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Words by Porita Fruean (she/her)  This piece is dedicated to a piece of my heart that I had to leave home; my community, my village, and my aiga. We depart our islands, leaving behind the cradle of our existence. The Pacific, once a sanctuary of simplicity, now compels us to wander. Our souls tethered to the land, our hearts anchored in the embrace of azure waves, we bid farewell to the only home we've known. The islands, like ancient sentinels, stood guard against the relentless tides of time. They nurtured us with the fruits of the earth and the secrets of the sea. But the world beckoned its siren song of progress and opportunity echoing in our ears. With heavy hearts, we step onto foreign shores, leaving behind the whispers of coconut palms and the lullabies of ocean breezes. The Pacific's tranquil beauty, juxtaposed with its fierce challenges, has forged us into resilient souls. As we navigate this new world, we carry the essence of our islands within us—the resilience of coral reefs weathering storms, the unity of communities bound by tradition, and the determination of people who know the value of what they leave behind. The Pacific, with its simple splendors and profound complexities, remains etched in our memories. Its vivid sunsets, vibrant dances, and the laughter of children playing by the shore are indelible marks on our hearts. We may have left our islands, but they will never leave us. The Pacific is not just a place; it is the essence of who we are.

Words by Jasmine Navala Waleafea (she/her) The earliest form of literature was said to be  cuneiform scripts  on clay tablets, created by ancient Mesopotamians in 3400 BC. Hundreds of years on, and literature has apparently become an integrated part of almost all cultures. Inevitably, literature has played a significant role in preserving the past, explaining the present, and predicting the future  of human existence. Efforts on literary art in the Pacific emerged between 1965 and 1968, with the support of both the University of Papua New Guinea and the University of the South Pacific. Otherwise, early Oceanian literature does exist, however, it was expressed through other art mediums. Pacific Islanders have long used visual pictographs to communicate. They imprinted unique designs on their tapestries to indicate tribal affiliations. During rituals and ceremonies, they etched calligraphically Tatau onto their skin to indicate these initiations. And they also carved rocks and wood totems to exhibit mysteries of their spiritual realms. Pacific literatures are very much oral and were transmitted down generations either through a Talanoa with the elders or Kastom Stories  (folklore) under the stars. Others were choreographed into prose, chants, lullabies, songs, and dance around evening fires. These oratorical recollection of wars, plights, valor, genealogy, harvest, and seasons  were like an unclassified curriculum that promoted values subjected to reciprocity, relationship, collectivism, resilience, service, respect, spirituality, leadership, family, and love; and the coexistence of mankind with the environment. Over the last five decades, Pacific writers with the likes of Dr Konai Helu Thaman, Vincent Eri, Albert Went, Witi Ihimaera, Epeli Hau’ofe, Celestine Vaite and Sia Figiel, have engaged profoundly in this endeavor. The effort of the Solomon Islands Creative Writers Association (SICWA) is also part of this campaign in the pacific. In July of this year, SICWA launched their second Talemoat II: Solomons Stories of Peace and Conflict. I was the editor.  Talemaot means to ‘speak up’ . The book is a collection of perspectives and testimonies on the theme of peace and conflict. Through this process, ordinary Solomon Islanders were given the opportunity to come talk about their experiences and find healing from the misfortunes that had befell them during the Ethnic Tension (1998-2003) and the Honiara political riots of 2021. While the production of Pacific literature is advancing well amongst both the Polynesia and Melanesia regions, there is more effort needed from Micronesia. Accounts of Oceania and their held perspective can only be expressed well by islanders themselves. Finally, our Pacific literature is key to allowing other cultures to experience our world and be able to appreciate our Pasifika worldviews. By nurturing our imaginations and creativity through our literature, we are only reinforcing a hopeful future for ourselves.

Words by Tarifa Laban (she/her) I’ve always struggled with what box to tick on forms that only give you one option for your ethnicity. It begs me to consider: well, am I Samoan, or am I European? I’ve ticked the latter more often. (Something I am ashamed of). I’m not really too sure why I automatically put myself into that bracket. I think I’m afraid that if you were to see me in person, after I had ticked Samoan, you may think I’ve made a mistake. My identity crisis. I sit in rooms, the only brown face, and pretend like I don’t really have a care for my culture. Meanwhile, I cringe inside as jokes with racist connotations become normalised. I admire the ones more in touch with their Pacific Island cultures and wish I had a completely different reality. A reality where I didn’t feel like I had to be one way around my Polynesian friends, and another way around my palangi friends. There’s probably other people out there who live this double life like me. Who don’t know which bracket they fit into, or what box to tick on the form. Our identity crisis. I want you to know that I’m trying to find a place to fit. I don’t speak Samoan, but I yearn to. I can’t dance like my ancestors, but I could (I think). I’m not knowledgeable about my family tree, but it lives in me. I can feel them. I look like them. It’s where my melanin is from. I look brown. But am I? Am I a true Samoan? Whether I am or not, I’m still called a coconut, and then I’m also called an Oreo. The worst one is when I’m called plastic. Plastic. Like something that’s fake? I don’t want you to think I’m plastic. How do you even define that word? Why have I become your definition? Your identity crisis. I’m the token brown girl in your posters, your leadership team, your academic prizegiving, your advertisements, your, your, your… But sometimes I’m not. Sometimes you leave me out because you don’t understand me. Or maybe I leave myself out because I don’t understand me too. Maybe I am plastic. But that would imply that I’m fake. I’m not fake. I’m trying. My identity crisis. Everyone has their own story. Maybe we are all similar in one way or another. Maybe we’re all just trying to understand the complexities of being human. The complexities of our identities. What’s an identity again?

