Mapping your Moments ZINE - YOUTH WEEK WA 2021 - Propel Youth Arts WA
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Mapping your
Moments ZINE
Creative writing from the participants of the 2021
KickstART Festival writing mentorship program
YOUTH WEEK WA 2021
From Maddie Godfrey
Mentor and Editor
After she won the Nobel Prize for Literature last year, poet Louise Glück did an interview with
The New York Times, and said of her role as a teacher…
Edited by Maddie Godfrey
Designed by Bento Box Design Studio You’re constantly being bathed in the unexpected and the new. You have to
Presented by Propel Youth Arts WA rearrange your ideas so that you can draw out of your students what excites them.
My students amaze me; they dazzle me. Though I couldn’t always write, I could
To write is a form of mapping; mapping our stories, our movements and our always read other people’s writing.
thoughts as they traverse our headspaces.
When envisioning what I hope to achieve as an educator, I think of Glück. How her pedagogy
This zine is presented as a final outcome of a writing mentorship program (a fancy word for her approach to education) is interwoven with her own creative practice.
for writers aged 12 – 26 led by prolific writer and poet Maddie Godfrey. How teaching, in itself, is a way of mapping stories / of positioning yourself as a resource that
will allow your students to find new pathways within their work.
Over four online workshops held weekly in March 2021, a close-knit selection
of young writers had met virtually with Maddie Godfrey. Structured as a short As I structured these sessions with the Propel Youth Arts WA mentorship group, I found myself
course rather than a series of workshops, this mentorship involved reading/ drawn to this concept of education being a kind of creation. These participants arrived with
listening to a variety of texts and sharing thoughts, as a communal act of nurturing well-considered ideas and skills, and so I had the best job of all, which was finding new ways
new knowledge.Encouraging a collaborative spirit between participants, through to make these writers even more excited about their own projects.
prompts and fun activities, Maddie guided participants in the creation of new
writing, and each participant selected a final work to present in this zine. We listened to Arlo Parks, we read Ellena Savage and we documented resilience. Before you
move forward and encounter the awesome work in this zine, I’ll leave you with a prompt I
gave during one of these sessions…
How can your writing throw a party for small everyday moments of celebration?
Consider the following; Ode to feeling good. Ode to pleasure. Ode to bodies
and how they empower themselves. Ode to endorphins. Ode to joyful endurance.
Ode to the parties you found when you left the parties that didn’t make you feel
good. Ode to the parties yet to come. Ode to tomorrow.
Maddie Godfrey is a writer, educator and emotional feminist. Their first book How To Be Held (Burning Eye
Books, 2018) is a manifesto to tenderness. At 25, Maddie is an internationally acclaimed performance poet
who has performed at The Sydney Opera House, The Royal Albert Hall, St Paul’s Cathedral and Glastonbury
Festival (2017). In 2020, Maddie was the first Western Australian to be awarded the Kat Muscat Fellowship, and
the youngest person to be awarded a Writer-In-Residency with The National Trust of Western Australia. As of
April 2021, Maddie recently won the Tom Collins Poetry Prize and is writing a PhD focused on prose poetry and
rehearsed choreographies of womanhood. Maddie lives on Whadjuk Noongar land with their rescue cat Sylvia.
