Alexandra Smith
POLITIKOS [Greek] “of, for, or relating to citizens”
Cities are fundamentally about the collective. By the very nature of this downtown site there will always be a range characters involved. There are many voices to be considered. Thus multiplicity is complicated yet a crucial element of what makes cities vibrant and compelling. It’s one thing to collect. What seems more interesting is how it is arranged. Order out of great chaos, meticulously arranged. A careful balance of control and discovery Contrast that will enhance. This book is a small anthology of thoughts and ideas relating to the city and how we live, work and play in it. It’s not so much about the architectural object, but rather about it’s representation - how it is percieved. It is the city and its architecture through the lens of the people’s voice: the mediums of discussion, sketch, poetry and artwork.
What is memorable and meaningful to the people?
The power of the collective is much stronger than the individual. Who holds the power on the site? Who should hold it?
I am the People, the Mob I am the people—the mob—the crowd—the mass. Do you know that all the great work of the world is done through me? I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the world’s food and clothes. I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns. I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me. I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted. I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and makes me work and give up what I have. And I forget. Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red drops for history to remember. Then—I forget. When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer forget who robbed me last year, who played me for a fool—then there will be no speaker in all the world say the name: “The People,” with any fleck of a sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision. The mob—the crowd—the mass—will arrive then. by Carl Sandburg
Sandburg, C. (1936) I am the people, the mob. Retrieved from The of American Poets website: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15264
Power Money Business Profit Productivity Time
A place to rest
Relief from the tedious and the tiresome A place to sit in the cool and the still To be rejuvenated and energised A source of inspiration. Interaction, people watching Something to make you smile. An environment that supports and provides opportuntiies, social spaces, networking A sense of humanity and life Ultimately helping productivity.
A man stumbles into the square, brow furrowed, squinting slightly in the sun. The meeting was tedious, tiresome, you could say. The pavement is hot, hazy and full of haste. He feels strained and his collar clutches, just a little too tight. With a head full of numbers, and vacant eyes, his pressed perfect pants carry him, swiftly, as above the clock ticks time by. There’s a place around the corner, he knows, where he can sit for a while in the cool and the still. Up one quick flight of stairs, and off to the side, he tucks his head under a rogue tendril of green. The terrace is calm. The air here is weightless and dappled in light. Like silk or like water it soothes. He allows himself to be submersed in an aroma of smoked salmon and leather and a pleasant dulling of sound. The man, a doer, an achiever, a creator, a succeeder, sinks into a chair and softens his pose. It is only now, as he leans back in his chair, that he can decipher peals of laughter, escaping from somewhere below. Glancing down he sees a young boy, much like his own little explorer at home, chasing a friend, dodging droplets. Wistfully he watches as the boy is scooped into his mother’s arms. Thoughtful, he adds a new, more personal, task to his mental list of ‘to dos’. After his meal, and a chat with the waitress, he rises, mind made up to take a different route back. Up little hidden stairways, he weaves, between narrow walls, past boardrooms and staffrooms and all sorts of spaces. He reaches his floor and strides with his coffee, past snippets of conversation, polite laughter and the shaking of hands. Feet fall resolutely on the timber boardwalk, inspired, habits broken, he crosses a playful little bridge. He waves to the communicator, at his desk looking out, and smiles at the networker in her own world on her phone. He arrives, before long, at his own team’s space. Clean and simple and full of ideas, it’s a blank canvas for doing, creating, producing. Notes are pinned to cork lined walls. Green leaves sneak through open windows and light filters in through long timber louvers. At his desk he eyes the photo of his son and smiles, loosens his collar and begins to produce. By Alexandra Smith
The man: A cog in the machine. There is paperwork, there are reports Everything is involved, controlled In order. Happiness is not part of the equation
The Unknown Citizen He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be One against whom there was no official complaint, And all the reports on his conduct agree That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint, For in everything he did he served the Greater Community. Except for the War till the day he retired He worked in a factory and never got fired, But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc. Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views, For his Union reports that he paid his dues, (Our report on his Union shows it was sound) And our Social Psychology workers found That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink. The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way. Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured, And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured. Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan And had everything necessary to the Modern Man, A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire. Our researchers into Public Opinion are content That he held the proper opinions for the time of year; When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went. He was married and added five children to the population, Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation. And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education. Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard. by W. H. Auden Auden, W. H. (1940) From Another Time. New York, NY: Random House.