Words by Grace Fakahau (she/her) As the stars twinkle in the night sky, they twinkle like us, the grandchildren in my grandparents’ eyes. As the sun rises and the sky light sweeps the darkness of the night away, I rise too, in my grandparents' home. As the pan of eggs seethes and toast jumps up from the toaster’s heat, I jump to the large breakfast table and prepare for my grandfather’s prayer. As the food is passed down the table for breakfast, I am not only eager for the arrival of the food, but also for my grandfather's stories. My grandfather, who sailed the sea in the 1990s, tells me about my Pacific heritage. He tells me about the days he climbed up the coconut trees, the peaceful Sunday mornings at church with young children belting hymns from their little chests, the warm sun that shines through the sky and pigments his skin, the days he spent swimming swiftly through the clear waves at the beach with my family, the days of hard yards, learning cultural dances and performing them to his village, the days of showering in the rain while the warmth of the sun beams onto him, the days of riding his children to school on the back of his motorbike, he wants me to relive those days and experience the joy in my motherland: island joy, just as he had in my homeland. He awaits the day I head to the home I have never been to, the day where he can give me a tour of his village, the village that lights up at night from the full moon and stars sparkling in the night sky. He awaits the day we head to the friendly islands together. But how long does he have to wait before my island finds itself underwater? To find my island sunk? To find my people evacuated? To find my land gone? How long do I have left until I find my island under the sea? How long do I have left to bury my elders in their homelands? How long until it’s too late? History has been erased by the creation of a friendly yellow sponge. ‘Bikini Bottom’ is what they call my long-lost friend, Bikini Atoll. But like the sole on the bottom of one's shoe, we are stood on by the world. We’re forgotten, because apparently, we depend on the rest of the world. We are called leeches, sucking the resources from the developed countries around us, sucking their economy from the land—the land in which they stole, sucking their pockets dry, sucking. They say we depend too much, so we suck. My history fades as they parade on my stage. But they need to see that we are the ones who aid. We are the market for their ‘stuff’. We are the origins of their economy. We grew their agriculture. We lost our land and culture to grow theirs. If anyone is dependent, it’s them. They are the leech, depending on my islands for an Instagram picture at a beach, depending on my islands to book their tropical holiday homes, they contribute to my islands sinking through climate change alone. We are exploited. My Pacific islands face the effects of climate change today. The flooding, the rain, and storm surges increase as the floods of people at church on a Sunday morning decrease. The vibrant worshipping voices that steam up the warm Sunday mornings are now silent as they await the storm to pass and the sea to calm. The land that is my own home now belongs to the sea. My islands continue to sink into the sea as the developed government continues to sink into its caucus bench. The sea will rise, and my islands will sink, my ancestor's lands will soon become extinct unless the government of this so-called developed nation acts on its proposed climate emergency. Will I even be able to visit my islands, a home where my ancestors lay, and my people pray? Pray for the water to keep from rising and sinking my islands. Pray, for the very water that connects my islands, will sink my islands. Tonga, I fear losing her. This climate crisis is more than just the trees falling and the sea rising. It is the children laughing and giggling to each other as they walk through the floods up to their waistline, holding bags of fruit above their heads. It is the father who holds his son as he prays before the cyclone hits their village. It is the food that’s given out for the price of love. It is the churches where the village sleeps during the storm as one big family. These actions of resilience are mistaken as a sign that we’re okay. As my ancestors above look over me, they ask why I am crying. They ask why their islands are dying. I try to explain this climate crisis as a whole, but I’m focusing below, as I tulou between their headstones, sinking. As my voice breaks to save my islands, my ancestors ache as they sink into the dirty sea in silence. I will fight to save them. I will fight to save the Pacific. For my ancestors who sailed the Moana, who were raided in their homes and on the streets, hoping for a lifestyle filled with endless opportunities for me, I raise my voice. For my islands where my family lives and ancestors are buried, sea levels rise as my land sinks in a hurry, I raise my voice. For my islands that you book for your ‘tropical’ holiday yet ignore the effects of this climate change sinking us, I raise my voice. For my brown, Tongan, minority raised, child of immigrant parents, Salvation Army, Good Will, holey socks and shoes self, I raise my voice. For my ancestors, for my islands, for the hood. I raise my voice for my grandfather's stories.

Words by Jia Sharma (she/her) I always get a feeling of excitement when I begin my hike up Cuba Street and hear music playing. My pace quickens in anticipation for the performers I’ve come to recognise by ear. They add a layer of excitement to our daily routines, boring errands, and even more boring classes. The Wellington CBD is brimming with talented performers on every corner. From bands to magicians, the streets are one giant variety show. There is a strong network of street performers that have become familiar faces to a lot of people.  Street performance is an excellent gateway for emerging performers, and many popular artists such as Tracy Chapman and Robin Williams started off busking. After taking a minute to get a licence online, anyone can do it. It’s an accessible and cost-efficient way to showcase your talent without the struggle of having to secure a venue and sell tickets. Foot traffic on the bustling streets provides a pre-sold-out show.  Street performance is an underappreciated part of history. It builds the social and artistic climate of a city. In addition to providing accessible entertainment, street performers are the unsung heroes of an urban landscape, helping create vibrant public spaces that make cities and communities more dynamic and enjoyable places to live. Most times, the focus is primarily drawn to the big artists playing at Spark Arena when your next favourite artist may have been right under your nose.  Hopefully, the next time you encounter these artists on the street, you'll not only appreciate their talent but also know a bit more about the incredible people behind the performances. Tree:   Instagram: @woodybansuri For those who roam the CBD regularly, I’m sure you’ve come across Tree at some point. Adored by many, Tree sets out to spread happiness through his performance, with the initial goal of cheering the city up after the pandemic lockdowns ended. Myself and many others have often wondered what inspired the iconic tree costume, and Woody, the face behind Tree, kindly provided an answer to my question. “I lived in India and Nepal for 14 years from 2005 until 2019. There, trees are treated as magical and sacred beings. [...] I felt that it would be nice to make people in Wellington feel that they have a nice tree friend that loves them walking around on a daily basis.” As someone who basically lives on Cuba Street, I always appreciate Tree’s friendly waves and amazing saxophone tunes.  Unfortunately, the Wellington City Council doesn’t seem to have the same appreciation and have been rude and disrespectful to Tree on several occasions. Fortunately, Tree doesn’t let this get to him and remains undeterred, as at the end of the day, the overwhelmingly positive reaction is what matters most. Woody doesn’t aim to market or establish Tree as a brand, saying that it’s enough that people enjoy his performances. If you want to witness some of the joy being spread by Tree, just take a walk around the CBD on a good day, you’re bound to run into him. If you do, make sure you give a wave back.  Matthias Goed: Instagram: @circus.dude Matthias is a second-generation circus performer who can be commonly found near the bucket fountain or by the waterfront. His main goal is to make circus more accessible to everyone and make the world a more fun place. Matthias’ performance journey started in 2016 when touring around Europe. He noticed a gap in the entertainment industry when it came to live circus and people’s awareness of it. By using the streets as a stage, Matthias ensures that everyone can enjoy the art of circus. He also says, “There is a certain freedom that comes with it. I am able to travel pretty much anywhere, bringing something positive to communities wherever I go, all while doing something that I love and (mostly) being able to support myself.”  I’ve come across Matthias performing a few times near the waterfront, and one of the most remarkable aspects of Matthias' performances is the awe-struck crowd of children gathered to watch. Going to the circus is something I’ve always wanted to do, but it’s such a rare event. Having someone sharing the art of circus spreads awareness of something that would otherwise be out of reach for most people. Matthias’ social media is the best place to find where and when he’ll be performing next, see some cool circus tricks, and open yourself up to an underappreciated art form.  Caleb Cameron: Instagram: @caleb.cameron TikTok: @LebtheTapDancer With the bold ambition of being "bigger than Michael Jackson", Caleb freestyles to a variety of songs, using tap dance as a way to express his authentic self. Caleb has an interesting story when it comes to what launched his street performance career. Due to Covid-19, Caleb had to leave his Musical Theatre scholarship in Melbourne and move to Wellington. “The day I moved into my flat, my flatmate offered up a slab of wood, as I had mentioned tap dance busking. The rest just fell into place after that.” Through busking, Caleb met other people to perform with and was able to build meaningful connections with others. In the many times I’ve seen Caleb performing, there has always been a lasting audience that sticks around for a few songs. My friends and I always look forward to seeing his performances and anticipate running into him the second we start walking up Cuba Street. Caleb said, “The support I have had from the public who walk past and those who have made effort to make contact has been phenomenal, and I know it is obvious when I say it but the busking culture could not survive without the generous and supportive public. So thank you Wellington.” Caleb is currently working on a couple of overseas projects, one of which is performing in a cabaret show on a cruise ship and the other takes him all the way to the United States. Because of this, it might be a while before we see him tapping on the streets again, but make sure to keep up to date on his socials and follow him on these exciting new projects.  Kozo Komatsubara: Instagram: @kozokaos Website: kozokaos.com Comedy, danger, and rock and roll come together in the performances of Kozo: a juggler and magician that can be found on either Cuba Street or the waterfront. His journey as a street performer started 14 years ago when he attended the Auckland Buskers Festival and saw a performer who did crazy tricks with a skateboard and a ladder. Kozo said, “I had seen street performers before who played a character, juggled, or rode a unicycle, but this guy had a real chill, 'normal person' vibe and all of the tricks he did [were] something I'd never seen before. Until I saw him, I didn't know it was okay to just be yourself.” Kozo has since developed a large following and has earned the title of 'New Zealand's Fastest Juggler'.  Kozo has just returned from a three-month summer tour in the UK and is in the process of planning his NZ and Australia tour for the summer, which is definitely something to look out for. Kozo can also be found regularly performing at The Fringe Bar, doing both solo shows and taking part in cabaret and stand-up comedy shows. You can find Kozo’s schedule and tour dates on his website and social media, so make sure you check that out to find your next magical experience.

