Wooden Shuttle
Kia ora!
As a migrant writer from Uzbekistan living in Aotearoa for over 12 years, I write to honour the invisible threads between places, languages, and lives.
Written fifty years ago, this poem still carries the spirit of its time, a quiet resilience, a journey through tempests, and the laughter of birds in flight.
Like the shuttle itself, it has travelled across decades to find a place of rest.
Let it be a lighthouse for anyone still searching for their own safe harbour.
Mā te rangi, mā te whenua, ka hoki ngā kupu.
(Through sky and land, the words return in Māori language).
Wooden Shuttle
Across the ocean's sleepy grin,
A wooden shuttle spins within.
Through storm and tempest, wind and wave,
It sails in search of something brave.
The sea, a frowning endless ring,
Laughed at this wooden, fragile thing.
But on it bobbed, the waves its dance,
Its voyage owed not just to chance.
Perched upon by birds in flight,
They gathered 'round from left and right,
Chirping tales from distant lands,
Mocking waves as rivals to the sands.
“Oh, gather round,” the seagulls yell,
“We'll leave our mark, a tale to tell!”
The shuttle sways, it moves along,
Their quarrels humming through its song.
By dawn their voices meet the light,
Assured that all will be alright.
The king of seas, the storm's grand rage,
The shuttle bows and takes the stage.
At night, the moon in muted grace,
Gazes on through drifting lace.
This journey now has lasted long,
Endless waters, silent song.
The lonely shuttle, old and wise,
Bears its tales beneath the skies.
One day, revealed, a cliff appears,
A rocky face through salt and years.
The winds conspire, pull away,
But the cliff stands firm “Not today!”
Still on it floats through silver foam,
A tiny island carving home.
Adrift, like us, I might surmise,
With hopes to reach the shore, the prize.
Its rudder cuts the water's glass,
Reflecting days long gone and past.
The birds return, they know the plan:
To spread the tale of this wide span.
Despite the sea's loud, jealous roar,
The shuttle lives to glide once more.
It spins and laughs like life itself,
A weathered book upon love's shelf.
With hair of cloud and beard of mist,
The sea now knows it can't resist.
This wooden thrall, gypsy of gales,
The sea's own bard with sailing tales.
And so, it dances far away,
It laughs, it sways, it has its say.
A tale of wander, deep and wide,
The wooden soul, the ocean's pride.
Through laughter, quarrels, storms, and moon,
The world's own waltz-bard sings its tune.
A thousand verses won't suffice,
This shuttle's song is beyond all price.
May this little wooden soul whisper something true to you, too.
Ngā mihi nui, thank you for reading.