“I have been thinking a lot about the machinery of work — commute, hierarchy, vernacular, etc.— and wanted to integrate my often conflicting ideas about them into a poem. This poem is about several of my jobs, and, in a sense, none of them.” - R. Mann
Proximity Out of the fog comes a little white bus. It ferries us south to the technical mouth of the bay. This is biopharma, Double Helix Way. In the gleaming canteen, mugs have been dutifully stacked for our dismantling, a form of punishment. Executives take the same elevator as I. This one’s chatty, that one’s gravely engrossed in his cloud. Proximity measures shame. I manage in an office, but an office that faces a hallway, not the bay. One day I hope to see the bay that way. It all began in the open, a cubicle—there’s movement. My door is always open, even when I shut it. I sit seven boxes below the CEO on the org chart. It’s an art, the value-add, the compound noun. Calendar is a verb. To your point, the kindest prepositional phrase. Leafy trees grow a short walk from Building 5. Take a walk. It might be nice to lie and watch the smoky marrow rise and fall, and rise. Don’t shut your eyes. By Randall Mann
Mann, R. (2013) Proximity. Retrieved from http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/23587
“The problem is not to make political architecture, but to make architecture politically.� Roemer van Toorn With the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the collapse of Eastern European communism, the emergence of Third Way politics, and the subsequent rise of neo-liberalism, society became post-political. Discourses and practices of architecture not only suffered, but also enhanced this culture of de-politicization. The problem today is clearly not to make political architecture - neoliberal architecture is everywhere today -, but to make architecture politically. Now that the current economic crisis acts as late-capitalism’s moment of truth architects should develop new visions, and help create projects that activate emancipation, surpassing the failure of neoliberalism. What we look for is a new beginning, an optimism not another pessimism - of the architect as public intellectual that engages the optimism of the will and opens doors towards new social practices. Architecture cannot, of course, conduct parliamentary politics. Spatial constellations can deliver no advice on how to vote or convey messages about social and political problems, but architecture is political precisely because of the distance it takes from these functions. Architecture is political in the way in which, as a space-time sensorium, it organizes being together or apart, and the way it defines outside or inside. Architecture is political also in the manner in which it makes the many controversies of reality visible by means of its own spatial and aesthetic syntax, and can enacts new spatial and aesthetic formations of sociability from within. http://www.arch.umu.se/en/events/public-lectures/making-architecture-politically/
Auckland City Elevator Unapproachable and air-locked Strutting for calculation and expectation Hold the door, I’m going up Yes yes yes, I happen to be well informed on the subject Yes yes yes, I happen to be wearing a flagrant tie Stripes and spots, blotch and blemish Wipe it off and start again. Mulish stares plus too pleasant an ‘excuse me’ Equals people I will never know Never talk to, never meet We don’t share this planet If we never make eye contact Look up, look up, look up and see The million individual experiences and sentiments All could be you Just open your mouth Chew the cud, chew the cud, they say Rats and children, we think we are But above the pavement ceiling Emotion, love, life, time to breathe Air can’t be sold So breathe Quit only cherishing that which cost a crisp twenty And love what’s free What’s life Live, for fuck’s sake I tell myself And stop. Turn around. Go home. Give my dog a hug. Listen to the cars Live. kntrezona lecomte http://aucklandpoetry.com/members/?p=754
Travel Tourism Visit Explore Discover Souvenirs
A fresh new vista
Places to discover and explore. Natural beauty, culture, showcase The true essence of the country A way to take part, to be involved. A simple blance of coherency and complexity Its compelling but not confusing. Something to take home Memories made.