Words by Alfie Hartshorne (he/him)  Smash cut to the late Cold War, and James Cameron and Christopher Nolan are children growing up in the shadow of the bomb. Cut back to now, and they’re the reigning blockbuster kings, making entertaining spectacles that also reflect humanity’s capacity for annihilation and severed connection. Cinema is an art, so it reflects the experiences of the artists. If the art we make reflects our reality, what will our generation make? If our collective experience was a genre, what would it be? There’s no nice way of saying it: it’s a disaster film. There’s climate change, rising nationalism, inequality, pandemics, culture wars, racism, and transphobia—to name a few of the fraught circumstances of our youth. This is our experience; our future cinema will reflect it.  How will the incoming wave of Generation Z filmmakers tackle this? Let’s start by eliminating what we won’t  be doing by showing you what is being done. Here’s a basic idea of what’s happening: an army of writers and actors man the picket lines. A bunch of out of touch studio goons meddle in the making of every project. Analysts try to discern how this is going to work post-covid. A slew of $300 million blockbusters crash and burn like never before. The CEOs of a streaming service and a cinema are engaged in a fistfight. A TV writers’ room fends off a horde of AI, while James Cameron lounges on a beach chair beside a sign saying, “I told you so!” Welcome to the modern film industry. The dream factory’s a nightmare. So what could be different? Firstly, strikes and studios. For a few months now, the Writers’ Guild of America and Screen Actors Guild have been on strike against Hollywood studios. Actors’ representative Fran Drescher stated, “What happens here is important, because what’s happening to us is happening across all fields of labour by means of when employers make Wall Street and greed their priority.” It goes without saying that the real artists should be compensated for their work. If writers don’t write, the studios have nothing to sell, so they’ll turn to AI.  But it doesn’t work. People like real people and the studios can’t replace us. They definitely have the money to pay the artists. I see a generation emboldened to take a stronger stance against studio shenaniganry. Most of us are already involved in protests and social causes. We’re all set to grow into this. Beyond cinema, there’s a growing work-from-home movement and a greater demand for better conditions. Film is an industry, it’s no different. We know things are different post-covid, and there are big ones for streaming and cinema. Thanks to the pandemic, streaming films straight from release is much more normalised. Will we care as much about the cinematic experience? Consider Barbenheimer—audiences flocked with costumes and often brought friends. It worked. At the time of writing, the combined gross of Barbie  and Oppenheimer  is over $2 billion. This wouldn’t be the same on streaming. Barbenheimer was an event, a ‘me and the boys’ for the ages. This kind of engagement with the theatrical experience was an instant classic—it was memorable and worthwhile. Don’t we all want some kind of longevity? In the future, I see more diversity and far more varied stories told to include many different life experiences outside the American mainstream. A likely prominent theme to emerge throughout our stories will be institutional distrust and downright anti-government sentiment. A defining feature of our generation is anger at the inaction of our political leaders regarding… everything, really. Think of how many protests you’ve marched in against systemic and institutional injustice.  Existential dread is guaranteed when you’re growing up amidst climate change, and I see a lot of Lovecraftian, cosmic horror facing this futureless feeling. It’s a scary time to be alive. The future may not be guaranteed for many of us, and horror can be one of the most allegorical and cathartic genres for this. A24 (the studio behind Euphoria  and The Lighthouse ) is gonna have a blast.  My beloved science fiction genre is the most allegorical of them all, and it’s gonna explode. Look at how much of 20th century sci-fi came true: we’re living through Blade Runner  (technically set in 2019…), The Matrix , a little bit of Alien , and the smallest sliver of The Thing . Imagine what we’ll create to envision our paperback dystopian future. Art with an environmental focus will come through strongly, and I say this not just to vindicate us Avatar  truthers. Our films will focus on nature as something to be preserved and respected, and as indigenous filmmakers take the stage, we’ll see more stories featuring an indigenous worldview of the environment. Or maybe it’ll all be destroyed by deforestation and deep sea mining, so our films will present the environment as nostalgic memories of beauty now lost. I am willing to bet money one of us is going to adapt Le Guin’s The Word For World Is Forest .  And the final theme? Cue the Terminator  theme, because it’s AI. What does it look like when we’re done predicting a robot apocalypse, and we’re actually facing HAL 9000? We’re already seeing this in the screen writers’ strikes—artists fighting to not be replaced by computers. I’d say defiance is the word. Art is forever because art is human. I think we’ll be seeing a lot of artists grappling with the concept of lost youth. How many of us feel like we’ve had to grow up an extra decade to successfully mature and take on the world’s problems, because it feels like the adults won’t? I know I definitely have. Did we get a chance to be real, carefree teenagers? To quote my favourite musical ever, “Can’t we be seventeen?”  We’re so nostalgic for a lost past, we’re almost tragic. Gen Z has a very particular sense of humour, so I predict a new wave of dark, gallows humour infused comedy. The ultimate joke would be if it turned out that our ‘sensitive’ and ‘snowflake’ generation grew up to make the most outrageous stuff possible. Throughout everything, I see a reckoning with humanity’s capacity for good and evil. Are we good? Are we worth saving? I think this will be weighing on a lot of minds. Most of my dream projects loosely revolve around a younger generation rejecting tradition and the ways of the old for the sake of legacy and the future. But I want to end on a bigger question than me (because lord knows I haven’t posed enough of those): are we defined by anger or love? Anger at what was taken from us, or love of what we had? Anger at what we went through and are going through, or love of what we can do? Filmmaking is nothing but an attempt at control. Through a camera, we can hold the world in our hands. Is that all we’re looking for in this uncertain world? I said that we are a disaster film. But maybe we’re a sports film, the uplifting underdog story. Maybe we’re a war film—once more unto the breach. Or maybe, the most fitting for our time, we’re a superhero film, rising above great tragedy to become something greater. Like life, the reel rolls on, frame by frame, and is yet to be determined. But I know we’ll call “action!” on something uniquely us.

