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Student poetry
Winner: George Gearry
It’s all grass now
(It’s empty sections, cracked
asphalt and dead
ends)
My knees were peeling
mud and dust the day Dad
drove me through the Red Zone,
the not-quite-dead zone,
just months before
the horizon cleared.
(It’s all gulls now,
new avian neighbourhoods
surrounding disappeared houses)
I was all rugby
socks and Subway.
The air was full and warm.
Up the driveway, I watched
him watch his old house.
(It’s flatland,
it’s gorse land)
I have forgotten how his face looked,
looking at his youth
one last time.
I was wired
and tired
and small. He moved
on eventually, back in the car and out of the Red Zone,
out of the dying-almost-dead zone. Driving west
towards the arch-topped mountains, I sipped cupped Coke and squinted.
( )
Student fiction
Winner: Teala Cavanagh
Reds, Blues and Greens
She blossomed inside of me like a seed in the springtime. She came calm from the womb, flowing and red like blood. She was made from my blood in earnest, and so she was named Rose for her colour and growth. After Rose I swore never to have more children. She screamed through the night and was gruesome in the day. Rose didn’t have a father, and I was alone with her in an awful little house out of town. Every other weekend I would take Rose to the market in town so that we could buy the necessities. It was a cliquey community, new mums with their high-dollar pushchairs and peaceful babies would group around the cheese stand and chat, but I just went about my business, buying vegetables, clothes, and seeds to plant in my garden. He said he was a vegetarian too, yet he ate all of me.
The people in the town looked so happy, and they were because they lived high-paced lives full of friends and parties and excitement. I only had a loose stomach and a shrieking baby that clung to my dress day and night. I had a few friends in the town. They loved Rose and when I went to visit them they would smile and laugh and hold the baby in their arms saying “You’re so lucky! What a blessing! You must be so happy!”. After a while, I stopped visiting my friends. I avoided them in the streets while strolling Rose. They seemed so ignorant to me. Rose was something to be scorned at rather than admired. How could she possibly be anything more than a burden? She shrieked and spat and soiled her nappies.
I barely slept; I can’t remember the last time I laughed. Rose cried and cried. The only joy in my life was my garden. I would wake at sunrise and tend to it until sunset most days. I would only leave my Eden if pressured by my screaming baby. Summer arrived, the air became heavy, the trees became green and everything in my garden bloomed. I knew that my true gift was birthing soft flowers, maintaining soil and training vines to crawl across the painted brick walls. I wasn’t meant to be a mother, and yet Rose was here.
The cheques came once a fortnight. He signed his name at the bottom, neat and clean. There were never notes, nor questions about Rose. Only crisp cheques that I would take to the bank every second weekend and deposit, stopping at the neighbouring supermarket so that I could treat myself to some fruit yogurt. After my belly ripened with life, he stopped talking to me. He hasn’t visited since, but I can see him in the face of my daughter every day. I don’t know where he is living - all I know is that he wasn’t with me, and I am grateful. The only thing worse than Rose’s moans were his. The money wasn’t much, considering all he took from me. But that was a debt that couldn’t be paid by any currency. The money was enough that I lived leisurely and comfortably, even with Rose’s constant demands for more food and more warmth and more affection. More, more, more. I provided what the money allowed for, and with time her screams softened.
Summer faded to fall - so gradually I couldn’t notice any seam between the two, and things became easier to understand. I woke in the morning without so much dread. Rose was still repulsive, but on occasion her blue eyes would catch in a sun ray and my heart would leap wildly. She was a part of me, and I thought maybe I could love her as much as I had loved myself. But she was a part of him too. He gave Rose his hair and his money. He was always there, somehow, paying for the food that we ate and the seeds that I planted and the emptiness of my house.