Underneath a vast blue sky, stretching on ad infinitum, ambles a well voyaged couple. Her fingers gently grip her husband’s arm. His own gnarled and weathered hand, raised, points out a towering building to their left. In front of them the main street unfurls, the station stands proud watching over as a fresh new building blossoms, reaching out, challenging the city around it. Come closer, it beckons, come and have a look. There’s a natural feel about the place, entwined in greenery, laced with light and shade. There’s a child running, barefoot, across some grass, leaping, landing knees plunging deep onto cool sand. He reaches for a little digger to imagine his own version of the city. There’s a lady, swaying gently beneath a tree, legs drooping lazily beneath her. She’s savouring the feel of being weightless. There’s a little curving wooden bench, partially in the shade, upon which the couple thankfully rest their feet soaking in their new surroundings. It’s a city kind of place, a working, eating, living place, a learning place, a growing place. It’s a collection of things, gathered together to make an impressive whole, yet the components themselves are comfortable, the range of scale compelling. It’s playful and open and welcoming. A balance of discovery and showcase, coherency, complexity. There’s a great glass box with something to display and people flock to see. There’s a piano, a swing, some sort of slide, the building itself a playground. There are fruit trees and vegetables in planter boxes. Curious, and secretly delighted, the old man rises. He collects some pears and finds some berries and in return he pulls some weeds. The old lady sits and watches children play and chats to a new friend. Contentedly, having played some small yet essential role and made a humble contribution to the place, the wanderers move slowly on.They approach an entrance, clear, unintimidating, and pass beneath its gentle threshold to be welcomed by a warm and sheltered place. Not fully enclosed, it’s a place of freedom, of variety and of a gentle breeze. A young woman on a hunt, ponytail swinging, strides by in search of her next acquisition. Here, there are familiar places, like ones they’ve seen around the world, they’re comforting yet not controlling. The space between feels free. A few balls of yarn, a new sensible hat and then they find themselves a few floors up underneath a canopy of sunlight. A bright young man, in well pressed pants, is bounding across a little bridge, thoughts passing before his eyes. They meander on, up a gentle sloping path, and find themselves amidst a little cluster of creating places. Delicate window panes, white timber freshly painted. Little pot plants adorn entrance ways and artworks spill into the street. Here. Is where they’ll find a souvenir worth taking home, something original, unique. With wishes fulfilled and the city revealing itself around them, they pick a path and wander off to find what else there is to see. By Alexandra Smith
Like a relative or old friend the ship stands a temporary building. An inconsistent landmark crucial in the city’s memory
Image courtesy of http://www.urbansketchers.org/search/label/Auckland
Snippets of beautiful moments caught between rush and commute.
Romantic Voyage We took the No.12 to some place then the 14 somewhere west of there this deep in the flowery grass we gave up waiting for the No.5 and took the the 23 the crickety mound where the season sings having missed the No.3 which was early we managed to catch the 15 which was late and took us as far as one green island, one gas tank, graffitied that most accustomed of places: the outermost edge of things. Gregory O’Brien
O’Brien, G. (2008) Romantic Voyage. Retrieved from Best of New Zealand Poems website: http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/iiml/bestnzpoems/BNZP08/t1-g1-t16-body1-d1.html
Consume Collect Bargain Stuff Hunt Gather Trends
A place of exchange
New finds, new loves, old friends Aesthetics and a vibe to affirm an image Fashion, trend, the place to be. Opportunity, items displayed, on offer. But more than this, discovery, something real A sense of calm and freedom from the pressure.
Descending the train station steps is a lady in high heels. Her skirt is tight, her hair pulled back, and in her eyes the gleam of anticipation. As she moves those shoes are cruel, they affect her walk so her hips will sway, producing cat calls as she passes. This attention that she gathers, just a touch uncomfortable, is, however, not avoided. Perhaps it’s even her intent. She sees herself, an image, a vision she’s obsessed with. Eyes focussed on the building, spilling forth in front of her, she strides towards her prey. As she slips inside, she finds, this place is different to the rest. It does not surrender itself to be easily read, instead it flirts and teases. Its spaces run and hide, clamber one on top, one tucked under. Some reach out while others demur, challenging her to chase and hunt. There is a shop whose selection, so beautifully presented, awaits in individual timber niches. There is a warmth in the light and a polished feel. The thrill of opportunity invites her in. Come, consider every single number, perhaps one will complete your collection. Later, she sits, in a trendy place with iced tea in hand. She’s eyeing up a business man, sitting in the corner, and wonders what she’d need to have to gather one like him. The moment passes as a friend swoops in, stealing her attention. Rapid fire they tell their stories, first one and then the other. No pause. They’re invigorated, reinforced by timber, steel, and brick, telling them that they’re on trend. Tiresome is this show and tell, and soon her gaze begins to wander. A young boy, or man, saunters by, he’s in pursuit of something free. He’s unburdened by materiality, his sense of joy, instead, is tied to dreams. She looks back to her friend, discussing lamps, and decides it’s time to leave. Follow me she says, you won’t believe this place I’ve found. Follow me, up these crumbling careful steps, soft underfoot. Trail your fingers along this gentle, simple wall. Feel its cool and porous texture. The air, you’ll find, is soft and still, here beneath the archway as the city falls away. There is a little silent sign and a heavy door. A shoulder pressed against it reveals light, golden, falling as a curtain across a space that’s humble and full. It feels like dust and memories with a slight hint of something new. Here, lies a collection that’s deep and varied, each item layered in a narrative. She feels her heart rate slow, settled in a certain calm. Perhaps in here she’ll find, not something to complete her but rather something that compels. Something to extend and challenge, something careful, something true. Here, instead of gathering, thoughtlessly, for once she can collect. By Alexandra Smith
http://artspeaksaction.wordpress.com/
Exploration Wonder Imagination Playfulness Small Scale Excitement Discovery The Future
A city for children
Places that are green and soft and safe. Places to play, to spark the imagination. To learn and to love the city And enliven it for adults too. A building to interact with, to climb, to touch, To engage with. Lots happening in a smaller scale Variety and Choice.