Words by Pippi Jean (she/her) Imagine the feeling of pissing your pants. In public. Seriously, okay, I know you’ve just picked up  Salient  between classes, this is not what you signed up for, and you just want a spot of light relief. Well, I’m giving you some. Go on. Relieve yourself. Imagine it.  Cool. Now we’re here in this horrible, metaphysical space together, I need you to give me some advice! I have a problem. As a person who publishes poetry (help), I have a physical reaction whenever somebody calls me a ‘poet’. Ew. It feels exactly  like this. Like piss. If you’re an artist, does sharing your art ever feel like this? Like, if you’re a filmmaker and you show your movie on the big screen, is it ever embarrassing? Probably not. Is it a poetry thing? This is a cry for help. I interviewed four poet-bros to get some answers. When did you first start writing poetry? “I like to joke that I first started writing when I was bored in maths class as a 9-year-old,” Cadence Chung says, “but I only seriously got into poetry in intermediate school.” Cadence is a child prodigy, having published their debut chapbook anomalia  with Tender Press during their first year of uni, panelled at the Auckland Writers’ Festival in their second, and wrote, composed, and directed hit teen musical In Blind Faith  long before that. Aroha Witinitara (Ngāti Kahungunu ki Wairarapa) is a second-year Communications student at VUW, with previous publications in Salient , The Post , and Wairarapa News . They tell me a little bit about how they started off writing news in the Wairarapa, saying, “Writing [news] was a good way to claim space where younger people often get ‘drowned out’. I didn’t really get into poetry until I got to university, in Anna Jackson’s class. “When I was 5 years old,I wanted to be a pop star. Then I realised… I couldn’t sing very well,” says Amelia Kirkness. Originally from Ōtautahi, Amelia is a sword lesbian studying English Literature and Media Studies at VUW. She’s had poetry published in Starling , Catalyst , and The Spinoff . “Then I wanted to be a fashion designer. But I couldn’t draw,” she shrugs. “When I was 8, I was like, ‘Okay, I want to be an author. I like books’.” Amelia wrote mostly fiction until discovering poetry in high school, and with it, Ōtautahi’s vibrant open mic and slam scene.  Zia Ravenscroft has a similar story. “I used to write short stories, and I’d start novels, but I’d never finish them,” he says. “Honestly, I started writing poetry out of convenience […] in Year 13.” Zia is a second-year Theatre and English student at VUW with poetry published in Starling , Overcom , Takahē , and elsewhere. His interview is a series of voice memos sent straight from Feilding, his hometown, and the obvious first choice for a place to raise “gods’ favourite boy-toy”.  Did you know poetry is cringe? In the first poem in her collection Write a Book , New Zealand poet Hera Lindsay Bird describes writing, reading, and sharing your own poetry as cringe: “to be fourteen / and wet yourself extravagantly / at a supermarket checkout / as urine cascades down your black lace stocking.” I agree with this.  “Would I do a poetry reading back at home?” Aroha stops to think. “I don’t know. I don’t think I would.” Aroha explains how the cringe culture around poetry can be warranted. They feel they only ‘could’ read poetry when they went to university, and in Wellington particularly. Wellington is a special place for poets and literary communities. It can be easy to assume written poetry is academic, dense, and pretentious, but I find living here helps me to question those assumptions. “No one had ever explained to me how poetry works,” Aroha says, “and it is quite complicated, unfortunately. You have to be able to sit down with a poem […] and think about it quite a bit.” Poetry shouldn’t all be taught as Wordsworth or Shakespeare, but often, that’s what people are exposed to in schools, which creates a lot of misunderstanding. “It depends on who your English teachers are,” Amelia says. “I mean, I had some good ones, but I feel like how poetry is taught sometimes, there can be a sense of cosplaying as being deep and intellectual.” Her first introduction to poetry was through nursery rhymes, which didn’t grab her. The interest only resurfaced in high school. When she started reading modern New Zealand poets—like Hera Lindsay-Bird, Freya Daly-Sadgrove, and Tayi Tibble—poetry seemed relevant to her.  “I think as creators we have a tendency to be very humble about our work, and sort of look down on it,” Zia says. “I think if you spend so long writing, you get to a point where all you can see is its faults.” Maybe it's quintessential Kiwi tall poppy syndrome. I used to get embarrassed when people shouted at me from the sidelines in a hockey game. That’s sport. Which is cool. And literal. And fast. What is it like when you’re in the limelight sharing all your slow, messy, metaphysical inside thoughts? One million  times worse.  “You cringe,” Zia admits, “but then you show your poem to a friend, and you’re like ‘Aw, I don’t know if I like this, I think it sucks.’ And they go, ‘What do you mean? This is the most beautiful poem I’ve ever read!’” His voice memo crackles with excitement. He’s talked a lot about what he gets from reading other people’s poems—like Richard Siken’s ‘Crush’—which is a “totally original feeling”. So for him, the meaning of sharing art outweighs any cringe. “I really feel there’s a freedom, [and] liberation in poetry.” Why do you write poetry?   A few weeks ago, I attended a GOOD BOOKS writers’ talk by Jenny Borndholdt and Frances Samuel. When asked about her writing process, Frances talked about “knowing things were going to be important”. She worked as a curator for Te Papa, which inspired her new chapbook Museum . Often, objects or facts—my fave: that “humpback whales whisper underwater to warn their young of danger”—had a certain “glow” for her.  I tell Amelia about this. She agrees the ‘glow’ is totally a thing—writers can tell what parts of their life will shine on the page. “A couple weekends ago, my friends and I were in town, the bar was about to close, and two of our friends were dancing together on the dance floor. [They were] just spinning each other. It was totally deserted, except for them. And I was like, oh…” Her voice changes. “This is a moment that needs to last forever.”  The habit of capturing moments is not something specific to poetry at all. You know, maybe I just need to get out and cop somebody’s granddad’s ‘untested idk if it works’ free film camera from Facebook Marketplace. But I’m reminded of a line of Cadence’s poetry: “I may / write a thousand sonnets and forget the lovers, / but still have all these words on my hands.”  Writing poems helps me remember things exactly how I experienced them, way after they’ve happened. It’s like drinking a special milk-mud-grass potion that transports you back to that place and time. In the words of Rebecca Shaw and Freya-Daly-Sadgrove, “poetry is language at its most potent, it’s like, concentrated, it’s like the linguistic equivalent of blood-doping, and similarly frowned upon.” Why do you publish  poetry? You don’t have to publish your work, Amelia says. But you do have to “take yourself seriously”. She touches on defences I also find myself making, like, ‘I guess I write poems sometimes!’ and ‘yeah, I write poetry, I know, it's cringe’. Even though writing (and sharing) poetry can be embarrassing, she says we have to realise cringe culture is cancelled and just own that we’re a “fucking person making art”.  “I think particularly when you’re a young woman who is an artist, it can be tempting to kind of trivialise yourself and your work,”  says Amelia. “But you have to be like, ‘I am worthy of respect for doing this’ […] and putting work out into the world is a hugely scary and brave thing to do.” Aroha says, “I would strongly encourage anybody with any sort of minority representation to try writing poetry. I think it's a really powerful way to do the whole taking up space thing. There's an element of therapy, even if you don't show anybody, [just through] getting your experience out on the page. And I think, historically, minorities have been told not to do not to take up space, not to complain. […] It's so it’s just legitimising to have this piece of paper with your sorrow or happiness or just plain experience existing physically in the world. Being there when it's been told not to be. We should all just be.” Ok awesome, is there a conclusion?   Thank you, omniscient formatter. Yes, there is. I feel super empowered after reading all this stuff about poetry. But what if next time I have a cool experience feeling good feelings in the world and I write it down, I end up reading it out to someone and it feels like piss again? What if I mess up how I say something? What does my art actually give to anyone else? These are the questions that stop me from writing, sharing, and even talking to my friends about poetry. But when I do talk, I realise it’s not useful to embarrass yourself about your art. No matter the form, style, or platform, you’re putting yourself out there and entering into a personal conversation with the world. This is a big and brave and pretentious and cringe and scary and messy and good thing.