www.maddiegodfrey.com
Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 3
you, my upper lip
Ella Peeters
first time wearing red lipstick
for Asha’s birthday
you were twelve
Ode to my upper lip walking into a glass door
blood spilling all over
your mickey mouse dress
(Content Warning: bullying, hospitals and blood) blurred vision
all you could hear was the laughter of your peers
you who i only notice in March you, my upper lip
towards the end of Bunuru season who is always crimson
brave
you, my upper lip pulsating hard
who is vibrating fast
swollen who i outline on the train ride home
red and puffy scratch
always claw
dry and peeling until
raw
to you, my upper lip
who is scared you, my upper lip
who is stitched once was
who is silenced now is
then sewn back together finally fading
a shrinking crimson
you are a reminder of the doctor who cut into me outline of the past
an accident memories
you have to live with for the rest of eternity as the hot easterly wind passes
leading way to Djeran
to you, my upper lip,
remember when you cracked
after that boy kissed you too hard, Note from the writer
tasting metallic
There are six Noongar seasons. In this poem I mention Bunuru season (February –
feeling hot blood slink
March) and Djeran season (April – May). Learn more about Noongar Boodjar at
down the back of your throat
South West Aboriginal Land & Sea Council’s Kaartdijin Noongar
4 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 5William Huang
Tomorrow’s Pilgrimage
Half asleep in the pale
In the morning’s
warmth of my bedroom,
daylight is several hours
away.
For now it’s time to sleep,
before the day breaks. blue, everything
In the morning’s blue,
everything takes a simple hue. takes a simple hue.
On the way to the bus,
built and natural environments
fill up the air, and my wandering leads
me from here to there. WILLIAM HUANG
Regardless of where I am
or where my perspective resides.
each day is constantly parting
its image, misty, warm then clear.
6 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 7Lynmari
Cleminson
Dog on a Chain
“You’re observant.” The wrinkles on her face were nothing compared to
Words that sounded like a compliment, cut open craters of concern on his forehead. I accepted his
my oldest scars. I’m observant? I never really apology, as she shoved me aside to reach a tub of
stopped to think about it. I guess I was. I noticed yoghurt, although the apology wasn’t his to give.
the insecurities of childhood bullies, my father’s In return, I wanted to hand him an axe, or perhaps
betrayal in my adolescence, and whispers shared some bolt cutters. I wanted to cut that chain for him.
between secret lovers in my adulthood. I sat there I wanted to help him escape the torture. The torture
wondering if I was blessed or cursed with wandering of a thousand apologies.
eyes. The weight of truth sat heavy on my shoulders.
I noticed everything, no matter how mundane. Maybe I was observant. Maybe this made me as
I even noticed the complexities of public niceties. much a dog on a chain as that man. I would be
forever apologising for noticing. Although, I was
The man followed her through the aisles of that never truly responsible for the actions of others, I felt
grocery store like a dog on a chain. A tight, it. Their lies and secrecy. Maybe I needed an axe
unforgiving chain. His eyes framed with frowning or bolt cutters. Maybe I liked my prison. Maybe
brows; his mouth hung so low it almost touched his that man and I found the same twisted comfort in
chin. As she led him from the Anzac biscuits to the carrying the burden of others.
sweet chili chips, he left a trail of apologies in his
wake. As she bumped into, narrowly avoided, and
grunted at, every customer within a one meter radius,
his voice could be heard.
“Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
8 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 9Sophie Minissale
PETA: Sure.
Beat.
PETA: I honestly don’t mind seeing my face. I just don’t like the pressure of being here.
Remote Control Shutter Button
Beat.
Note: in playwriting, a deliberate short pause in dialogue or movement is written as a ‘beat’. When you
PETA: It’s a bit like, staring down the barrel of a gun.
see a ‘-‘ it means the dialogue is cut off. CW for body/self-image, disordered eating and swearing.
Beat.
PETA: Let me tell you, wedding couples are the worst. I once spent three hours airbrushing a
PETA is arranging a camera and tripod set up in a photography studio. It is very quiet. When she’s woman’s skin. I could tell you about every pore on her face. Every contour, line, freckle.
done, she sits on the stool in front of her silence staring at the camera. There is still silence for some time, I thought she looked beautiful. She did. Then, when she saw the photos, she asked if I
as PETA stares down the lens, tilting her head, figuring it all out, playing with the remote-control shutter could take her stomach in. It’s so stupid. People just don’t get it. She had three hours of
button in her hands. PETA’s eyes never leave the camera while she speaks. make-up done and probably started starving herself the moment he put the engagement
ring on. If you’re looking at your fucking wedding photos and the first thing you think is
PETA: It’s not that I hate taking my own photo. ‘Huh, I wish my face was thinner’ get your priorities sorted. No one cares as much
about how you look as you do, it’s so stupid. You can’t insult me like that.