Bleary eyed and a little hot, a young boy earnestly rubs his feet together, heel to ankle, trying desperately to kick off those too hot, too tight shoes that prevent him wiggling his toes. Gone, finally, they’ve fallen from the moving stroller and are instantly forgotten. He spotted something. There, across a vast expanse of grass and quite a few sets of feet, is a yellow digger a top a half built pile of sand. Dig, he says, and writhes and twists, exerting himself against his restraints. Gentle hands release him, he clambers down and then he’s off, flying across the grass, crunchy, tickly underneath his little feet. He leaps and lands, in cool sand he delights at the grainy texture between his toes, then sets about his work, imagining, designing, constructing. There’s a grandpa man picking fruit nearby, the scene is familiar and reminds the boy of somewhere safe and happy. Unfortunately, however, his little grandma lady doesn’t seem to realise that’s she’s sitting on a warehouse. The boy’s digger needs to drive through it to collect all its supplies. So, with a cautious smile, he carefully proceeds to park it by her legs and gather sticks and leaves. The nice old lady doesn’t mind, she’s chatting, happy, to his mother. Too soon, it’s time to move on, mummy has some gathering to do. The boy trudges, haphazardly, a step behind, until he sees a cluster of birds and gleefully takes off. The paving is simple and smooth, it does not hinder his carefree steps. Even so, his balance was not quite prepared for this spontaneous trot, and suddenly he finds himself on the ground. Little fingers explore this new found texture, firm and kind of holey, while the boy looks up at the world around him. There’s a tired looking daddy man, he’s thinking much too hard. Why doesn’t he, too, just sit down? It’s really very natural, there’s a radiating warmth that’s quite restful. Lifted to his feet again, it’s time to move on. The boy, slowly, becomes aware of the mountain rising before him. It’s so huge he can only take in a little at a time. There are bits of jungle, here and there, and at its foot looks like something he could climb. Like a giant playground, this part of the building, at least, looks like something he can tackle. Exhilarated, and fully of energy, he advances on his adventure. For some reason mum isn’t up for the challenge. Luckily there’s an easier route, sloping down in a gentle hill, where she follows with the stroller. Upon reaching the first plateau, the boy surveys his surroundings and finds a giant water thing. A bit like the little one at home, it throws sprinkles that, he knows, will tickle and chill. There’s a boy already under this sprinkler and, when he sees the newcomer, comes to a stop. Tentatively they eye each other, and then with a grin he races off, cheerfully inviting the new boy to follow. They career through falling droplets, squealing with laughter, as cool beads land on warm little arms.Too soon, his mother appears and he is scooped into her arms, wrapped in a towel and placed in the stroller. Exhausted, his head droops, before long he’s drifted off to dream. It’s time to move on, mummy has some gathering to do. By Alexandra Smith
http://aucklandpoetry.com/members/?p=2568
Westfield World In the catalogue models cavort at Aotea Lagoon pubescent girls playing mother to well-wiped toddlers nothing like the weekday mums, lank hair scraped back bulging nappy bags and op shop clothes: no child has passed those narrow hips Wednesdays the waggers congregate on the children’s playground, always the same time they must hate that teacher The girls meet my eye, make room for the kids at the top of the slide they all want babies Pumpkin Patch babies Westfield catalogue babies The boys can’t sit still they dangle, one arm one leg hanging nothing better to do except punch and fight and screw. There’s only babies, and girls, in the catalogue and for these kids that’s true Anon.
Youth Opportunity Thrills Nightlife Socialising Expression Freedom
A place of freedom
and self discovery An offering of things to do and see Distraction, excitement, new experiences A feeling of freedom, not over controlled Choice and opportunity Paths to follow, places to discover, options for someone with not a lot of money to spend Support, maybe a way to get started, A chance to produce something to be proud of.