Words by Phoebe Sullivan (she/her; Te Aupōuri, Ngāti Whātua ki Kaipara, Ngāti Whātua ki Ōrākei, Waikato-Tainui)  Student executives are designed to advocate, promote, and empower student voices and the community. What encompasses student executives is this desire to serve – to serve for want of change, for want of advancement, but most importantly for want of wellbeing.    As Māori, to serve simply comes naturally to us. Whether this be on the pae or in the kitchen, we serve for the betterment of the community and for the wellbeing of our people. We serve because that’s our obligation; it is an extension of our manaaki, and it’s a means of giving back to the village that raised us.    As young, wide-eyed, and eager-for-change rangatahi in tertiary education, one of the many ways we give back is by serving on student executives and, most importantly, by helping Māori. It’s historically a part of us. Some of the greatest activists of our history include rōpu Māori, like Ngā Tamatoa, Ngā Rōpū Tautohetohe, and our own Te Hohaeiti Reo Māori Society. We serve for a purpose, for people, and simply because we just can’t escape a good call to a kaupapa.    Just like many of the Māori before me, I, too, have heard my call. For some reason, I’m still here, serving the kaupapa. No matter how hard I try, I still can’t seem to escape it.    However, the longer I sit on these student executives, the easier it has become to identify the many flaws that riddle the structure of student executives – not the people, the structure!    The mounting pressure put on tauira Māori to engage and to engage meaningfully with wider university frameworks is not only a contradiction to the engagements themselves but a violation of time and energy that could have been better spent elsewhere. Despite our evident dismay at these frameworks designed by old, white-collared university administrators, we are illusioned by our positions in the university structure that our engagements are taken as “sign-offs” and “green ticks”. This is a deception of progression that promotes the idea of a one-fits-all solution to student well-being encouraged by universities across Aotearoa. Unfortunately, tauira Māori are at the brunt of this deception, having become window-dressings of student-wellbeing policies to meet legislative standards.    By even engaging with these half-arsed policies created by these clerics, Māori have become cash cows that have lined universities' pockets without even the slightest bit of compensation to go with it. University structures have ruled tauira Māori and silenced our voices by commercialising our well-being for enrolment numbers and replacing the value of our education with a lucrative and flawed business plan. Unsurprisingly, universities still can’t scrape themselves out of this educational and financial deficit.    This pressure to engage and try to create better outcomes doesn't even address the internal pressure that students put on themselves to try to fix the institutionalised issues of universities. It goes without saying that tauira Māori, and any minority student who decides to be part of an executive, feels this most. The constant need to justify not only to the faculty but to our own peers why our mātauranga, hītori, te reo, and tikanga matter is beyond me. Justifying our place as an indigenous person is exhausting. Justifying our space as indigenous peoples is debilitating. We can’t even show our frustration and anger. So, instead, we project on our own.    Executives have become toxic pressure cookers filled with nepotism and narcissism fuelled by a popularity contest. Individuals don’t value themselves on their ability to lead but by how good their CV looks and by the number of “kaupapa” they're able to push out every year. The worst part is, sometimes it’s not even the university structure perpetuating this, it’s our peers. We’ve become manipulated by a system that measures outputs, rather than inputs; we’ve become obsessed with percentages, numbers, and budgets, and we deceive ourselves by disguising it under tikanga, white-washed by memorandums and financial agreements. Yuck!    Now, please don’t get me wrong. I say this all out of experience. I say this as an individual who has succumbed to all of these pressures in one way or another. I held myself to such a high-standard that when I couldn’t fulfil it, instead of going mad with power, I broke with despair. I walked around with the heaviest weight on my shoulders - a weight defined by the community I was serving and the responsibility I felt to ngāi iwi Māori. Only to realise that the weight I was bearing was one that was undeserving and the weight I put on myself.    I couldn’t see it, until I let myself take a step back. That’s the thing about student executives: once you’re involved with the politics of it all, you really think it’s the be-all and end-all. When actually, it’s just a student executive. In the scheme of things, the decisions we make don’t have a significant impact on all ngāi iwi Māori, and it only impacts those who are actually involved in the community the executive serves. We’re not politicians, and we’re not iwi leaders; we’re just a group of students hanging out, trying to create a culture within this boring-ass institution.    Trust me, I’m not trying to undervalue the importance of these executives. I’m just asking us to think about our roles within the university and within our own smaller communities differently. Yes, your elected student executive has an obligation to advocate, promote and empower. But we’re also only human. We’re bound to make mistakes or get things wrong, and ultimately, that should just be okay; in fact, it should be embraced. As ngāi iwi Māori, we all have an obligation to advocate, promote, and empower each other. So cut each other some slack, because at the end of the day, it’s just a student executive.

