Preface

The art of listening is central to telling the story and to letting it permeate through to the heart of our being. In how many ways this can happen the contributions in this book are testament to.
Beyond the immediate ideas, insights and experiences a new mode of teaching is seen in action. It is a teaching from the heart embracing all the perceiving faculties and engaging the “digesting” capabilities of “students”. A two way process emerges: the teacher is

TAPA TALK
POETRY COLLECTION
SERIE BARFORD
HUIA PUBLISHERS, AOTEAROA: http://www.huia.co.nz
REVIEWED BY CATH KOA DUNSFORD

Serie Barford wrote, in Niu Voices [Huia Publishers] “…truly precious stories, those that hold sacred truths within them, can never be lost. They are kept intact by the universe itself. They exist beyond everything we can touch and name. They are in our blood, and like red hibiscus burnt by frost, recover and reveal themselves again. These stories are so

In 1962, without consultation, France declared Moruroa Atoll and other Tahitian islands as nuclear test sites.  Moruroa Waiata depicts real events, dreams and underwater sequences from the perspectives of the whales, dolphins and turtles affected by the testing interwoven with traditional Maori mythology and proverbs.

She strolls over the dunes in the haunting moonlight, toward a cave at the mouth of the harbour. From within, voices, waiata. Then silence. She enters the cave,

ANAMUA/Past:

“I am Che’den Sofi Vincent Ah Yek Strickson-Pua Samoan Chinese English. Son of Feleti Strickson-Pua and Melinda Ah Yek. On Dad’s side our Nu’u is Peterborough and Southampton England, Canton China, Malaela Upolu and PapaSataua Savaii Samoa.”
“I was born in Tamaki Makaurau Aotearoa. Living between Grey Lynn and Waiheke island. Older brother of Dremayer Liberty Choir Ah Yek Strickson-Pua. Cousin to Jane Filemu Isla Mele Strickson-Pua Ngati Raukawa

Lord, give me a white man!

Ta’afuli Andrew Fiu

“Lord, give me a white man!”
Her voice is searching, screaming for providence.
I thought of leaving her before.
“Jesus Christ!...
I’m tired of coconut men fucking my life up!”
down the hallway I hear.
The words ricocheting off Housing Corp walls,
off naked light bulbs,
off plastic bags with shopping,
hitting a nerve then landing on
threadbare floors.

I stare beyond
to the washing line outside.
The rain crying for