From the southern edge of town a rogue young man approaches, jandals scuffing the dirty pavement, shoulders hunched in an effort to appear not so tall. He passes, confident, through crowd and noise, feeling cool and in control. Scanning faces he assesses, judges, checks that he’s not out of place. Secretly, you’d never know, there’s just a touch of uncertainty. Who is he? Who will he be? He hasn’t yet decided. So, for now, he seeks distraction, new thrills, new faces, new moments to enjoy. The city is his place, where anything will go. There on the corner, out him. Here’s a promise of Decisively he weaves his hungry, but with pockets him here.
of the way, a grungy little stair staircase comes to greet adventure, a challenge to see what he can find. way through timber, steel and stone. As always he is bare, these places only tease, there’s no offer to fulfil
He passes places that he knows, from some distant hazy blur. Their cool demeanour, big old rafters and hanging bulbs, in his mind replaced by foggy darkness pierced with light and a throbbing mass of sweat and sex.Tumbling down some timber steps, unfolding like a playground, he finds himself amidst a lively mix of stores and stalls, all vying for attention. In the distance there are some signs he recognises, tucked in, underneath the building mass. They play hide and seek with tables spilling into the space between. These are places he can afford, yet somehow they still speak freedom. The space is like a courtyard you might chose to sit in, not a stuffy place of necessity. Later, watching out over the square, his eyes settle on a bright young girl, glowing with pride as she sells her wares. It’s a small and simple store, an endeavour recently begun. Subsidised, she says, a chance to chase her dream. Her work is beautiful and really quite unusual. She’s doing well, she says, at first attracting those who’d come to see what’s new, but now she has some regulars. A few more dollars and she can lease the place for real. Nodding, he takes her card, thinking here is something worth pursuing. As he walks away he wonder, is this it, the place that he too is seeking? The buildings around begin to shine with pink and gold reflection as the young man saunters back up some steps. He drifts along, under lit up trees, past an old couple holding hands and a pretty woman arms wrapped around a pile of books. He’s headed for that warm glowing building on the corner, where faint music, laughter, and the sounds of drink ebb into the street. As darkness falls, he finds his mates, gathered around a wooden table. Here, there is bravado, banter and new potential, all sitting under a low slung light. By Alexandra Smith
Be Drunk You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.” - Charles Baudelaire translated by Louis Simpson
Last Born I am the last born I move through the crowd with my shiny red wheels I bring with me large animals and flaming spikes in cages I am the last born and I know who I want to vote for I know the identity of the figure in black Low prices are written all over my face I am the last born and I have a long following Everything and everyone is my elder I move through the relatives in my green leaves I eat canoes and drink inlets I have a beard and a small fat crab inside my shell I am the last born the pĹ?tiki the teina Everything breaks its back over me but there are Many ways to build from scratch and in spite of the fact That every fourth corner of the land has been walked Over I make everything ready, being the last born I am desired at each event, to lay down the Cow leather, to direct people to the location of The demons, the devils in the tarmac We all bite something for a living I know not to rave and shout when I reach these places I bring children with me, just the right number Of pumpkins and I sing completely out of tune Buying up all the land around with my lucky sand dollars Hinemoana Baker
http://streetarse.co.nz/category/street-art-from-all-around-auckland-new-zealand/
Home Private Ownershp Shelter Invest Green Safe
A small haven in the city
A place that is yours, and yours to share but firmly embedded in the public world The city is your living room Watching and knowing the people around you Integrated, Involved, part of a community Front doors and gardens and a sense of pride Tucked in to high density and walkability And the best view in town.