Staff poetry
Winner: Tautaiolefue Brad Watson
Sounds
Lying in the faleo’o
The hard wood cools my back as
Whisper of waves underneath
Sing songs of my ancestors
Moon kissed melodies
Syncopated with the stars
Laughter over cups of ‘ava
Provide background harmonies
Beckoning a high tide
Crescendoing in stories
Thousands of years in the making
Quietly heard by Tagaloalagi
Percussions of the breeze
Bind together cultural veins
A blood clot brings forth
Brute and beauty
As winds expose Pulotu
Powerful and peaceful: Nafanua
A forte of femininity
Swells in currents
Soaking the soundscape shore
Salamasina sings
Four beats in time: Tafa’ifa
The signature of a Queen
I listen but do not understand
The leaves of the banyan tree
The rhythmic beat of the pe’a
Flying overhead
Leaving marks of the past
Etched in my body
My afakasi tongue twists
As I stumble on unctuous vowels
Interwoven in rolling clouds as
Assonance migrates and flies
When the frigatebird returns home
For the first time
Staff fiction
Winner: Tiffany Young
The room was lavender
The room was lavender, soft and clean. The kind of room white folks like to build their peace in. I knew as soon as I walked in that it wasn’t meant for me, not for my kind of mess, but I sat down anyway. Sunk into the plush chair, my body reluctant to surrender to its softness. The air smelled faintly of flowers, maybe lavender to match the walls. There was a diffuser somewhere, puffing out oils that probably cost more than I had spent on groceries this week. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the room was asking me to be something I wasn’t. To leave my worries at the door, wrap myself in its quiet, and let the calm wash over me.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My fingers found the loose thread on my jeans, picking at it like it held all the answers. My therapist, her eyes soft but probing, sat across from me, waiting for me to speak. I could feel the weight of her gaze, the kind of look that people who mean well give you. But meaning well and doing well were two different things. And I wasn’t sure what she could do for me.
I started slow, my voice barely a whisper. “The first time I saw myself in the mirror,” I began, “I didn’t know if I was pretty.”
I wasn’t sure why I said it. The words tumbled out before I could stop them like they’d been waiting too long to be spoken. I could see that little girl in my mind, standing in front of that small mirror, the one Mama kept on her dresser. My hair was pulled tight into cornrows, so tight I could feel my scalp sting. But that wasn’t the part that bothered me. It was the girl staring back at me, her big brown eyes wide, unsure. Was she pretty? I didn’t know. She didn’t know. And I couldn’t bring myself to ask anyone because what if the answer was no?
I looked up at my therapist, her face softening as I spoke. But she didn’t say anything. Just listened, letting the room fill with the weight of my words.
“The first time Mama told me to act white,” I continued, my voice catching on the memory, “I was with my sister. We were going downtown, and Mama told us, plain as day, ‘Act white.’”
I didn’t understand it then. I thought she meant to sit still and keep quiet. But as I got older, I realized she meant more. She meant to shrink yourself, smooth out the rough edges, and wear a mask that doesn’t fit and never will. I carried those words with me long after that day, like a stone in my chest. How does a child act white when they don’t even know what white is?
The therapist shifted in her seat; her fingers laced together as if she were holding something too fragile to break. But still, she didn’t interrupt.
“The first time my house burned down, I was seven,” I said, the memory sharp and bitter like smoke in the back of my throat. “We moved after that. The new place had roaches. You ever live with roaches?”
She didn’t answer, but I could tell by the way her eyes flickered that she hadn’t. Roaches weren’t the kind of thing you could explain to someone who’d never lived with them. They weren’t just bugs. They were a constant reminder of what you didn’t have. They crawled over your feet in the dark, scurried across the kitchen floor like they owned the place. Mama called them unwelcome guests, but they stayed longer than we did.
I couldn’t remember all the places we moved to after the fire. They blurred together—small, cramped spaces with peeling paint and sagging ceilings. Places that felt like they might crumble if you breathed too hard. But I remembered the first shelter. That place felt like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of something worse.
“The first time I walked into the women’s shelter,” I said, “I forgot when my birthday was. Can you believe that?”
The therapist didn’t move, didn’t even blink, just waited for me to continue.
“I forgot when my birthday was,” I repeated, shaking my head as if I still couldn’t make sense of it. “I was so lost in that place, so caught up in just trying to survive, that I let go of little things like my birthday like they didn’t matter anymore.”
I paused, the silence in the room thick and heavy. My fingers found the scar on the side of my face, the one I’d had since I was nine.
“The first time my dog attacked me,” I said, tracing the line of the scar with my fingertips, “he was just a puppy, half-wolf, half-German shepherd. I thought I could control him. Thought I was his master. But that day, he showed me different.”