Beat.
Beat.
PETA: It’s not so much the matter of seeing my own face, but, more the fact that I know all the
tricks. I know all the angles. PETA: You know, Photoshop isn’t actually that good. It’s not magic like everyone reckons it
is. You have to get it right in camera first. You can’t make something out of nothing that’s
Beat. She tilts her head. not how it works.
PETA: I know the right way to move my head to not cast a shadow with my nose. How the Beat.
lens compresses my face to make my nose look smaller, my eyes look brighter, legs
longer, and my cheeks not so- PETA: I don’t even know what I look like at the moment. Now I’ll have to go keep checking
when I take photos and do the whole re-adjustment and lift up the camera, adjust the
Beat. She stops herself. tripod, settings. How am I supposed to look good when I don’t know what I look like?
PETA: Obvious. PETA: You know, people who are important, people who matter have photos of themselves.
They last longer.
Beat.
PETA accidentally fires the shutter from the remote. She flinches, then is silent. She puts the
PETA: It doesn’t really work when you know all the tricks. People like it when they know what their remote down on the floor. She then goes to inspect the stool, the backdrop, checking things
photographer looks like. You know, like on all the websites and stuff. If the photos of over again. After some time, she sits.
themselves are good, then they must be good. At their jobs, that is. Apparently. It barely
becomes about me anymore. PETA: This is stupid.
Beat. She narrows her eyes at the camera. Beat.
PETA: I wouldn’t call it lying. More, aesthetic manipulation. The right way to look. PETA: Maybe another time.
Beat. She puffs an air of laugher from her nose. She rises from the stool again, and packs away her things.
10 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 11I often ponder
What would it be like
To lay resting in those clouds
Clear and maybe have birds fly by
There is so much of joy in this imagination
The moon brings clouds to life
My heart races when I close my eyes
Falling through these heavy ties
The winds heading to the galaxies
There is sweat forming outside
My body, I can’t look away
Where do I start and finish
When I want to stay in one place
Getting lost in the view
Makes me brave
She often yearned for colour
Smiling isn’t always honest
Silence cuts through that
All she needed
Was to show her teeth
Every part of her body
Bellamore
Moved in sync to make that happen
We can all search for peace
In the wilderness of imagination
Ndaykeze
Like a mirror reflecting what it sees
The soul requires artistic work
Through this practice we can sit
Still
Reflection
12 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 13Emily Burton
Mapping Moments
i am trying! my dreams aren’t the same anymore but i used to feel like a real person, green and yellow
it is going to be different now. my school uniform is and so much to say. now i cannot speak. i cannot be
crisp and pristine, bright blue creases folded into too much again. they will notice me. they will notice
each edge. it catches on my joints as i pull it over me. i have been brave my entire life. i do not want to
my skin. i am sorry about the sharpness of my wrists. do it anymore.
i am sorry that i ruined everything by opening my
mouth. i will not do it again. are you angry?
it is going to be different now! i carve my fingers some days! somedays i want to scream! tear my skin
into complexities, but i am more stupid than i care from my body and! beat the floor with my fists!
to admit sometimes. the hardwood floor beneath before i learned propriety i could shout whenever i
my feet chills me, and i have cried into my pink felt it but now i am mostly silent.
bedsheets too many times. i have curled up in too i am mostly good.
many bathrooms, hiding. i read books into the early
hours of the morning. you do not understand - it is here there is only the crisp, the pristine, the trying. i
just that i cannot be alone with my thoughts at night. am just a child. please love me.
when i have nightmares i pull my sheets over my i am sorry that i ruined everything by opening my
head and wait until i die. mouth. i will not do it again.
i have nothing clever left to say.
what is it that makes you feel this anxious?
