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kiran goswami Aug 15
I tried to write about the tricolour today,
I lifted the pen and spilt the ink on the paper,
the paper was white, white as in the tricolour
the spilt ink was navy blue, navy blue as in the tricolour's wheel.
I then dripped my hands in it,
my hands too became navy blue as I wrote the word 'INDEPENDENCE'
But that word did not belong to me, not to us, not as yet.
The 'Independence' I proudly talked of,
the sacrifices I mentioned,
were all foreign.
they were all spoken and written not in my language but in somebody else's.
I took two seconds to write 'INDEPENDENCE'
and eight seconds to write on my own.
I then realised we're caged and perhaps this time we don't wish to free ourselves anymore.
Two 'teardrops' fell and it became 'DEPENDENCE'.
well, even the tears were foreign and so was the mind.
I crushed the paper that looked foreign too,
and sat on my desk reading about my language.
So that next time when
I try to write about the tricolour,
I write in my own tongue.
David Hutton Nov 2018
They share hollow thoughts, they're just clones,
Harbouring a plague of bloodthirsty tones.
Violation begins,
Spreading their deadly sins.
Motivated by the cries and moans.
New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.

Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.

Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.

A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.

The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.

The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.

Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.

The persistence of *******.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.

Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.

While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.
Maori are made fun of for being benefit users. The title is a pun given all the benefits white people get.

Also this was a found poem from the academic article White Privilege: Exploring the (in)visibility of Pakeha whiteness by Claire Frances Gray.
Bill Higham Mar 2016
And the very last, the endling,
Caged in the sunlight at Beaumaris Zoo,
Tired of the poking and the prodding
Paced out of existence into history,
Into emblem and icon
Legend and label,
On to things protected by copyright,
Footage and fable,
And the internet's electric jungle,
And into that great white emptiness
Of extinction,
That giant ship which we are building,
Stacking and storing,
Fitting and filling,
Recording into the grand voyage
Of oblivion.
The last known Tasmanian Tiger (Thylacinus cynocephalus) died, reportedly due to neglect, in Beaumaris Zoo, Hobart, Australia, in September 1936.
Bill Higham Mar 2016
At this deep pool
Where no light is reflected,
Where small birds come
Clinging to the vine
Amongst fallen logs and silences,
The crush of leaves and the rot of years.

At this dark edge
Where now unassailable trees tower
In a brief clearing,
At this still centre where the wreckage lies
Of river's breach and storm's rage.

Here at the heart.

Where once the workings of long-ago men,
The wild, roaring, toothless ones,
Desperate and dislocated,
Their fierce eyes blazing through dark,
And bodies by day burning through timber,
Cut sunlight in shadow
And nation in nature.
Bill Higham Mar 2016
And these men that made the land,
That wove their dreams with dust and dirt,
That needed death to know the flower,
Men of the corrugated country.

Men of bones,
Propped in the rusted windy ruins,
Who watched the movement of the birds
And bartered life with sky and earth.

Men of the drought's bare-cupboard cradle,
Biblical through plague and famine,
Who struck the water in the stone
And fought with flesh to swell the soil.

Time's weathered toys,
Who sought a garden in the sand,
Where the withered streams of the dry season
Flowed with flooding summer rains.

Men of the dark deserted spaces,
That masked their ruined stars with drink,
That fed the shadows with strange desires
And drowned the broken plough with tears.
Octavia Malkin Aug 2015
I remember you as the missionary that turned my body into a piece of land
That night you crossed an ocean of friendliness to claim as your own.
But this land was already inhabited by the likes of me, a native to my body
And you, a foreign body that I could not wash clean.
I showered five times that night, but you had already implanted a plague
Of confusion and hate within me.

You took my smile aprisoner, never to be seen again
Until we passed each other on campus four months later.
You flaunted your smirk as if you got a flashback too
But unlike mine it was a happy one.
Not like the ones I have had at least once a week for the last year,
Where I'm back to the night of the invasion
And end up shaking in fear.

I had known you for no less than ten months,
Always saw you at house parties and in night clubs with our mutual friends -
Don't you think it's weird that we used to be friends?
You know when I shared that taxi back with you I expected you to get me home safely,
Leave me at the door and in the morning I'd text you to make sure you got home okay,
Moan about our headaches and compare hangover cures.

I did not expect you to ask to come in but I allowed it.
A glass of water for your way and to use my bathroom because
Being ****** and needing a **** at the same time is hard
But that's where my consent ended,
Rejected your ****** advances, pleaded for you to leave
And you had the audacity to say that I didn't mean it.
Like I wouldn't know what the words leaving my mouth meant,
Like I didn't spend the last nineteen years of my life learning about consent
And the dangers of the female body.

When you hear about **** it's always in dark alleyways,
Strangers pouncing on weaker prey - that sick, lonely, *******,
And never the friend that you took shots with.
Never the guy that's the life of the party.
Never the guy that works for your university.

Over the last year I have cried an ocean, big enough to stop another man from crossing.
I'm working on my liberation, fighting for my independence from this nightmare.
I know you conquered other friends too, but I refuse to be another colony in your empire -
Another person to be victimised,
Because it's YOU, Missionary, that needs to be civilised.
The past year has been a hard one, and basically.

— The End —