I didn’t need to describe the attack. The way his teeth had sunk into my scalp, how the blood had run down my neck like rain. The stitches. The scar. Those memories were stitched into my skin, permanent and unchangeable.
“And then,” I said, my voice growing quieter, “there was my father.”
The therapist leaned in slightly like she knew this was important. Like she could sense the shift in me.
“The first time I found out that the man I called Dad wasn’t my biological father, I didn’t know what to feel,” I said. “I was angry and confused. But mostly, I felt... lost.”
Mama had kept that secret for years like it was something she was trying to protect me from. But the truth doesn’t stay buried forever. It rises to the surface when you least expect it. I loved him—my dad, the man who raised me, who tucked me in at night. But knowing he wasn’t the one who gave me life? That changed things. At least, I thought it did.
“And then, the first time my biological father reached out,” I continued, “I didn’t know what to do with him.”
There he was, a man I’d never known, telling me he was my real father. Like that meant something. Like I was supposed to feel something just because he said so. But I didn’t. I felt nothing. There were no shared memories, no moments to hold onto. Just a voice on the other end of the phone, asking for a connection that wasn’t there.
I could see the therapist’s expression shift like she was trying to piece together the broken threads of my story. But I wasn’t done.
“The first time I fell in love,” I said, my voice softening, “it felt like everything made sense. He made me feel seen like I wasn’t invisible anymore.”
But love doesn’t always last. The first time my heart broke, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a storm. It was quiet, a slow unravelling of everything we’d built together. I couldn’t even tell you when it ended. One day, he was just gone. And the part of me that had loved him was gone too.
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of those memories pressing down on me. But the heaviest memory of all was the one I hadn’t spoken of yet.
“The first time I knew I was going to be a mother,” I said, “I knew it was a girl. I could feel it in my bones.”
The therapist’s eyes softened again, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
“I loved her before I ever saw her face,” I whispered. “But the second time... the second time, it was a boy. And I couldn’t keep him. He was sick, and I knew... I knew I wasn’t enough. So, I gave him up.”
I felt the tears coming, but I didn’t let them fall. I had cried enough over the years. There wasn’t room for more.
“I gave him up,” I repeated, my voice barely audible now, “because I had to. And that decision broke something in me.”
The therapist shifted again, but I wasn’t looking at her anymore. My eyes were on my hands, the way they trembled slightly in my lap.
“But the first time I forgave myself,” I said, “it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t like the movies where there’s some big moment of clarity. It was quiet. Just like everything else.”
I paused, feeling the weight lift ever so slightly, the burden easing just enough for me to breathe.
“I forgave myself for not being perfect. For making mistakes. For not being enough sometimes. And in that forgiveness, I found a little bit of peace.”
The therapist nodded, her eyes meeting mine with a kind of understanding that I hadn’t expected. But I didn’t need her to say anything. I had said everything I needed to.
I stood up slowly, the chair releasing me from its plush embrace. The smell of lavender still lingered in the air, but it didn’t feel as heavy now. It felt... lighter.
When I left her office, I carried the scent with me. It clung to my clothes like a memory I couldn’t shake. But my mind was elsewhere, on the words I had spoken. The words felt like pieces of a song, sung through the landscapes of my heart. A song that was mine, and mine alone.
Messy. Complicated. Beautiful.
Alumni poetry
Winner: Jessica Leong
A place of many firsts
In this valley where I spend my nights,
the moonlight glazes over the starry hills,
and the streetlamps flicker a warm yellow,
just like my first night in this city.
This peace, this serenity,
the cold breeze
and my epiphany.
It’s time for me to leave…
Eyes open on my sunken mattress,
I look back six relentless years,
this has been the place
I have called home.
It was my first time living alone,
first time seeing snow,
first time facing a storm,
all by myself.
Its crystals like razors,
burned red against my skin.
The mountains and the skies
collapsed on me.
My first time losing a loved one,
first time in this black smoking fire.
It left a scar on my knuckle
and a wound in my heart.
I chased after my dreams,
got lost in the mist.
I searched for the switch,
in a crazed desire to succeed.
I screamed under the bridge,
questioned my reality.
I misplaced my steps,
and mistrusted the cruel.
Every tear supressed by these rules,
the stress and sleepless nights,
now all swept away,
down the stream of Leith.
This was my first time losing myself,
my first time finding failure.
