A new poem as performed by Tusiata Avia at the 2024 Arts Foundation Laureates Awards.

I’m writing you a poem about art and creativity

I’m writing you a poem about art and creativity and its power 

I hope this poem will make you feel happy and powerful

 

and I hope writing poetry doesn’t get me into trouble, 

Again.

While the poet spent 25 years writing poetry

 

she could hear her friends talking about their renovations 

she thought, Oh, well, I don’t need a house

Poetry can be my house.

 

She thought she could write a house full of poetry to live in

Maybe, she thought, I can use metaphors and symbols 

– and all the other things, poets use – 

 

to write a house for all of us to live in.

But her poems turned into mirrors

the walls and the ceilings, the floors and the lintels

 

all turned into mirrors

We don’t want a house like this!, the people cried

We want a house of poetry we can live in

 

and feel relaxed and happy and comfortable

most of all we want to feel comfortable.

Oh, she said, here you go, here is a poem about rainbows. 

 

It’s about time you wrote something positive, the people said

and they read the poem aloud:

 

R is for Red and rainbows and Jesus doesn’t like rainbows because they cause the sexualisation of children.

O is for Orange and Jesus doesn’t like orange or rainbows because they hijack our local councils. We don’t want our city to become another San Francisco.

Y is for Yellow and Jesus doesn’t like yellow because yellow is a dangerous weirdo and our kids do not need to be exposed to these weirdos.

G is for Green and Jesus doesn’t like green – yes, it is the colour of the branch that the dove bought to show Noah that God had finished drowning the entire human race, but, it is also the colour of immoral subterfuge and perverts…

 

Stop that, the people cried, this is not a poem! 

This is grooming dressed as art!

 Wait, Wait, she said, let me try again, I promise I can give you what you want,

 

And then she wrote:

And now, fourty one thousand eight hundred and seventy seven are dead on one side And now one thousand seven hundred and six are dead 

on the other

(42,000

12,00…

and then, she realised where the poem was going

Oh shit, she said to herself, and quickly scribbled the poem out before anyone saw it.

You’ve got to stop doing that! she said to the poem and bit her tongue so hard it bled.

 

And she tried again:

 

“Racism” aside – the poem said – there comes a time, when all that stuff is in the past and you people need to stop complaining. 

Waitangi this and Dawn Raids that. 

If everyone got an apology from the Prime Minister, I mean, where would it all end? It’s not like I’m responsible for any of it! 

If you think about it, I’m probably owed an apology for something too.

What I’m saying is: The past is the past, so let’s leave it alone and just get on with it.

“White Privilege” aside…

 

No, no, stop!, the poet cried and leapt up from her desk

the poem stood up, across the desk, from her

its head hit the ceiling and the poem grew right up through the roof until it was taller than 

the clouds 

and its voice came down from the firmament and said:

My child, you know you cannot command me 

 

but I’m being paid for this one, she answered

staring up into Poetry’s bright, bright light. 

The poem shrugged and looked at her

 

the poem looked at all the things in the world around her

the poem smiled its inscrutable smile

and its shoulders began to shiver

 

its shoulders began to shake

and it laughed.

The poem laughed and it laughed

\and the laughing filled the world

and the galaxy

and whole universe

 

 till the very

end

of time.