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GOING BIG PLACES
This poem, by Jilly O’Brien, appears in Potluck: Poems about food, published November 2025.
The plain biscuit pōwhiri
Plain biscuits will be available
for your pōwhiri, said the email.
Ngā mihi
Thank you for providing plain biscuits
for the pōwhiri. Is that just one
per attendee? Ngā mihi
Plain biscuits will be available
probably two per person, plus tea
and instant coffee
for the pōwhiri.
Ngā mihi
Do you know – can I remove tapu
with plain biscuits at the pōwhiri?
Is there any possibility
of kina, pāua, rēwena, taewa
parāoa parai, honey and butter
scones and savouries, cheese rolls and pies
sushi and muffins, fruit piled high
at the plain biscuit pōwhiri?
Ngā mihi
Sadly we are too far from the sea
and our souls to offer more than just
plain biscuits at the pōwhiri.
It’s just a pleasantry, really.
Ngā mihi
‘The plain biscuit pōwhiri’ pokes fun at the invisible systems in our workplaces that support the dominant narrative without knowing it. It is based on a true exchange of emails.
This poem, by Anne Powell, appears in Potluck: Poems about food, published November 2025.
Seasons
My father was in Egypt
during World War II.
There he met a small boy.
‘How old are you?’
‘I was born in the season of fava beans’
replied the boy.
I am from Taranaki, between the mountain and the sea. I have four collections of poetry published. My poems are in several anthologies of poetry. Some of my poems have been set to music by David Hamilton and Jenny McLeod. Leonie Holmes composed a song cycle sung by the Kings Singers (UK) and Voices NZ.
This poem, by Stephen Olsen, appears in Potluck: poems about food, published November 2025.
Hot chips from the local
I’d walk for blocks
to come home arm in arm
with those paper-wrapped scoops
torn just enough at the corner for a sneak raid
or two or five, then back with the family
set down to reveal a pile of freshly cooked potato
comfort-giving carbs that rival the best thing
since buttered white bread
a combo we call the humble chip butty
a combo that never fails to hit the spot
with Wattie’s tomato sauce, or not
I work as a freelance writer for publications such as Landscape Architecture Aotearoa. My first published poem appeared in The Approach (Wai-te-ata Press, 2002). I whakapapa to Pito-one, Motupipi in the Golden Bay, Motueka, Kāpiti and Pōneke and can’t imagine a year going past without a feast of chip butties.
This poem, by Don Franks, appears in Potluck: poems about food, published November 2025.
Providence
The messy work of eating corn
sometimes gets done
out on the front porch
in the sun
A few bright golden grains
fall through the deck
down to the earthy dark
for passing ants to sense and check
And make a fuss:
‘Behold! Now see!
There is a God
And He loves us’
I have always enjoyed reading poems; they are a reliable pleasure. Some favourites poets of mine are A. D. Hope, Geoff Cochrane, Emily Dickinson and Philip Larkin. In my spare time, I like playing around with words and trying to make sense of life experience with them.
This poem, by John Ewen, appears in Potluck: poems about food, published November 2025.
Meal break: a haibun
In 1908, the Blackball miners with blackened hands and filthy faces had but 15 minutes to eat their crib still at their ‘place’ – a coal seam deep underground: cramped; the air hot, stale, laden with black slivers. They asked for half an hour. In the cool, calm West Coast court the judge – bewigged, begowned – , remarked from his lofty space that 15 minutes seemed a reasonable time. He adjourned the court for 90 minutes for lunch at his hotel and leisurely banter with his colleagues while the decanter did the rounds.
After lunch (did someone point out the anomaly?) perhaps in more expansive mood, the judge allowed the miners 30 minutes; they still ate where they worked.
lunch deep underground –
miners pause to eat cheese and
coal-dust sandwiches
I took up creative writing when I retired (I’m now 89) and I’ve been fortunate to have my short fiction, poetry and non-fiction appear in Aotearoa New Zealand magazines and anthologies and broadcast by Radio New Zealand. Recently I’ve concentrated on poetry.
We received too many poems to be able to include them all in Potluck, but want to include some others here. This poem is by Bill Kelly.
Future gone
Burning
Heat
Sand
Water
None
Food
None
Children
Future.
None.
These two poems, by Hanadi Al Bakhas and Brian Fiedalan, are both written about the same theme – what some people know that others don’t know. Both poems appear in From our hands to yours published November 2024.
Some people know how to cook kabuh
how to speak Arabic and English
how to bless people
how to wear the hijab
how to dance Syrian dances
how to leave your own country
how to run for your life.
And some people don’t. – Hanadi Al Bakhas, Syria
Some know what it’s like to –
harvest their own rice
wash their clothes in the river
make a kite from bamboo
gather their own water
get bitten by mosquitoes at night
see a snake in their house.
And some people don’t. – Brian Fiedalan, Philippines
This poem, by Mala Maisie Key, will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.
I am the newest
When I think about generations
I think about my Nanima’s Nanima
and that German-speaking ancestor
who was thrown overboard.
I think about many people
but none of them is me.
Because I am the descendant of all these people.
I am the newest generation.
I am 11 years old. My favourite things to do are acting, reading and making comics.
This poem, by Asher Carey will appear in Now and then: poems about generations, published October 2024.
Billions
My mum and dad are two.
Granny, Grandad and the other two are four.
It keeps on multiplying by two.
That’s how generations start.
They can go up to billions.
I am Asher Carey from Pukerua Bay. I am 7 years old. I love soccer, sports and maths and enjoy reading poems at school.
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
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.