14 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 15Imani Benfell
Ode to my Illness
Talking about Illness The pain like fire in my joints
it is such a taboo. and hot lead in my muscles
You have to mask your pain The lack of spatial awareness
with a smile and an “I’m ok” and the fog in my brain.
I once saw this illness as a curse, But it gives me my ability
My burden to carry all alone. to take things as they are
So much it takes from me It gives me resilience and
yet so much I also gain. a different kind of strength
Days without a wheelchair It teaches me not to care,
these days are worth celebration. about what people think.
Days without being bedridden Although sometimes
Are some high points in my life. I do fail at this.
To me all, these moments Yes, it can be a burden,
they mean the world. this all-consuming thing.
This illness I have, it’s But for better or for worse,
the cause of much pain These illnesses are a part of me.
The breathlessness in my lungs
and palpitations in my heart
16 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 17Depth Over Distance
You burst from the surface gasping at the unexpected depth
you’ve managed to reach this time. Thinking over
the ways you’ve tried to go the distance
tor yourself, knowing how often your comparison to every
one else makes you think you’ve fallen short, time
and time again. This time was different, wasn’t it my
dear, this time it was just you, deep blue, fire in your lungs, next to no one.
You compare to no one my dear
Dormimos I
We connected so immediately and I thought I knew you well. We shared our
strawberries and touch became joyous currency like chocolate coins. Our life
bubble was solid, our foundations slowly built were strong. You went away to
your homeland with your family for the summer. You dated a girl over the long
distance. You did a political internship. Our hearts still meet like finding buried
treasure, and tucking you under my chin is still the ripest strawberry of friendship
but you and I both know, each time we meet again we grow. We are no longer
the little door mice curled together in ‘dormimos’. We are leaping rats in a barley
field, squeaking with glee as we glide past each other in the air, the golden grain
heads brushing the tips of our toes.
Dormimos II
Your shoulder my shoulder our nap
We share this moment, this friendship, this star sign, this briggs meyer type, this
specific medal, this love of strawberries, we share this sleep.
This moment of nest on the floor in amongst the suitcases the costume racks the
feet of our friends
There is hardly standing room but we take up a little bite of time and just rest.
Just breathe out.
Dormimos footnote: ‘dormimos’ is the Spanish first person plural for ‘we
Ruby Liddelow
sleep’ and it’s SO CUTE can you see them sleeping in the feel of the word
coming out of your mouth?
18 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine KickstART
Propel Youth Festival
Arts E-Zine|| 19
19Lily Baitup
Newly-Weds Hunched Beside a Car Wreck
On the side of the road beside an erroneous minivan spewing The home of guiltless dessert, of chocolate bars stashed in
smoke, we swat rutting flies from our backs with offshoots fridges, not going limp then liquid in pillowcases, of ordering
from a gumtree, nature’s horsewhips; he asks me if I could be my own dinner and paying for it as well.
anywhere but here, where would I be. What a question to
ask, under the baking sun that killed the engine and could yet The home where my name was something that was stated,
kill us, turning my skin to pork crackling through the pores of whispered, chortled, sobbed, sometimes moaned, but never
my straw hat. Sweat pools in the cleft of my lip and my knees, screamed bloody.
coolant wasted on a wreck staining my nails luminescent
green. What answer could you expect other than home? The home of locked phones and unlocked doors.
The sanctuary of before.
Not the home we have pledged to make between us, but the
home of two years prior to this sorry sight, when my mother My knuckle is stained black from the habitual twisting of my
would rest her hand on my head on a Thursday evening and ring, the discolouration something that won’t sweat out.
blue light tinted the whites of our eyes; before the touch turned I survey our belongings, scattered across the side of the road
from affection to reassurance that I was there, concrete. in beer-bellied cardboard boxes, corseted in by circles of
brown tape, and I say ‘nowhere’, because I know that’s what
The home of two-hour phone calls which felt like two minutes you want to hear.
because my sister and I had so much to talk about; before they
ended in accusations and abrupt dial tones.