Content with the end of another day, a woman calmly pulls the door to her little shop closed. She looks up, with a touch of pride at the result of her hard work. There’s a scattering of laughter lines around her eyes, yet still, her skin seems fresh and smooth. Carefully, she turns a heavy key, then lets it slip from her fingers to drop in her bag. The pretty new girl across the way is flirting with a roguish boy. She can’t help but smile at his cheeky grin and roughed up hair, he reminds her of her son. She passes by unnoticed, then heads around and through the square. The softly scented air is cool and through it drifts a simple song. Her favourite lunch time seat is swinging in a gentle breeze. She watches as a younger woman floats by, new treasures cradled in her arms. Around this corner, she knows, hides a secret little case. Carefully, she selects a well-loved book and replaces it with her own dog eared novel. Underneath a leafy archway, up some weathered steps, the old collector man is closing up and calls cheerfully, goodnight, as she begins to climb. A busy young man is rushing down the stairs. He’s off, perhaps just a little early, inpatient to see his young family. A few more flights, her cheeks now a little flushed, then she passes by the glazed elevator, the softly plastered walls and little planter boxes. And then here, under a canopy of leaves, there is a little blue gate. A strip of garden in the sky. There is this little, jumbled, collection of homes. Carefully, they’re piled, politely, yet somewhat intimately, on top of, around and under one another. Each is calling out, reaching to grasp a little of the sinking sun. Each trying to catch a glimpse of the city’s spectacle from between the towering jungle around them.That one there, with the peeling red painted door and rusty iron chair, that’s the home of the man, with a salt and pepper beard and thick black glasses, who likes to drink his coffee in the morning sun.Over there, by the garden with the little swing, lives the family with spirited young boys. Together they often race up and down the rooftop and play games on the stairs. And here, beyond a low white fence, potted herbs and flowers on a set of steps, stands her own front door. The lights are on, her daughter home, inside the air is warm and still. There are timber floors and soft white couches tucked in beneath a low sloping ceiling. She sets down her bag, and wanders past the kitchen, intent on resting for a moment in a secluded space. These winding wooden stairs, hiding countless memories and stories in their depths, are familiar yet each time new. There’s a place by the window, in a strange little curve, where a knitted blanket waits. The view, always there yet never the same, takes all thought away to be replaced with silent awe. Like a play, the city tells its story, pages turning slowly. By Alexandra Smith
http://aucklandpoetry.com/members/?p=641
The progression of submission Aspirations, dreams, accelerating to be, Foot in front of foot, impressions only to leave. Hesitating departures coming only to overdue, Lost in the old, navigating the new. Say goodbye to everything that is nothing, Open a door to a better something. Inside there lies the path to change, Destinations to lead the way. “Twisted little star how fucking far are you? I’ve sent so many wish’s, are they getting through? Unjust it that you’ve lit only to guide me into the dark, Travelling blank your labyrinth now to be my lark. Tired on my knees, begging you please, I for an end to my means. Deserving of accomplishment in which I can lay, Rightly owed the rewards I should gain.” “My friend, a life’s not lived quietly dreamt but experienced aloud, And little substance you’ll gain with your head in the clouds. The original nature of that you wish to loose, Should surely be yours and not a star’s to choose. Freedom is a right, yet there are those still chained and cage, You’ll never understand its power till you’ve understood the crave. Will and want are only the start of life’s game, By by-standing its lessons its awards are earned in vain. Change is that of losing ones original nature, And should only be dealt by its creator. Without true strength you’ll become it’s slave, Action is yours only, battle for its day. -by Sarah Rowland
http://poemhunter.com/poem/i-still-love-the-city-but-the-city-doesn-t-love-me/
I Still Love the City, But the City Doesn’t Love Me Some have told me the city will ruin me Some said the city is an ugly place The city has marred better men than me I hadn’t lived in the city for quite some time, But living there again was an amazing experience The city glowed with a dazzling beauty, Pumping a vitality in my veins Through my heart, an exuberant, Youthful feeling of excitement I let the city have my heart. I thought the city gave me hers. This love was not meant to last. I had to leave the city for a little while. The city couldn’t handle the distance, Provoking the city to eject me from The city’s heart, ripping and tearing Until I was only a memory, a fling So I left the city in search of a new life. I found myself alone in the desert. I convinced myself the city was only A memory locked away The days were sweltering and arduous, The nights were frigid and excruciating
These times were spent alone, in silence Where almost no life is sustainable, And I ignored the ghosts which Maliciously brought about vibrant, Heartwarming thoughts of the city I turned North, the city far passed The horizon, though its glimmer Reaches me still Its lights do nothing but illuminate The darkness this desert has Brought into my heart And the damage my lungs have Sustained as they drown in my Quiet tears In this moment, I unleashed An ugly, primal scream From the depths of my marred soul, The waves traveling through miles of Nothingness It was then when I realized I still love the city. But the city doesn’t love me. Alex Gomez
A Legibility Analysis The sketches of downtown Auckland that appear throughout this anthology are drawn by members of public at the site. The intention was to form a map of the mental image that the community (and visitors) have of the area. The following image is a study based off all of the sketches collected. Increasing intensity of colour refers to an increased frequency of the appearance of the element. As can be seen, Queen Street is the most commonly identified pathway and the harbour is identified as the major edge or barrier. The Britomart area and the downtown are the most prominantly thought of nodes. This is likely to be related to fact that all of the interviews were undertaken in this immediate vicinity.