Extract: ‘The Tiriti Translator’ and ‘Aloneness’ winners of the 2023 Caselberg Trust International Poetry Prize

Extract: ‘The Tiriti Translator’ and ‘Aloneness’ winners of the 2023 Caselberg Trust International Poetry Prize

Posted: Monday Jan 22, 2024

‘The Tiriti Translator’ by Jilly O’Brien and ‘Aloneness’ by Tim Saunders were announced the dual winners of The 2023 Caselberg Trust International Poetry Prize late last year. First published in Landfall 246 and extracted together with kind permission from each poet here on Kete.

Extract: ‘The Tiriti Translator’ and ‘Aloneness’ winners of the 2023 Caselberg Trust International Poetry Prize — Kete Books


The Tiriti Translator by Jilly O’Brien

The swings were all chained

and the sea salt was finer

so I knew it was Sunday


I knew it was Sunday

for kirk-going carts

wore Sunday shirt with collar and tie


I watched their fury flash by

but the sea was our kirk

and a bou-backit sea requires work


even on a Sunday.


You weren’t to know we brought Sunday to you

when we came, hand-habble, to shoot kereru

travel upriver, harvest the moon


and the stars, buy land at the market

buttery-lippit, for a penny an acre

singing by afternoon


the tune of the righteous, the pious

the greedy, the liars, firm

in the truth of the written word.


Still, harken Tūī the parson bird

making the sound chains make

when they shake to the ground


Chain sounds part of his repertoire

the heart of resistance

Ko te Rātapu tēnei rā


The river puts her fingers in her ears

rolls the stones over and over

and over and over


even on a Sunday


Aloneness by Tim Saunders

Sometimes I would stay

with my grandfather

and listen

to thunder’s distant rumble

resound like a lonely kākāpō

down valleys

and eroded gullies,

moist and windborne

through the green velvet crush

of undergrowth.


Under a half-pie moon

he described the meaning of lekking

and talked of

nocturnal behaviours,

the uselessness of wings,

the scattered moss

that crept across headstones

and the south side of rātā.


On the shelf

above the fire

were my grandmother’s ashes.


Some nights

my grandfather scooped a bowl in the dust

and boomed for her.