red blossoms flower as seasons unfold, children inhale the warm fragrance forgetting there ever was a blood-longing gibbous moon or a season of cold or want or desire …

So writes Ōtepoti writer and poet Annie Villiers who has represented Dunedin UNESCO City of Literature by taking part in a year-long initiative devised and led by Utrecht UNESCO City of Literature. A chain poem has been created stretching across the globe, made up of three lines from each participating city within the Literature Cities whānau. Dunedin UNESCO City of Literature was thrilled to take part in this poetic celebration timed to be published by Utrecht online on World Poetry Day, 21 March 2022.

Annie Villiers lives and works between Dunedin and Central Otago. She is deeply committed to Dunedin’s literary community, not only as a poet and writer, but also through her involvement in various literature related projects. She is on the board of the historical Dunedin Athenaeum & Mechanics’ Institute and is a trustee of the Dunedin Writers & Readers Festival. Coincidentally, Annie lived in Utrecht for a few months many years ago and has very fond memories of her time there. She remembers Utrecht as a beautiful and progressive city.

Here is the chain poem so you can see it magically unfold …

These Are Waiting Days

I dropped a weck jar what a bang
shrill red pomegranate seeds azure rustle bass tones and dissonants broke out
and out of the glass rolled over the cold tiles under kitchen cabinets tables chairs (Utrecht)

these are muddled days I’m always longing for the sweetie-jar archive
screeching cubes of crimson and blue the stripes of silent humbugs held
there behind the countertop unbreaking safe from careless hands (Edinburgh)

between the curtained windows the morning sun flags its way in
leaning against a table its blue shade long gone
I stare at the bread heating up from my gaze
reminded of last night’s cold dream (Wonju)

morning wakes between days, stuttered reminders shaking dust from this stale time.
either the window or the sky is cracked, birdsong leaking the glass. outside the city is
shedding night from the bark. I am tired of my throat, of signs, of sleep. (Melbourne)

we are always waiting for something either for an encounter or parting for warmth or chill for voyages or arrivals
my red cat is hunting the specks of dust dancing in the sun there is a pomegranate seed of blood on my palm
the painfully familiar phone tune is splitting the morning (Odessa)

the red seeds have long since left their traces in my room,
on my skin. if I take off now, life will split into two uneven halves,
before, after. if I take off now, my body splits, between you and me. (Heidelberg)

between our fingertips, our complex sea. of the coffee we were, to who we are.
on a ledge like always; staring. Into a city, where the lights keep changing.
and you ask, what the hell is happening? I respond with stones, salt and cocktails of my childhood. (Manchester)

after a nightmare, I sowed seeds again under the window where my mom used to pat me.
before the sunlight on the tin roof disappears, let’s call people who had left altogether and invite them to our table; now, it’s time for a toast. (Bucheon)

to the sun, symbolically still shining, on dark, adapting days,
stretching rejuvenating rays down damp crevices,
where sown crimson seeds soon sprout… (Durban)

red blossoms flower as seasons unfold, children inhale
the warm fragrance forgetting there ever was a blood-longing
gibbous moon or a season of cold or want or desire (Ōtepoti Dunedin)

after this dream, I sink a knife into the flammable cake on the kitchen table
where kin ate, baked from soaked traditions for a promised visit,
the slice now eaten alone, knowing spirits have risen and days continue to spill (Nottingham)