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Anna Kaye Forsyth
New Zealand

Anna Kaye Forsyth is a freelance writer and editor, moonlighting as a poet and a musician in her spare time. She lives a stone's throw from Takapuna Beach, which is great as she has an obsession for water in all its forms.  She put out a chap book of poetry called Wonder in 2006 and is a regular reader at Poetry Live in Auckland.
Her poetry also features on and


A towering glamazon
watches over the city.
A glittering goddess
in airbrushed perfection.
This Rahab.
All falsities and lashes.
She’s a pawn.
She’s porn.
A glamorous smokescreen
to hide the snakeoil merchant.
This deceiver.
This peddler of fear.
He offers an elixir.
This cure.
all the while creating
the disease of discontent.

Slice of pie

This evening,
through a pixilated window,
I watch intently with listening eyes
the cartoon heroes
and cut-out figures
of politics,
of lands,
not in the background
of my own experience.
I listen carefully with watchful ears
as the friendly voice narrates.
Beguiles me with fairy tales
of communist villains
and tall,
military heroes.
My mind is hungry
for riddles,
for challenges
to distract me
from the pettiness of my own woes.
If I was alive
30 years ago
would I have held the placards?
Bared my breasts?
My only cause now
is my own stomach.
My show of concern
hardly stretches
beyond a few silent nods
at dismal headline statistics
and polarized conversations.
Or it might extend to a toast
to other’s successes
that hopefully guarantee me
a slice of the pie.


Amber light
muted by thick shade.
Matching curtains
and golden tassels.
A symbol of
golden days.
Of domesticity,
Your finer days,
Your own light,
by advancing years.
The decades have been
less than kind.
Yet somewhere
just behind your lids,
another light
and smiling knowingly.


The kete you gave me
hangs on my wall now.
With deep blue feathers
and uneven bits of Paua – hand-stitched.
You told me my life is like this bag.
To see the weaving.
The coming together
of strands.
My life is not unraveling.
It all depends
on perspective.
I guess you’re right.
But the inside of the bag
is pretty messy.
All knots and tangles.
Frayed and tired
with sharp, split ends.
Edges of flax strands.
haphazard black threads.
A confused cross-hatch of loose ends. 
The outside
looks a little worse for wear actually.
But it always speaks to me
of you,
of him,
of a bigger picture
that is somehow being weaved.
I guess I am a bit like this bag.
A bit dusty.
A bit worse for wear.
But still functional
and beautiful
all at the same time.