HE WAKA EKE NOA Words by: Janicka Tei (She/her - Kūki Āirani) A long time ago, our tūpuna set out on a wondrous journey. They sailed in their waka in search of a new home. Guided by the whetū and pari o te moana in hopes of reaching their destination. The buzziest part about their journey is that each waka left at different times took different paths, and even went at different paces. Yet, they all ended up at the same destination. The story of our tūpuna's voyages can be seen as a mirror of how life can be. We all move at different paces and have other talents and journeys, whether that’s our journey with Te Reo, our studies, or just life in general, we are each on our own paths but are heading in the same direction.  It’s just like the whakataukī; he waka eke noa. We are in this waka together. There are many times in our lives when it feels like we are sailing alone at sea, fighting the current and paddling with all that we have to give but making no progress. However, the beauty of it is we are never alone. There are always people there who are also paddling. They may be in another waka, but they're helping us to move toward our goals. Even when we can’t see them, they are there, pushing us forward.  Just as the whetū guided our tūpuna, there are people around us guiding us too. Even if they aren't visible, they are there, paddling beside us, steering us in the right direction. The knowledge and stories passed down by our tūpuna light our way and show us the path forward.  But don't forget the importance of the people who journey with us in our waka. Their love and support are the wind beneath our sails. This goes beyond the guidance of our tūpuna. It's the love and support of our family and friends, the ones who have been quietly by our side, offering support and guidance even when we don’t realise it. They are in that waka, paddling twice as hard on the days we don't have the strength to paddle and steering the boat in the right direction when we lose our way. What is even more crazy is that for some, simply being on that journey with us is the destination they set out to find.  So, as we continue to voyage across the vast moana of life, hold onto the ones by your side. Paddle just as hard for them as they do for you. Keep this unity in your heart as we navigate life's waters, guided by the whetū and moved by the love and support of those who share the journey with us.  HE WAKA EKE NOA(Nā: Janicka Tei - Kūki Āirani) I ngā rā onamata, whakatika atu ai ō tātou tūpuna ki tētahi haerenga whakahirahira. I hōea Te Moana nui a Kiwa ki te rapu kainga hou. Nā ngā whetū, me te au o te moana i ārahi i a rātou kia tutuki ngā wawata. Ko te mea mīharo katoa, ahakoa rerekē katoa te wā i wehe ai, ngā ara i whaia me te tere o te rerenga o ngā waka katoa, i te mutunga iho, i tau ki te wāhi ōrite. E tāea ana te whakataurite i tēnei hāerenga o ō tātou tīpuna, ki tō tātou āo o nāianei. He rerekē katoa te āhua o tō tātou takahi i te whenua, ō tātou pūmanawa me ō tātou whainga i te ao nei. Ka tauritea ki ngā whainga mō te reo, ngā tohu whare wānanga, aha atu, aha atu, he rerekē tō tātou hīkoi i te ao, heoi ko te ahunga, he orite. Kia tikina te whakatauki; he waka eke noa. Tapatahi ana tātou i tēnei waka.  Tērā ngā wā, ka rāngona te mokemoke me ngā aupēhitanga, me he au moana e tō atu ana i a koe. Ka whawhai tonu koe kia neke whakamua, heoi auare ake. Heoi anō, ko te kura huna, tē noho mokemoke, he kai hoe anō kei reira i te āo i te pō. Ahakoa kei waka kē pea ētahi, ko tātou katoa e hāpai ana i a tātou kia ū ai ki uta. Ahakoa kāore e kitea, kei reira, e āki ana. Kei reira hoki he hunga e arahi ana i a tātou, pērā i tā ngā whetu arahi i ō tātou tūpuna. Ahakoa kāore pea e kitea, kei reira rātou, e hoe ana i te waka, e hāpai ana i te waka. Ko te mātauranga me ngā kōrero tuku iho ā ō tātou tūpuna āno hoki e whakamuramura ana i te ara whakamua mō tātou. Engari kei wareware i ngā kaihoe o tō waka. Ko tō rātou aroha me tō rātou tautoko te hau e pupuhi ana i ngā rā o tō waka kia kōkiri whakamua. Ko te aroha me te tautoko tērā a ō tātou whānau me ō tātou hoa. Ngā mea e hāpai, e arahi ana i ā tātou, ahakoa pea tō tātou kuare. Kei roto rātou i tō waka. Ko rātou ka hiki i te hoe i te wā o te ngoi kore. Ko rātou e urungi ana i te waka i te wā o te kōtiti. Mō ētehi, ko te eke i te waka anake te whainga, ka mātua i tēna.  Nō reira, i a tātou e hoe ana i moana o te ora, kia ita te mau ki ērā i tō taha. Utua te aroha ki te aroha. I a koe e whakatere ana i ngā wai karekare o te ao, kia mau ki te kotahitanga, arahina e ngā whetū, kawea i te au o te aroha o tō hapai-ō.

Words by: Ruaputahanga Takiari (She/her - Waikato/Tainui, Ngaati Maniapoto, Ngaati Raarua) 7AM — 7 degrees and a southerly.  Hauling books, bags and rewards is a daily occurrence. The morning consists of marking worksheets and hurrying around the room attentively preparing before school activities to nurture their students. Building a class of lifelong learners. Constant movement around the classroom causes warm hands to turn on the radiator  cold dark room brightened by mana. Our first unconditional supporter geared with adaptable teaching styles to help us reach our true potential. Reward stickers on your work to encourage your curiosity and constructive comments to help you excel. All the extra money spent on whiteboard pens and shared lunches. Time spent after school on sharpening pencils, making powerpoint presentations and laminating along with guidance given in all aspects of life. I realise now they were more than a teacher an aunty, an uncle, a friend. Te whakamāoritanga Ko te whitu karaka i te ata, e whitu tīkiri me he hau tonga.  Ka haoa ngā pukapuka, ngā pēke me ngā momoho i ia rā Hei tēnei ata ka māka pukamahi, ka whāwhai huri i te rūma E whakarite pīkari ana i mua i ngā mahi a te kura hei poipoi i ā rātou tauira E whakatipu ana i tētahi rāngai tauira taumano He nui nō ngā nekehanga i te karaehe e whakakāngia ai te [radiator] e te ringa mahana He rūma makariri, pōuriuri kua toarihia i te mana Tō mātou kaitautoko here kore tuatahi me ōna tāera whakaako urutau hei āwhina i a mātou ki te whakatinana i te pito mata ake nō mātou Ko ngā tohu momoho i runga ngā mahi hei whakakipakipa i a manawareka me ngā kupu āwhina hei āwhina i a koe ki te eke panuku. Katoa ngā moni āpiti i whakapauhia ki ngā pene papa mā me ngā tina whānui.  Ko te wā i whakapauhia i muri i te kura ki te whakakoi pene rākau, te whakarite whakaaturanga, te mahi tāpatu, me ngā kupu tohutohu i tukuna i ngā āhuatanga katoa o te ao mārama. Kua mārama, ehara rātou i te kaiako anake, he whaea kēkē, he matua kēkē, he hoa.

Words by: Tūheitia Young (He/him - Ngāti Maniapoto) There are many appreciative waiata out there; regardless of whether you agree or disagree, these are for sure on top. Most of these are those who are thankful for a significant other. Whether that be whānau, iwi, tāngata, tūpuna, partner etc. This is shown through various ways of beautiful poetry and elaboration of words, mixed with deep emotions of love, appreciation, great-fullness and all that. Especially in waiata reo māori, those who are in deep pain or love for their significant other or even your iwi anthems showing aroha for wherever you're from.  