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To order a copy: Contact email: ltavita8@gmail.com
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Moon Kites
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To your memory I’ve promised to remember in every sad gaze that is worth a good man’s blessing; And by His grace guide my final step with honour while a tiniest star burns just as brightly.
E manatua ai aiga pele: Uili, Luaono, Timani, Ana Lemalu Aukuso; Judy, ma Sogi Niko II a o mafuta ai i lenei olaga
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AOTEAROA An ordinary street on Christmas Eve
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Masks
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Strange creatures
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Sink ants
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A word to a tuaman fan
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Dealing with an intruder while watching Olympics
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There’s a better chance
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I threw away an orange
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Apostle birds
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A new show going
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One black night in Auckland
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The art of sifting through rubbles
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In a shopping mall
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Flower truths
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Filling gaps—and she knows
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Steps—a word to the young commuters
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Any attempt to dispel sorrow in the midst of a tragedy
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One Good Friday
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iii 5
Another Good Friday
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By the wayside
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Manukau Memorial Gardens
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The morning after
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Lessons on aboriginal truths
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A fruit called misery
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Karma bird
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Blood sacrifice
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Funerals & long speeches
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In autumn leaves fall
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A rare encounter with ‘The Poet’ in marble
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Dear word—I’m sorry
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The mail box
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I signed a pact with a corporate thief
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First syllable
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A child contemplated
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A sigh became flesh
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The evening herald
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Carriage
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iv6
SAMOA Wall
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Let not a word
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Bitter ‘ava
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On a clear day
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Once a fine village
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Moon kites
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A lesson on exotic cuisines & fire
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Just another ordinary funeral
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Clock girl
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Poet prophet
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Spring wedding
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Enigma
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The traveller
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Author’s profile
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v7
acknowledgements Revel Somervell (Weymouth Primary) Leonard Davids climaxlines.co.uk deviantart Hindu.com kites4you.co.nz Mandaro nextmovie.com Roy Krenkel—original artwork scaryforkids.com shutterstock.com Tim William Schofield Utube Whizzard wikidot.com
Published by Copyright Š 2014 Cover Images
Evaleon Books Levi Tavita Levi Tavita as acknowledged & holders of copyrights respectively Printed & bound by Book Printing ISBN
978-0-473-29368-0
National Library New Zealand Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
vi 8
9
an ordinary street on christmas eve The season sets its own mood and the street knows; A sombre cloud joins in the fun by pausing the sun hence manoeuvring a perfect delay; Not quite for an elderly neighbour that came to check whether his son got mail (his son used to live in this address); He’s been told many times to tell his son to redirect his mail; it seemed to have no effect—it’s almost four months now and he still comes back smiling; Two men scantily clad passed by, they offered the greeting and was returned amicably; A boy made new blue thunders across the street with his buggy disturbing the quiet; he’s greeted with a nod still, message returned enthusiastically; (One easily figures that the season is for the young ones and they deserve an extra boost—reasonably); And a family cat squats nicely observing a novice’s first attempt at hedge-cutting; Now and then she raises her head when snippets of children’s laughter scatter from across the fence.
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masks
Never take a man wearing a mask seriously no matter what; Firstly, it was only meant to be fun; secondly, it must be worn only on a face’s front for protection; Now they’ve worn it close to the skin; don’t care much as to which part of flesh you place it on because by today’s standards they look good anywhere—any place too: Read about the rags to riches matriarch whose furless felines is part of her facade! Saw that beach guy who modelled it eloquently behind and front! ‘It’s in the chase that you’ll find the true essence of a masquerade,’ a wise dog commented. My stepdaughter tattooed hers over her Achilles’ tendon (she couldn't be wiser). In dye and gridlocks the mask proves elastic enough to go universal; Proof is rights to moko and pe’a are still reserved for a few, So are the many tailor-made for just the lucky of this world who can afford; On other faces, masks are pretty as they are—wearable as the fur that cover them; it’s the hairy kind which they find disgusting—pretty much!