This was a place of my many firsts,
my first time being free.
(~L. J Xin)
Alumni fiction
Winner: Shona Geary
Te Haerenga Mai
The first time Tonga asked her out Pihanga was flattered. He was a stand-out law student, Māori vice president of the Students’ Union and fluent in te reo. When he spoke, everyone listened. There were plenty of women gagging for his attention but he had chosen to ask her to the Matariki ball.
‘Babe, you look gorgeous. Very sexy in that pounamu dress.’
‘Ah, thanks,’ she said, sensing hunger in the eyes that traversed her body. ‘You scrub up pretty well, yourself.’
Tonga grinned in his close-fitting tuxedo, knowing it was true.
She was charmed by his easy confidence. When he took off his jacket to dance, he was the snowy peak to her green foothill. A foolish thought. But it felt right, and she folded herself into him.
After that they couldn’t leave each other’s side. In spring he took her to meet his mum, nanny and koro back home in Tūrangi. Pihanga worried she wouldn’t understand their reo—she was only a learner herself—or, worse still, do something wrong. He took her hand as they walked to the door and her fears evaporated.
‘Haere mai, e hine. Come in, come in.’ Tonga’s mum waved her into the whare. ‘Our boy’s told us all about you.’
‘Tama, let me look at you,’ said Koro. ‘You been drinking too much beer, boy,’ patting Tonga’s middle. ‘We need to get you out digging the māra.’
Nanny took Pihanga’s elbow, steering her into the sitting room. She didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Tell me, dear, no hea koe?’
‘I whakapapa to Tūwharetoa too. My dad and most of his whānau live near the pā in Taumarunui but I grew up with my mum in Tāmaki.’
Nanny tut-tutted, shook her head slightly.
‘E noho. I’ll get the tea. And I’ve made fried bread. Your favourite, tama.’
‘Aw, you spoil me, Nan.’
The smile she gave him could have melted mountains.
Six years later, with three girls under five, Pihanga was hapū again. Tonga had graduated law with honours and been snapped up by a prestigious Auckland law firm. Once the girls were all in puna reo Pihanga had taken the plunge and set up her own kaupapa Māori communications business. Then she found out she was pregnant. It was a blow, though one they could manage. After all, tamariki were a blessing.
‘I’ve been thinking, babe,’ Tonga said one night when Pihanga was in her 32nd week. ‘You know how I haven’t been happy in this mahi.’
‘Sure,’ she sighed, sinking low on the sofa. ‘Making money for white people and all that hōhā.’
‘The iwi back home has asked me to apply for a general manager job.’
Pihanga’s heart lurched. She loved working with her hoamahi wāhine. Small as her business was, they were making headway, scoring some lucrative contracts. The baby would take her full attention for six months at most, and then she could be back into it.
Tonga was still talking.
‘The job’s in Tūrangi. I’d be working for my people … your people too. Doing what I believe in. Our kids would grow up knowing where they belong. Not like you.’
His last comment stung. They had been here before, he accusing her of being a ‘textbook’ Māori and she defending her Pākehā mother for doing ‘the best she could’ to maintain the connection with Tūwharetoa. This time she was too weary to rebuke him. Besides it would be a good thing to live closer to her father, a man she had seen only occasionally since he walked out when she was little.
“Look, I’ll think about it. But no more babies. This is it. My mahi is important to me too.”
Their baby was premature, a boy who, once out of neo-natal care, had a voracious mouth and puny body that soon grew fat on Pihanga’s milk. The older tamariki thrived in the open spaces of Tūrangi and open arms of Tonga’s whānau. A year into the move, only Pihanga was unsettled. She still missed her old life and, pre-occupied with the kids, had been slow to make new friends. So it was a while before she heard the whispers, weeks before she noticed the sly glances.
‘Is it true, Tonga,’ she demanded one night, ‘what they’re saying? That you’ve been fucking that woman in your office? The kaiwhakahono isn’t she?’
‘Aw babe, you shouldn’t listen to old gossips. You know what it’s like. Those whaea gotta have something to talk about.’
The words slipped too easily from his tongue. She knew he was lying.
‘Hey, we’re good aren’t we?’ he said, throwing his arms around her. ‘You’re my woman, nē rā?’
Pihanga stiffened, shot him a look that could have killed.
