Editorial

Tēnā koutou katoa,

Where to start with the absolute state of 2026? In Aotearoa, every household staple costs $50, imported culture war issues pollute the news cycle, and 1-in-100-year weather events occur with every big storm. In the wider world, annihilatory wars of choice are as fashionable as hot honey, mothballed killer diseases are back, and the great plagiarism engine that is AI is here to spare you the burdensome task of making beautiful, meaningful art.

It seems like the tone I should strike is one of defiance. I should proclaim that good people should and will stick together, that solidarity and care are eternal currencies. This is not a time to give in to feelings of defeatism or gloom. As American poet Nikki Giovanni wrote, ‘You cannot let the world change you.’ Not if you want to remain sane and moral. I should reaffirm that art is our superpower, the thing that makes us unique and truly animates us, in spite of everything. For while we humans vibrate with our singing, to quote Mayakovsky, ‘the tongueless street merely writhes / for lack of something to shout or say.’

And I do strike this tone! Full-throatedly. But also realistically. I don’t want to make grandiose promises about what one litmag can achieve in this moment. What I want to do is share a little story that I think has some parallels with the work we are (hopefully) doing as artists.

Every day I walk along a cycleway that borders an estuary. On one side (the less estuarial side) is a tussocky slope leading up to railroad tracks. On the other side are some low, tough grasses, winding ditches, and a certain amount of wildlife, both native and non-native; it is full of pūkeko, and there is a population of kāhu, but I also spotted a stoat there once. A tall chain-link fence separates this side from the cycleway. One evening I encountered two pūkeko on the wrong side of the fence, the cycleway side. Pūkeko have many virtues, but flying well isn’t one of them, and one of the birds was repeatedly trying and failing to get back over the fence. The bird was getting close, but it was coming up short. I saw that it wasn’t a situation that I could improve, so I kept walking. When I was about ten metres past the birds, something made me turn around, and I saw a sight I wasn’t ready for. It looked to me like the persistent pūkeko took a running start and jumped off the back of the other. The bird made it over the fence this time. I know it sounds weird. Did it really happen? I’m not sure—but at the same time I’m sure.

This is the energy I see radiating from our 116th issue.

On behalf of everyone on the masthead, be well. x

Ngā mihi,
Erik Kennedy
Poetry Editor