Whatever is profound loves masks—Nietzsche moko—a traditional Maori tattoo, typically one on the face pe’a—a traditional Samoan tattoo, typically worn by men
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strange creatures These are strange creatures no doubt They don’t have time to share a laugh At least pay cuppa tea visits; When I found them lining up to the jam pot this morning it meant they’ve been productive all night while I was economically stale; And even in pain they never pull their faces heavenward. They lack blood basically.
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sink ants
In tribes they march every morning they march on the beat of one drum they march. Then the plain shiny metal turned into an unmindful battlefield two armies fought by any means but stealth; The Ammonites first saw the signal dispersed as the Eye, bored with the view reached down and wiped—with a dishcloth.
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a word to a tuaman fan O for a ‘rock’ that tumbled as wings feet rumbled and a red-hot heat cut through the bone a soaring sensation and kissed the levelling clouds—
Spiralled downward: TERMINATED
David Tua beat Hasim ’Rock’ Rahman in Florida in 1998; TKO 10th round
14
dealing with an intruder while watching olympics & news of death taking a loved relative A few things restrain my respect: There’s one now making perverse noises with the farting will to furiously incense; I went at it with the might of a fully erected newspaper. It flew into a cobweb. I thought the spider will make my night, but it too sped away quickly. ‘The poor creature gets too homely,’ I figured; ‘or it might have guessed my evil wish then decided to defy the common enemy.’ Not the way you make your entry, grey old champion; Subtle as always - too predictable; proof of high acculturising from eons of experience. Now you’re getting too homely for anyone’s comfort; you eat better and choose better; the poison of your sting is the song that we sing; My people make love and riches in the pores of your pale skin!
Spiders fly in this cobweb called life Spread their nets of terror in the night!
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there’s a better chance There’s a better chance of meeting up with my long lost aiga or friend in a main mall or at the fish market on any given day; I can tell they’ve been anticipating my second coming at this time and place; From swift glances to restrained stares nothing serious—just wanting to be sure we’re looking at the right ghosts; And when we meet we talk of death and sorrow and happiness—and more sorrow still that is inviting—remindful—self-renewing; Our past makes us strong:
Talofa e! After a few more meetings we’ve come to accept that there’s a better way to condole and part that is soothing and more loving; An awkward soulful wave will take us a long way till the next one drops.
Toe feiloa’i! In a market place news of death in the past can be quite liberating!
aiga (ah-he-nga) = Samoan for family
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i threw away an orange
I threw away an orange because it’s got a speckle on its skin; I had no time for its little plight as on the plate there were more choices still; I threw it away knowing that a lot could have been salvaged; just sever the little rot—the rest still perfect as a whole; And let’s say that one orange contains the substance that really quenches my thirst, or a magic potion that gives me true happiness; Then consider my loss My punishment My shame; And if seeds from that one orange find a good earth to germinate; One turns into a perfect plant with just one perfect fruit sweet to the eye and the soul; Then would I pray that someone more agile and wiser use discretion better — This second time round. 17
apostle birds
I just wish to say that it was by accident that we came upon you uninvitedly that cloudy wet afternoon when you were doing your bird thing. To prove: you were whooping shaking strutting hobbling back and forth in a circle until the two of you finally decided upon it. I remembered that there was a deep hush that brought the little sky to a standstill; The ground was green from all distance. Sorry.
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a new show going
It’s the trooping the colour parade tonight, and a new show dawning across a green slit-eyed horizon; the cat’s been thinking! And while they waited and watched for the appearance of her majesty’s handbag, she went for it: Drums roll. Trumpets weep. The Inspector is on her way (She’s been through this many times in her sleep); Everyone’s got a sniff, then she jumped on the sofa and fell into a luxurious stupor.
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one black night in Auckland An unusual shadow falls to envelop a city; not that the mighty river has refused to ignite but rather some other life force much more potent was blamed; There was a complaint A city worker talked about seeking compensation for lost earnings; In her line of work too much darkness demoralizes; too much light is unwelcome either; Tonight the heavens lit up; Just enough to let her pass through Tonight.