‘Not if you’re no longer my man,’ she threatened. ‘And just remember, e patu te arero, e patu te arero.’
Contrary to the Pākehā rhyme about sticks and stones, gossip does hurt. It can spread lasting damage.
Two years passed. Pihanga’s warning had pulled Tonga back into line and, although the passionate fire in their relationship had dwindled to a moderate heat, it was sufficient to keep their affection alive and whānau intact. Tonga’s reputation as a negotiator and orator extended beyond the boundaries of the rohe. He was often called upon to speak at national hui that took him away for days at a time and, when the occasional rumour circled back, Pihanga chose to ignore it. Her husband was a good father and good enough partner who knew what he risked losing if he pushed too far. For now she was willing to settle for that. By then their boy was at kohanga and old enough to spend time at the pā with his sisters and cousins. Again, she established a communications business that attracted clients eager to make use of her skills.
The first time Tara met Pihanga he had not long started at the Whenua Māori Incorporation in Taupō. After years building a career overseas, he wanted to make his mark back among his father’s people. The proposal he sent Pihanga was for a ‘beautiful’ video story of reconnection: whānau with whenua, iwi and hapū. A story told with ‘te ngākau me te wairua’ that would resonate with the incorporation’s landowners. He had seen her mahi and liked her empathetic style. She agreed to meet at his office.
When Pihanga walked through the door in a forest-green dress that floated to her ankles Tara knew he wanted her.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ cautioned his cousin and hoamahi, Rau. ‘She’s a beautiful woman alright but she belongs to Tonga.’
‘I hear the dude can’t keep his dick in his pants,’ Tara fired back.
‘C’mon cuz, you know how it works,’ she said, giving him one of her hard-ass looks. ‘He’s a big shot around here. Contender for the iwi CEO role. I wouldn’t mess with him if I was you.’
Tara ignored Rau. His attraction to Pihanga was magnetic. He needed to be with her, talk to her, gaze at her every chance he got. He found budget for other video projects and rationalised having to accompany her on location all over the rohe. The magic worked. Driving together on empty roads across the volcanic plains, Pihanga fell into a pattern of confiding in him.
‘You know, I still feel I don’t really belong here. Like everyone’s still sizing me up,’ she told him one day.
‘Hei aha atu mā wai! Of course you belong here,’ Tara said and, keeping his eyes on the road, lightly brushed the back of her hand.
His reassurance was deeply comforting. Before long Pihanga loved him back.
Tonga got wind of the affair and, steaming with anger, demanded that Pihanga break it off. She would not. So he turned his sights on Tara.
He recommended the iwi board sell an old school building that had been part of the settlement package. Tara, as chair of a hapū that opposed selling any land, had advocated for a native plant nursery on the site. But developers wanted to build a luxury fishing lodge there and were willing to pay an exorbitant amount. Tonga insisted the money could be invested to fund education grants for generations to come.
Tonga knew his proposal was a direct challenge to Tara’s mana. Furious, Tara picked up the wero and they prepared for battle.
Pihanga turned away, disgusted.
‘I know what’s going on here and let me make it clear to both of you. I am no man’s trophy. I am not for sale.’
But by then they were unstoppable.
The hui was explosive. With his supporters grunting approval, Tonga hurled great balls of fiery rhetoric and legalese at his opponent. He recalled the crippling poverty his kaumātua had lived through. He sent lightning bolts of insight from his business studies to argue for investment opportunities that would shore up their future as an iwi.
Tara deflected the blasts one after another. Channelling the powers of his tūpuna he argued for keeping whenua at all costs. It was the throbbing life-force of their people, regained with their blood and tears. He threw his words like molten rocks, accusing Tonga of being a taniwha Pākehā greedily devouring his own tail, a turncoat who had lost his mauri.
The battle lasted all afternoon. Slowly the blows became less convincing. Towards evening, the combatants stopped and regarded each other, anger and shame in their eyes. Disquiet pervaded the hui. All were aware it was not just the land Tonga and Tara were fighting over.
‘I don’t want to say I told you so, cuz. But I told you so.’
When the vote came through Rau had helped Tara pack his bags. There was too much blood on the floor for him to remain the hapū chair. Shortly after the sale, Tonga had indeed become the new CEO. Constantly rubbing up against his opponent’s authority was asking more of Tara than he could manage.
