Emma's poem (below) is published in issue number 97 of 'English in Aotearoa'

VOICE

Emma Harris

At eleven I was sent to boarding school

where we were told to stand up straight -

to feel a taut wire stretch the spine out,

all the way from the base to the tip-top.

When sitting, they said, one should perch

at the edge of the seat,

shoulders back, chin lifted,

so that we resembled a 

group of nervous birds,

ready to launch at the first hint

of a rustle in the leaves.

We were to speak clearly:

to round each and every vowel,

clip the consonants

and always to e-nun-ci-ate

as if the Queen were eavesdropping,

which is, of course, something a lady should

never actually do.

In late-night dormitories

I read Anderson and Grimm

compulsively, looking for ways out.

After lights-out, the house hummed with whispers,

but beyond each other, most of us fell into silence:

we learned when to be both unseen and unheard.

The little mermaid seemed to have

the right idea to me.

Although she had to endure the

pain of walking a knife's edge,

without a voice she didn't have to worry

about what to say or

how to say it, and

it seemed to me that

you can't lose a game you refuse to play.