Tuatahi: Proud to be Māori - illumiNGĀTI. no matter how far you may be in your te ao māori haerenga, I hope this is a waiata all māori can relate to. This waiata is appreciative in that those who are māori are proud of who they are and are grateful for those who have gone before them. Their tūpuna, ancestors who had gone before us and fought their way to allow us to be where we are right now. Such as writing a journal piece in te reo māori, written by māori, supported by māori and from those all around the motu. This waiata speaks for itself; we should all appreciate and be proud to be māori. Haere mai ki ahau ki maniapoto - na Doug Ruki.  ko taku tino waiata māori/anthem nei. Ko haere mai ki ahau ki maniapoto, nā doug ruki. tēnei anthem e mōhiotia ana tēnei e tāngata katoa na te mea, kei reira. ko ngāti maniapoto kei reira hoki. e kōrero ana tēnei, ka hoki no ki te rohe o waikato/te kuiti/ oto’s/ hoki engari e ai ki te kōrero hoki e kōrero ana tēnei mō te haerenga o maniapoto rātou ko rātou mā i tō rātou kāinga ki ngāherenga; ka mutu e kōrero ana tēnei mō te rohe o te nehenehenui hoki. ēnei whakaaro e kōrero ana mō te maiohatanga o mātou iwi, mō te whenua, ngā awa, ngā tāngata, tō mātou Maniapoto tanga hoki. nāku, i āwhinatia au i taku hononga ki tāku iwi e ēnei waiata na te mea e āwhinatia ana i ako ō mātou mātauranga/pūrākau/tino wāhi hoki. heoi ano kei te tino maiohatanga au tēnei waiata, he tino onn. ko tāku whainga ka akonga ngā waiata katoa o maniapoto, me akonga koe hoki tuhei is a bitch No roots - l.a.b. In te ao māori, whakapapa is our connection and indicator of being māori. Without whakapapa, our culture would not be as strong as it was or how it is today; this is highlighted by l.a.b in "no roots". No root, no culture. Appreciating our roots and culture plays a huge part in identity for māori such as waiata, haka, tikanga etc. It is not only appreciating the present, but our past being our tūpuna. Our tūpuna, those who have gone before us and are our connection/whakapapa to being māori. Appreciation of our roots is also shown for our whenua and awa such as the "tōtara tree" and connection to the awa as a child. Showing our strong relationship to te taiao. This message should be kept with everyone, not only māori. He tino powerful.  Tuarua: To summer, from Cole (audio hug) - Summer Walker + J.cole. This song is a more popular/basic/well-known one. Part 1 showed how great of an artist J. Cole is. This one being such a ātaahua song, an audio hug couldn't be a better way to describe it. Summer Walker's return from her pregnancy is the main reason for the writing of this song. It is j.cole, in a way, admiring, thanking her and congratulating her for being who she is in her (Sza hoki) mana wahine and what she has accomplished; despite those days of feeling alone and all the hard times she has been through, we are appreciative for all summer walkers mahi put into her music.  Tuawha: To Zion - Ms Lauryn Hill.  elaborating on Ms Lauryn Hill's greatness from 'top 5' to Zion is her appreciation for the birth of her son, Zion. Like j.coles, she's mine pt.1/2 relating to his daughter, Zion goes through her overwhelming time having a child as a wahine in the music industry, having been told to choose her amazing career or her child. It is described in the song Lauryn Hill's decision to have both. Her joy now is in her son Zion. Her song goes over how amazing it is to have Zion in her life and her gratefulness for him and the man above. This waiata shows appreciation from Lauryn Hill to Zion and how her joy of life has now been put into her child. This is something to take away from this waiata and something I hope we can all experience, having joy and showing appreciation towards your own child/children. Appreciation for yourself: know that you are loved - Cleo sol. Ms Cleo Sol couldn't have made a more rawe song than "Know now that you are loved". The appreciation aspect of this song is more related to self-appreciation. Not only this, he tino peaceful/ calm tēnei waiata. Knowing that even when you feel you aren't happy with yourself or appreciated by anyone, you are loved. It's important we keep these whakaaro in mind and we understand ourselves for who we are, despite other people's whakaaro. This kōrero is repeated throughout the waiata, and the main take of this is to repeat this whakaaro of appreciation with you. There could not have been a more beautiful way to emphasise this message.  Appreciation for an artist: I found my smile again - D'angelo. Appreciation must be given to all of these artists. One in particular that deserves recognition for their waiata is D'Angelo. This song, "I found my smile again", brings such a positive wairua and is appreciative toward the person who has put a smile on his face again. Despite being unsure of how his person is making him feel this way, it's something that he has been longing for and is thankful for, wanting for these feelings to continue. This song can be interpreted in the way of not only a person but for whatever you love. Whether it's something you enjoy, a hobby, a physical object, or whatever puts that smile on your face and brings you happiness. We must appreciate and be grateful for it. This whakaaro is a way to help you enjoy the enjoyable things in life even more and be grateful for where you are right now. Pūoro me ngā whakaaro (Nā: Tūheitia Young - He/him - Ngāti Maniapoto) He maha ngā waiata pai i te ao; ahakoa kei te whakaae, kei te whakahē rānei koe, kei runga noa atu ēnei waiata, kei runga noa atu a Maniapoto hoki. He whakamihi atu ki tētahi tangata kura te nuinga o ēnei waiata. Ahakoa e kōrero ana koe mō tō whānau, mō te iwi, mō te tāngata, mō te tūpuna, mō te hoa rangatira mō te aha atu rānei. Ka whakaatuhia tēnei i roto i ētahi ruri ātaahua me te whakawhanui o ngā kupu, kua tuituia e ngā kare ā-roto patopato o te whatumanawa; inarā i ngā waiata Māori. Mā ēnei waiata Māori e whakaahua te tangipuku me te muri aroha mō tētahi atu tangata. Whaihoki, mā ngā waiata nei e tuku aroha ki ō ake tūrangawaewae. Tutahi: Proud to be Māori - Nā illumiNGĀTi Ahakoa kei hea koe i runga i tō haerenga Māori, ko te wawata e honohono kau ana te iwi Māori katoa ki te mea nei. He whakamihi tēnei waiata ki ngā tāngata e tū kaha ana hei Māori, me ngā tūpuna i whakawhārikihia te ara i ngā wā o mua. Nā ō tātou tūpuna i tohe mō tō tātou āpōpō, arā ko te tuhituhi o te pukapuka rātaka i te reo Māori, kua tuhia e te tāngata Māori, kua tautokohia e te iwi Māori me te marea whānui huri noa i te motu. E kōrero ana tēnei waiata mōna anō; tō ngākau ki ngā taonga a ō tūpuna. Haere mai ki ahau ki Maniapoto - Nā Doug Ruki Ko taku tino waiata Māori ko ‘Haere mai ki ahau ki Maniapoto’, nā Doug Ruki. E mōhiotia ana tēnei waiata e te katoa i te mea, kei runga noa atu te waiata, kei runga noa atu a Ngāi Maniapoto hoki. Ko te take o te waiata nei ko te hokinga kāinga ki te rohe o Maniapoto, arā ko Te Kuiti me Ōtorohanga. Whaihoki, e ai ki ngā kōrero ā-iwi ko tēnei he kōrero anō mō te haerenga a Maniapoto i tō mātou ake kāinga ki Ngaherenga. Ka mutu, e kōrero ana tēnei mō te rohe tūpuna ko Te Nehenehenui, mai i te awa whakarite ki Tongariro, ko Te Nehenehnui. Nā tēnei waiata i kōrero mō tō maiohatanga o tō mātou iwi, ō mātou whenua, ō mātou uri whakaheke me tō mātou Maniapototanga anō hoki. Ki a au, nā ēnei waiata i āwhina mai ki te ako mō tō mātou mātauranga, ō mātou pūrākau, ō mātou wāhi tūpuna anō hoki. Heoi anō, e tino ngākaunui ana ana ahau ki tēnei waiata, he tino onn. Ko tāku whāinga matua ko te ako i ngā waiata katoa o Maniapoto, me ako hoki koe i ngā waiata nei! No Roots - L.A.B I te ao Māori, ko te whakapapa te tohu o te tāngata Māori. Ki te kore he whakapapa, ka mate te ahurea. Kua tīpakohia tēnei e L.A.B i tā rātou waiata “No Roots”. Mēnā kāhore he pakiaka, kāhore hoki he ahurea. Ko te whakamana o ō tātou pakiaka tētahi wāhanga tino nui o te tuakiritanga o te iwi Māori, arā ko te waiata, ko te haka, ko ō tātou tikanga, te mea te mea. Kia kaua tātou e whakamaioha i ēnei wā anake, me whakamaioha i ngā mahi o mua me ngā tūpuna i mahia taua mahi, i tū hei poupou i waenganui i a tātou me te hononga ki tō tātou ake whakapapa Māori. Ki te whakamaioha i ō tātou pakiaka, he mihi ki ngā mea o te taiao, arā ko te “rākau tōtara” me ngā awa o ō tātou tamarikitanga. Koinei he tohu o tō tātou hononga ki te taiao. He karere tēnei mō te katoa, ehara mō te iwi Māori anake.  