‘You have to leave, at least for a while,’ Rau had told him one night when he was sober enough to understand the urgency. ‘For your own good.’
Driven by anger and sorrow, Pihanga had chosen to leave Tonga but stay in Tūrangi. She would make her home here for the sake of their tamariki, her mahi, her father with whom she had reconnected. She stood to lose too much of herself by moving west with Tara.
In the depths of despair, Tara had turned to alcohol and dope for refuge. They offered nothing but more hopelessness. And now he was going back to his mother’s whenua in Taranaki. Rau, his guardian angel, was driving because he was in no fit state to be behind a wheel. She had promised to stay a few months to make sure he was off the booze, settled and in work.
They drove down the eastern shore of Lake Taupō then west to Taumarunui. Alarmed by her cousin’s deepening despair, Rau had turned to Whanganui Awa to restore him. She had asked whānau with a canoeing business to take them down the river. Five days on the serene waters of Kuia Whanganui would surely return Tara to his true self.
Tara had no option but to comply. Rau forced him to leave the Jack Daniels behind. She made him get rid of his stash, take only warm clothes and waterproof gear. They’d eat and sleep at marae along the river; their car would be waiting at the end point, Pīpīriki, 145km south.
With a heavy heart Tara grasped his paddle and they launched into the upper reaches of the awa. That day, feeling only the wrath of Tonga in the tumbling rapids, he cried tears of rage as he battled the fierce current.
The next morning they paddled deeper into a rich and rugged landscape. Towering gorges reached out with mossy arms, waterfalls trickled through tufts of fern, still waters offered reprieve. His rage spent, Tara gave himself up to the river’s soothing caresses. They continued in blessed surrender until they reached Pīpīriki.
From there, Rau and Tara followed the awa to where she gently merges into the moana and then headed northwest to Ngāmotu. Matua Ngahina was expecting them.
‘Welcome home, boy.’ He greeted Tara with a long hongi, squeezing his arms. ‘E hika, you look like your mother.’
He turned to Rau. ‘Is this your missus?’
‘This is Rau, whanaunga on Dad’s side. She’ll stay a while, see what work is around. She’s a whizz in freshwater ecology.’
‘Going to take on the dairy farmers, nē rā?’
Rau grinned.
‘Āe,’ he continued, ‘there are lots of jobs now that Taranaki Mounga has come back to us. We need people who know about the taiao.’
As the sun set, a korowai of cloud lifted and there was Koro Taranaki in all his glory. Tara’s spirits lifted.
‘The old fella could do with some love,’ Matua Ngahina murmured. He had seen his nephew’s mamae and knew what would heal him.
Rau settled in Ōkato near the mouth of Hangatahua Awa. Tara bought two hectares at the foot of the Pouākai range, close to the mounga. Once occupied by his tūpuna, the land had been returned by the Crown and offered to uri. Tara leased part of it to his hapū to grow native plants. He didn’t have time to develop the nursery himself. As operations manager for the mounga, his work filled him to the brim, body and soul.
In summer, Tara climbs Koro Taranaki in the morning dark. He stops below the summit, resting against the old man’s chest to watch the sun come up. There, far away in the east is Pihanga, her gentle curves holding Tūrangi in a loving embrace. Sometimes Taranaki imagines she is looking towards him. Sometimes he sheds a misty tear. More often he is quiet, at peace. He too is home. This is his heart.
___________________________________________________
The Story of the Mountains
It is said Taranaki Mounga was formerly known as Pukeonaki and stood near Tūrangi, with Ruapehu, Tongariro, and Pihanga. Pukeonaki and Tongariro both loved Pihanga and fought over her. But Tongariro was stronger and Pukeonaki (Taranaki), bearing the scars of battle, withdrew underground, carving out the bed of Whanganui Awa on his journey to the sea. His guide stone, Rauhoto, led him up Hangatahua Awa to settle beside the beautiful Pouākai range. The offspring of Taranaki and Pouākai became the trees, plants, birds, rocks and rivers flowing from their slopes.
Ko Taranaki te mounga
Ko Kurahaupō te waka
Ko Hangatahua te awa
Ko Taranaki te iwi
Ko Ngā Mahanga te hapū