WRiting Contest #1 - Poetry

laureate Category Winning SUbmissions

Dead Ends
By Adhisri Venkat
First Place, Laureate Category

“i’m sorry i forgot to write yesterday”

i don’t know
who i’m apologising to
my current self
maybe my future self
robbing them
of the satisfaction
of understanding
what i felt
in this retrospective moment
the diary now becomes a container.
and I hate it
when those memories bleed away.
when i forget the night i walked home
when i forget the touch of the pūkeko feather i found and carried with me-
earlier that day, 
and earlier that day i had ridden a horse for the first time,
my hands remembering the shape of its mane before i did.
i reached the hotel
dissolving into sand
tall grasses.
A hotel
a week off school
travelling to another town
for dad’s work.
Later my parents had caught up
“we’re going in the wrong direction,” they’d yelled
relieved of my solitude and unsure what do with myself
i’d stood still.
the damp weather of that day painted my boots brown
i didn’t mind- 
i close my eyes and I hear insects buzz and birds call
faint hum of conversation
scent of petrichor
and a breeze that carried some unidentifiable fly species
the city was beautiful
as I walked towards a dead end.

But
if I remember everything 

Writing, creating, would be meaningless
That week might as well have been made up.
My conscious moments spent upon this futile effort.
My past entries from Auckland followed a linear narrative, 
felt as though the culmination of a single day’s experience 
represented some underlying truth 
or meaning. 
Three years in Langley
all the more transformative
i couldnt write the same way.
the more hypotheses i employ to properly examine the why
the farther away i feel i am from it.
Memories manifests itself in pockets of my lived experience
And in it i find no order
So i turn to my diary
its inelegance
the sisyphean attempt to hold what refuses to stay,
a punitive yet preservative undertaking.
I finish today’s diary entry
as I absorb the traces of life bustling 
within this dead end.

A Lifetime Remembering
By James Zhang
Second Place, Laureate Category

Sunlight spills sweet and slow like honey, 
Slipping, sliding softly across the floor. 
Our voices rise, ripple and ring with lingering laughter 

the last time our voices ever share one room. 

Dust motes drifts, delicately dancing in the glow, 
settling soft, still, silent, on stools, shelves and sills. 
Shadows stretch and slip towards the door, reaching for 

the light, let it linger a little longer. 

The sun silently slips behind trees, painting gold 
one last time, a final shimmer settles. 
I want to savor this moment, capture it and the light 

Let it stay with us, even when we part.

The clock’s ticks and clicks cut time clean, 
pulling us towards cars, streets, and farewells, 
thoughts of tomorrow tumble intruding my mind, I want you to 

Stay here, stay near, stay with me

when the light dissipates at last, 
when silence finally overtakes the room, 
I will know that this is the moment that 

I will spend a lifetime remembering.

Pure Vanilla
By Riley Tam
Third Place, Laurete Category

I swung the creaky cupboard open,
Wobbling dishes piled up on my hand.
I began stacking plates one by one,
When a brief but powerful aroma hit me. 

An old, plastic bottle. 
White bottle cap and beige label,
Big black bold letters: “PURE VANILLA”
I twisted open the cap, 
Taking in the soothing scent. 

I paused.  
My body relaxed, warmth spread throughout,
As if I was hugged by a soft, fuzzy, blanket 
My mind stirred, memories began to flow. 

My mom held the little measuring cup up to my nose.
Sweet, creamy, and rich,
A hint of smokiness. 
Dark vanilla extract flowed into the sweet buttery mixture,
Then we stirred slowly. 

Everything was baked with vanilla.
Cookies of all kinds, 
From gooey chocolate chip to crispy shortbread, 
Banana bread and blueberry muffins
Like clouds, soft and fluffy. 
Pies with the perfect balance,
Flaky golden crust and a sweet, smooth filling. 

I took a deep breath,
Placed the dishes on the shelf,
And closed the cupboard. 

A gentle finger tapped my shoulder. 
“Do you want to make banana bread?”

I replied: 
“Of course, Mom.”

Letters 
By Amelia Chu
Honourable Mention, Laureate Category

Letters now become a fading form of expression and gratitude— 
replaced by blue bubbles and words left unspoken. 
But once forged by a heart and a hand 
that had its grip on ink, tickled the paper, and
spilled its soul all over. 

I used to think away days waiting for a response from my pen pal, 
sharing the intimacy of writing with a complete stranger—
we grew a quick connection
skipping the lengthy and boring stages of small talk. 

In cards to my family tucked in Japan whom I only saw every summer,
and in the birthday cards addressed to the people I love,
gifted me a chance to convey my feelings—
to undo the box where the words of all my appreciation and affection are usually kept hidden. 

I take the time to craft all the things I cannot say and plaster them all over the page.
The urgency of writing a letter allows:
only one chance; a million thoughts,
in one envelope
sent off to the recipient. 

I have always been the sender,
for which I take delight in. 
And as a recipient,
well — I don’t know. 
I don’t often receive letters. 
But, the few times I’ve read a little note from my friend
in the front of a new notebook or
a pop-up birthday card from my grandparents, 

It becomes a sweet experience,
the unravelling of someone’s mind that unveils your value
is a joy irreplaceable by a simple, transactional text. 

If you open a folded cardstock paper from Michaels, and find navy blue muji ink scribbled on the inside— 

a letter is proof that I once admired you.