Tuarua: To Summer, From Cole (audio hug) - Nā Summer Walker rāua ko J.Cole. He waiata noa tēnei e mōhio whānuitia ana e te katoa. Wāhanga 1: i whakaatu te kaiwaiata nui a J. Cole, i te mea he waiata ātaahua tēnei, kāore e kore ko te ‘audio hug’ te whakaāhua tika mō tēnei waiata. Ko te hokinga mai a Summer Walker whai muri atu i tōna hapūtanga te take matua o tāna tuhi i tēnei waiata. Nei rā he whakanui, he whakawhetai hoki nā J. Cole ki a Summer Walker mō tōna ake āhuatanga (SZA hoki), mō tōna mana wahine me ōna whakatutukitanga kua ea. Ahakoa ngā wā pōuriuri me ngā wā heke, ka maioha mātou i a Summer Walker i tana mahi waiata. Tuawha: To Zion - Ms Lauryn Hill. E Whai muri ana i te angitūtanga o Ms Lauryn Hill mai ‘Top 5’ ki ‘Zion’, ko tōna maiohatanga i te whakawhanau mai o tana tama ko Zion. He ōrite ki te mihi o J. Cole. ki tana hine i te waiata ‘She’s Mine pt. ½’. Ka kōrero tēnei waiata mō ngā uaua o Lauryn ki te ao waiata i a ia e hapū ana, ahakoa he Māmā, ahakoa he kaiwata rongonui rānei. I whakatau a Lauryn i te waiata nei, ka kōwhiri ia i ngā mea e rua. Nā Zion tōna harikoatanga. E kōrero ana te waiata nei mō te rawe o tana tamaiti, me tana maiohatanga mōna me te Atua pai ki te rangi hoki. He whakamihi maioha tēnei nā Lauryn Hill ki a Zion i te harikoa kua tāpirihia e tana tamaiti. Ko tēnei he hua nui nā te waiata, ko tētahi wheako nui ka pīrangihia e au mō te katoa; kia hari, kia koa, kia tuku aroha ki ā tātou tamariki. Appreciation for yourself: Know that you are loved - Nā Cleo Sol. Tē taea a Ms Cleo Sol te mahi i tētahi waiata he nui ake i “Know now that you are loved.” Ko te wāhanga maiohatanga o te waiata nei ko te hononga ki te whakanui i a koe anō. Ehara tērā mea anake, he tino rangamārie, he tino ngāwari anō hoki tēnei waiata. Ki te mōhio koe kāore he harikoa ō piropiro, kāore ano kia whiwhi maiohatanga nā tētahi atu, e arohatia ana koe. Ko te mea nui me pūpuri tātou ki ēnei whakaaro akiaki, ā, me mārama koe i a koe, ahakoa ngā whakaaro o ētahi atu. Kua toaitia tēnei take i te waiata, nā reira ko te hua nui kia kawe i ēnei whakaaro akiaki i a koe. Kāore he kupu ātaahua anō hei whakakupu i te kōrero nei. Appreciation for an artist: I found my smile again - D’Angelo Me tuku maioha ki ēnei kaiwata katoa. Ko tētahi tino kaiwaiata me whiwhi whakamihi mō ana waiata ko D’Angelo. Ko tēnei waiata, “I found my smile again”,  e kawe ana he wairua pai, ā, he whakamihi atu ki tētahi tangata kua whakamenemenetia koe. Ahakoa kāore ia e mārama ana me pēhea te tangata e whakaharikoa ana i a ia, he mea kua matenuihia e ia mō te haere tonu o ēnei kare ā-roto mākoha. Ehara te take o tēnei waiata mō te tāngata anake, engari kē e kōrero ana hoki mō tētahi atu mea e aroha ana koe. Ahakoa ko tētahi mea e whakaharikoa, he runaruna, he mea, he aha atu rānei e whakamanemenetia koe, e whakaharikoa koe anō hoki. Me maioha, me whakawhetai mō te pūtake. Koinei he whakaaro ki te āwhina i a koe hei whakawhetai i ngā mō tō ao i ēnei rā.

(Words by Tessa Keena - She/her - Te Ātiawa) Kuia Sometimes, I spend so much time  looking in the mirror trying to see you. I make too much noise putting cutlery away and hear bracelets move over your wrists. When my knuckles get tough from going outside in winter I don’t moisturise them. I run my fingers over the creases like I used to rub my face against your hands and cheeks. I wish I could be you standing in your pink dressing gown by the river and at the same time be the kid running up to you with a million questions. If I speak from so deep inside me that I untie my tongue from fear’s grip I am as close to you as I was  when you sat next to me at dinner. All these times, I am trying,  at the very least, to thank you. All these times, I am everything because of you. Kuia  He wā ōna ka nui hoki taku te wā e pau nei i a au e titiro ana ki te whakaata me kore e kitea koe He nui rawa taku hoihoi i a au e whakahoki maitai ana, ā, ka rongo i ngā kōmore e nekeneke ana i te kawititanga o te ringaringa. Ka pūioio ana ōku monamona nō te putanga atu i te takurua kāre e monokutia ana e au. Ka pā taku ringa ki ngā hākorukoru. Pērā i te mirimiria o aku kanohi ki ō ringaringa, ki ō pāpāringa. E popori ana ko koe kē ahau e tū nei me tō kahu ānewa māwhero. i te taha o te awa, otirā, ko te tamaiti e oma ana ki a koe, e ui nei i ngā pātai miriona. Mehemea ka puta taku kōrero i taku puku tonu, ā, ka wetekina taku arero i te ngau a mataku, he pērā taku tata ki a koe i tō nohonga mai ki taku taha i te kai o te pō. Katoa, i ēnei wā, kei te ngana ahau, Kia tutuki te iti rawa, te mihi ki a koe. Katoa, i ēnei wā, nāu nei au. Moko Sometimes, when I spend too much time  looking in the mirror I can see you. I laugh so loudly  at my brother’s stories and hear your voice echo off the walls. When my body is able to move without getting tired I don’t stop running. I go past the dairy and cafe like I’m showing you  all the places I used to hang out. I wish I could meet you and ask a million questions about the world you live in and at the same time sit beside the river in silence and watch you skim rocks across it. If I think about the way you will speak I want that to happen right now. You are so close to this world when I sing or try to make things better. All these times, you  remind me who I am.  One day, I hope  to thank you in person. Moko He wā ōna, ka nui rawa te paunga o te wā i a au e titiro ana ki te whakaata, ka kitea koe.  Ka pukukata ahau ki ngā paki a taku tungāne, ā, ka rangona tō reo e paoro ana i ngā pātū. Ka pakari ana taku tinana me te kore i wherū, ka mārohirohi taku oma.  Ka pāhi i te toa me te kāmuri.  pērā i taku whakaatu atu ki a koe ngā wāhi katoa i haere ai au E popori ana ki tūtakina ai tāua kia ui au i ngā pātai miriona. e pā ana ki te ao e noho nā koe, orua tonu, te noho ngū ki te taha o te awa me te mātaki i a koe e whakaripiripi kōhatu ana. Mehemea ka whakaaro ake au ki te āhua o tō kupu, ko taku hiahia kia pērā ināianei tonu nei. Kei te tino tata koe ki tēnei ao nōku ka waiata, ka ngana rānei ki te whakapai. Katoa, i ēnei wā, nāhau ahau i whakamahara ko wai rā ahau.  E manako ana, he rā tōna, ka mihi au ki a koe, ā-tinana nei.