Student Poetry Competition 2024: Year 11-12 Winners

I admire the patience of those who have the ability,
to turn something so plain & pure,
Into art.
To sit at the table,
And fold with precision and accuracy,
Gifted with the skill of origami.
Just like my grandmother,
Whose fingers wove through my hair in the mornings of July,
Turning strands of hair into intricate braids,
Tucking away loose hairs and pinning them with colourful, mismatched clips and hair ties.
I wished my hair was longer so that I could sit by her feet for hours.
Listening to her hum to a tune only she could hear.
Honing in to the rhythmic pattern of her hands in my hair,
Over and under
Over and under
The same way paper is folded,
Over and over,
Again.
Until it turns into something so beautiful,
Something that so accurately reflects the time taken so perfectly,
Folded paper and braided hair.
I loved when her fingers ran from my roots to my ends,
Loved how as she brought her hand away from my hair,
She took away the knots,
The worries,
The pains,
Like origami, she made me feel beautiful.
Made me feel like art,
Just like paper was made to feel human.

I find myself looking for God in the ruins
I wonder, I wonder whose footsteps I walk in, whose garden I trample, whose grave I desecrate, my feet sinking in freshly turned soil and not sun-warmed cobblestones, like I will keep sinking into this shallow mouth until I feel cold fingers on my ankle grow warmer
My brother says I’m too soft, too sensitive, I sit with the wind and pretend the whispers are ghosts but I’m stepping into someone’s house with my shoes on, God,
My mother would have my head
What mother is talking here instead – whose front door did we barrel open, whose riches have we ransacked, whose life have we decided to capture, suspended in time,
Suspended in wire holding up these tapestries we weave from the scraps?
This kitchen, did she labour over dinner, a universal thing we share? This bed, did she have someone to share the warmth, a human thing we dream? This rubble, this fading mosaic floor, did she hold someone in promise? Did she hold herself? Did she hold herself like I do?
Did they walk like me, did they talk like me, did they sing, did they sing, did they sing?
I rub the dust between my fingers like it’s ash in forgotten fires and something bone deep, bones crushed, grinded up and sanded down into something worthwhile, into those marble statues I refrain from kissing the feet but who decides who we immortalise? No, really –
I spend too long next to some forgotten slab but the sign in front says these are
Funeral epitaphs
Did they know? Did they know? Did they pray? I knew but sometimes I forget to pray
We looked at the same sky, same earth, same God, I wonder what they thought
Were they scared like me? Did they pray? Did they pray? I did but not always for the right things
Their gods were fallible – who knows how many are lost? – carved into stone that we so painstakingly pieced back together, those cracked faces sacrilegious, licking the dirt,
But still they prayed
Did it make a difference? Will it make a difference? Were they afraid? Am I afraid?
Yes but I think I am afraid
I don’t have the right answers to that
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I want to hold you but I don’t know how, I can’t carry the weight of the dead I’m already buckling under the weight of myself
I can sit and stare at these fading inscriptions, drag my fingers over the gashes like by some miracle I’ll understand but I’ve been waiting for a miracle since I was twelve and first saw blood in a daydream so
I sit and stare, is that enough? I can pretend, is that enough? I can wonder whose hands I keep trying to hold, wonder what they wondered sitting here as I do – what to eat for dinner? To pick up groceries on the way home? – is that enough?
If I remember you, if I grip your hand from between the weeds and pull,
Is that enough?
I gave a cat half my water bottle in the ruins of a fountain, is that enough?
Were you there too, cupping water in your hands and letting them lick sandpaper-rough from your palms? Will you remember me too? Will they?
Yes, okay, I was crouched in the dust and looking for God but
I was looking for the imprint of myself in the rubble,
I was looking to be remembered.

I’m running fast.
The wind thrusts my back,
forcing me to run faster and faster.
I steal a glance at the tree a few metres in front of me.
Gum Tree.
God I miss sitting on the porch with legs up,
listening to kookaburras’ laugh echo through the cloudless sky,
like waves slowly rocking back and forth on the Bondi.
The taste of dry, sandy air seasoned with Saturday’s barbie
rest in my mouth while I daydream amongst the whistling of crisp leaves,
whose veins were roadmaps of million, souled cities guiding me home.
My loose, untucked shirt was nothing like
the sweaty, camo uniform that sticks to me,
like a leech not willing to let go.
I try to distract myself from the rifle
fastened tight in my bruised hands,
with the soft drizzle that reminds me of
miracles freefalling from the silver sky with wisps of genies who overlook
kangaroos frolicking around to catch raindrops on their tongue,
barren shrubs morphing into emeralds as honeyeaters’ chorus brightens.
Birth of sprouts gulping breaths of fresh air signify won battles against the army of soil,
like baby wombats peeking the promise of spring through colours of local festivals.
Soon the pitter-patter slowly falls out of line with the harmony of my pulse,
but rain or no rain, Australia is where is my heart beats, and my heartbeat is far from
the thick air surrounding me that suffocates,
choking me to death then reviving me
only to choke me again with blurring screams of death.
I hate this slouch hat, I hate the humans making me carry this gun,
I hate that my birthday was drawn from the draft.
I’m too lost to remember whether I was running or
walking along arid plains towards the horizon barefoot with my little sister,
who would keep look out for koalas in gum trees as high as Ayers Rock,
and tawny snakes concealed within the tangles of the bottlebrush bushes.
Sifting my hand through the fine, fire sand just to see it
drift away in the cool breeze embraced me like Gran’s warm hugs;
streaks of sunshine cycling into the dawn of the arising Southern Cross.
All’s forgotten when I realise
I’ve passed the Gum Tree now.
I long for a glimpse back to remind me of home,
but then a rifle fires.
I look down but I can’t quite tell
if it’s Mum’s red wine
or blood.

Written poetry

• Simrah Ahsan, Camberwell Girls Grammar School – ‘Poetry’
• Charlie Bishop, Presbyterian Ladies’ College – Knowology
• Jesel, St Peter’s College – Coyote Hole
• Bridie Newman, Loreto College Ballarat – A Forever Waltz
• Amna Rahim, Sirius College – Pathway Paralysis
• Skye Weddell, Firbank Grammar School – Visit Soon
• Lena Zhang, Lauriston Girls’ School – Ode to Wonder
• Yolanda (Xingyu) Zhu, Presbyterian Ladies’ College – Compass Line

Performance poetry

• Zain Deen, Penleigh and Essendon Grammar School – Awe