20 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 21Sonya Frossine
To the woman serving butter chicken at the cafe.
You smiled, complimenting the enamel pins weighing down
the lapels of my leather jacket. I leaned over the hot glass box
I held my smile in
between us, pushing my left shoulder forward, showing you
the cat with Salvador Dali’s moustache. I explained that a
friend had given it to me since the last time I’d seen you.
one hand, like a
When I said this, you stammered, forming half a sentence with coffee cup, warm
your hands moving in the air. You’d forgotten - that’s fine!
No, please don’t apologise! That was months ago, in the mess
of assignment season, exam season, before the library started
against my fingers...
shrinking under the concrete of construction.
Don’t worry - I still remember. The first time you complimented
my jacket, I’d ordered two cinnamon donuts. You told me you SONYA FROSSINE
liked the pins as I was paying. When I walked away, I held my
smile in one hand, like a coffee cup, warm against my fingers,
carrying liquid-hot happiness back to the study table.
22 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 23About the Authors
Ella Peeters, 21 William Huang, 22 Imani Benfell, 16 Ruby Liddelow, 25
Ella is a passionate storyteller, theatre- William is a 22 year old Chinese Imani is an aspiring author, writer Ruby is a lifelong theatre tragic
maker, writer, actor and boxer. Australian writer and musician and and chronic illness warrior. They love and professional napper who
Her favourite colour is lilac and lives his music taste is older than he is. reading, writing and drawing creepy loves dogs, broccoli, brie, the
with multiple invisible illnesses. She sketches in their spare time. You can colour red, a good cuppa tea with
also spends a lot of time on the swings see more of their work through their a gingernut, as well as connecting
at her local playground. socials, website and podcast at: and empowering others via the
Sophie Minissale, 22 www.imanitheauthor.com/ ARTS. She loves to consume stories
anchor.fm/imani-benfell in any format they come and
Sophie is a writer and @imanitheauthor hopes you find an enjoyable little
Lynmari Cleminson, 24 photographer living and working moment of story in these writings.
in Perth/Boorloo. She likes
Lynmari is a 24-year-old English theatre and very specific Spotify
Lily Baitup, 21
Teacher who was born in South playlists and would love for you
Africa. She has always had a passion to follow her on Instagram Sonya Frossine, 20
for expressing herself creatively, @sophieminissale for the exposure. Lily Baitup is an emerging playwright
especially through the mode of and aspiring novelist based in Perth. Sonya is currently studying
creative writing. She currently lives Several of her scripts performed at Creative Writing and Japanese
in Perth, Western Australia, with her the Blue Room Theatre and Subiaco at Curtin University. Her poetry
Emily Burton, 18 Arts Centre. She has been writing has previously been published
husband, James, and rescue pets
Poncho and Luna. stories since she could string together in literary magazines such
Emily is an emerging perth/ a sentence, and dreaming them up as Westerly, Cuttlefish and
mandurah based creative long before that. Voiceworks.
dabbling in a variety of disciplines
Bellamore Ndayikeze, 24 in order to live out her passion
for telling stories. they believe
As an aspiring writer, Bellamore that storytelling through the arts is
hopes to inspire emerging creative incredibly powerful not just as a
minds to reflect and grow. catalyst for social change, but also
in understanding and caring for
ourselves and others.
24 | Propel Youth Arts E-Zine Propel Youth Arts E-Zine | 25propel.org.au propelyouthartswa kickstartfestivalwa propelyoutharts propelyouthartswa kickstartfestivalwa #youthweekwa #kickstartfestival #propelyouthartswa hello@propel.org.au 08 9328 5855 © Propel Youth Arts WA 2021
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