Crossed Cultures

Both feet walking

You have one

so do I

It’s the point

where our own

stories start.

As far back

as we can be bothered

but this isn’t mine.

Time didn’t land me here

in Aotearoa.

My feet don’t sink

like the roots

of the unrelenting Kauri

formed here in this earth,

claimed by the indigenous race

who wear their pride

and disgust

as a moko on the face.

No my tree is upside down

it narrows

as it heads north

to Poland, Ireland and France.

They came to new lands

with burning hope

for a shining future

and a fading past.

She sailed

into Akaroa as a child.

He jumped ship

in Hawkes Bay, aged 14,

carrying a suitcase

of old habits and the name

‘Oemcke’.

Hello Hello Hello

It should have started

Here – my heritage

rich, reaching,

giving me a hook.

But no Grandfather

sat with me

telling tales

of another time.

Of cousins

customs, hometowns

or farms.

Lost were the talents

of music and song,

words formed

beautifully

on sheets of cream.

No great deeds

of forbearers,

no inspiration

for the days ahead.

Small round face

and constant desire

to escape

are all that remain

today.

This space lays bare

in my cultural stance.

No impact,

imprint

or connection.

No christened ship to board

so I look around

for formation of my own.

Hello? Hello? Hello?

Many have worn the hats

of responsibility

successfully.

Some only once.

She began the act

By birthing the child

from her dream

of beauty.

Then lost herself

within herself

and left the bags

at the station

for the lost.

Alienated within a realm

of nationalities,

state housing,

wife beating,

child raping,

and milk-in-schools.

Malnourished spirits

sent to Health Camp

to restore a flicker of vigor.

That Government heart –

financially supporting

those who squander,

the few bad apples in the cart.

Daring to hope

while still out at sea

the girl jumps ship, aged 14,

with no bags at all

and carrying the name

‘Loser’

Hello hello hello

And so what?

Who cares

If anger filled my nights?

Venting my protest

in the Springbok march.

Eggs smack on crowns,

pig’s head impaled on a stick –

Muldoon is duly summoned

to answer for his smirk.

Enter the orange haired

Winkle Peckered punk

with the same desire for more.

We fall in love and marry young,

introducing our own children

to the jelly mold.

Tisk, Tisk

people would say

in ignorance with distain.

“Too different, won’t work,

just you wait and see.”

We leave it all behind

and get baptised

At Mission Bay –

changing only the shape

of our jelly mold.

Our business stands through

the Stock Market Crash,

only

to fall – later.

While Muldoon struts on stage

of the Rocky Horror Show

we plant a baby Oak,

from which we hope to carve our lifeboat.

HELLO HELLO HELLO

Where is this going?

What is my place?

Do I dare to place a claim?

And exactly why does a lump form

whenever Kiri sings

for Air New Zealand?

I am one of a new breed

of pioneers

in this land of plenty.

Moving forward

each step as daring

and as hopeful as theirs.

Aroha,

yes aroha –

freedom to be and let be.

No longer intimidated,

my identity

is in my voice.

Not of this land

nor of that

and yet I belong.

Among the people

a new norm unfolds

as the national flag forms

a sail.

As I prepare to board

our fine sailing vessel,

aged 34,

I carry suitcases

of experience,

and the name

‘Kiwi’.

Hello Hello Hello

Free to move,

dream and play,

we have conquered our own abyss.

Therefore, discovering

ourselves

rolling over the hills,

in waves of creativity,

with the gentle breeze of adaptation.

The dress, the art,

literature and ideas

are unique,

full and fine.

A pride swells in my heart

as the voice

illuminates the night sky,

reaching over the waters

under a banner of many

and one.

Down here, not hiding

but growing strong

in the changing scenes.

I am a part

of this country’s beat –

the rhythm rolls

in my veins,

I can’t help

but feel its power.

My inititials now carved

into the trunk

of the old Oak,

now matured

and left to stand

in its own majestic space.

Hello Hello Hello

The Groove

My face is white but not ashamed, just quiet in a corner,

the fold so close its heat beats out – my appearance appearing yellow.

Peace fronds placed in Pauwai Bay, Tohunga read in Piha,

Hone loves to cream the sea – but I still can’t suck a kina.

Cause my kete carries arms and legs, a European cluster,

trees with roots I’ll never know – my sky wire cannot decipher.

But boy can we mix it, all finding the same groove

dancing round the kitchen bar – to BB’s guitar blues.