golden kowhai
still going, lately, I hear
struggling for members.

I am a 75 year old semi retired musician. I grew up in Eastbourne, where ‘the club’ used to
be. Sometimes I write little stories or verses about things that make me happy, angry or sad.

 

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This poem, by Rosie Copeland will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.

2050

the sea will offer up more beads
than sand to future generations
our feet will crunch on them
as we lay our beach towels down
beside our snacks and drink bottle

we will bake on the plastic
melting under the sun
as malnourished seagulls
bellies full of plastic bags
feed on dwindled numbers of fish
awash with beads worn microscopic
by the ocean

the beads will pass, in seafood
that we haul and eat,
through our intestine wall
into our bloodstream
and collect around
our hearts
our plastic hearts

I’m a word-artist based in New Zealand. I’m currently writing a YA novel. I’ve completed writing papers
at the IIML and belong to several writing groups. I’m published in Mayhem, Reading Room, Tarot,
several anthologies, and in the USA. I’ve placed, been long-listed, or commended in several writing
competitions.

 

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Two poems from My wide white bed, by Trish Harris

We’ve just reprinted this much-loved book, and here is a sample
that you can revisit, or discover for the first time.

​

Advice from the physio
Stop during the day
and remember to breathe.

At 1pm exactly we inflate
hover above our beds
and medical procedures
push out a breath so strong
we can sail home on it.               P44

​

Imagine if the hospital
employed a Marvin.
A monotone, pill-toting machine
who in less than 15 seconds
fires medication directly
into your mouth, offers you
a consoling phrase
(from a store of 1,005)
and pats your head with
plastic hands.

Imagine if the hospital
employed a Marvin
instead of a nurse
with her soft-timbred voice
who reaches across
the fear and says
We want to help you
get on top of your pain.               P10

 

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Two poems in Spanish from Roll & Break.

Charles Olsen and Lilián Pallares (from National Poetry Day’s Given Words project) have translated these two poems from Roll & Break, by Adrienne Jansen (Landing Press 2022). There’s something beautiful about the way poems ‘sing’ in another language. They feel like a gift.

Travelling light

She is walking at the edge of the sea
on the wet shining sand.
The bright sky is behind her.
She is travelling
on a sheet of grey light.

We pass, and I wave.
She laughs, of course.
A woman who walks at the edge,
on light, would laugh.

 

Viaje de luz

Anda en la orilla del mar

sobre la arena mojada brillante.
El cielo luminoso detrás de ella.
Viaja sobre
una sábana de luz gris.

Nos cruzamos, y la saludo con la mano abierta.
Ella ríe, por supuesto.
Una mujer que camina en el filo,
sobre la luz, riera.

 

And the sea

There is sunrise.
Birds streaming across the gold sky.

I walk along this quiet beach.
Words are glint of luck,
chips of unreasonable happiness.

I need to walk in the freezing rain,
in the wild wind,
bare feet in the ice-cold waves.

I need to lie on the soft sand,
sun on my face,
and the small sweet rush of the water.

The sea connects us.
The fear, the void, the devastation
the wordless mystery
the aching beauty
the long tolling silence.

 

Y el mar

El amanecer está.
Aves vuelan por el cielo dorado.

Camino por esta playa tranquila.
Las palabras son destellos de suerte,
astillas de felicidad poco razonable.

Necesito caminar en la lluvia glacial,
en el viento salvaje,
descalza en las gélidas olas.

Necesito yacer sobre la arena suave,
el sol en mi rostro,
y el pequeño dulce correr del agua.

El mar nos conecta.
El miedo, el vacío, la devastación
el misterio no dicho
la belleza dolorida
el largo tañer del silencio.

​