Auckland City suffers from blackouts at times
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the art of sifting through rubbles (for SLA)
The art of sifting through rubbles is the most honourable, because it makes amends for life’s choices and actions long sojourned; More importantly, it might set free a soul or two. The will to act is the will to move on. And to move on the past must be dug up and buried honourably; Now that the clinging arms are ready to let go the shadows of their yet unfolding will not destroy us. The past, chained under stacks of pale paper caskets, is now laid bare for judgment; for the heart is a faithful measure, a purging mirror upon which reason reaffirms its choice. Reason must do its task gently—swiftly; our burdens trimmed to travel size once more. It must be, for sake of lightness —of truth —of spirit: refreshing and willing; all our senses awake.
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in a shopping mall It is time to admit that shopping is not an easy stroll down the neat aisles when it’s so late in the evening and the other half is frantic with worry over a bad prognosis; Stepdaughter stung by asthma, left to the care of others at an acute ward – that is; And a slack driver standing in the way of two parking spaces make you think of broken glasses and dislocated limbs; Found a parking space on a far corner finally; Facing me a bloom of blue— lush green straps with brassy tubes punching singing valves— and flowers turn’ into blue bells; And they all came out swinging. How much more searing A late hot afternoon can be! 22
flower truths This flower outside my sister’s window takes my eyes before it catches the attention of honey-bees who now are busy dissecting it of its nectar and beauty; They took all the nectar, the beauty somehow remained; Left me to wonder if truth of flowers in the beauty or the nectar.
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filling gaps — and she knows
He called it ‘spatial value between two persons, etc, etc’, The space between, he elaborated, can be thousands of light years apart or as close as a child’s morning mihi; ‘First, expect all your children to cross the easiest ford — Prepare to lend support, but be subtle. Know how and when to close in . . . You know what that means.’
She knows what that means, gaps should not be given away for nothing; She knows it well and truly—been there done that. In this child’s four-cornered world colours make the difference between gaps—from one guess to the next— From the top floor to the second—more or less the weight in dollars of a father’s pay packet; on the whole, gaps are either real or imagined; ‘Watch where you’re going Johnny’/ ‘Show some manners Isabel’/ ‘How can you not know the rule, Samson?’/ ‘Keep your little hands to yourself, you little . . . !’
She knows that such lessons must be learnt and relearnt however disapproving the tone is;
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‘Do you know that in the world of Morgan the Pirate you may end up paying the ultimate price for being ignorant! . . Who wants to walk the plank then?’ ‘MEMEMEMEMEMEME!!!’ So it all comes down to choice: She knows that some will have leapt for joy just by the mere mention of freedom; others will never see it coming until next time when they’ll eat their lunch. ‘You see this gap in my teeth Mrs—my mother promised to fill it with pure honey!’ ‘That is fantastic—my dear!’
mihi—greeting in Maori
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steps—a word to the young commuters ‘Steps come with risks—’ (oh sure Madam!) And with children there’s no room for error— when hopping on a train or exiting a school bus.’ (My mother said that too).
‘A stumble can cause irreparable damage— (oh yes Madam) Babies especially are vulnerable Ask Uncle Adam about his firstborn’s first attempt— supposed to be the leap for all mankind but he lost his footing and got caught in a crevice—’ It has to be amputated.’ (What a shame! The Reverend mentioned that too!) ‘Steps come in leaps and bounds (oh definitely Madam) That’s fine, as long as they’re soundproof and don’t cause any havoc; That’s why we never tell cats to watch their steps, do we? To the lesser creatures perhaps—but never the cats.’ . . . And what about the curious kind, Madam?
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any attempt to dispel sorrow in the midst of a tragedy but humour—only if it helps
It must have been the bat that first discovered that our habit of standing upright can come at a cost; Especially when heads get too close to the ceiling; On the world’s top wherein the pull is heavenward, it must have been a struggle taking things lying down; And bats systematically blamed for an overblown culture of blood sucking vampires wrecking havoc across a fervent praying continent. (down under twisters aren't bats’ worst enemies; besides, by the time they hit the latter latitudes, both are ready to pull their feet up on a couch) 27
one good friday (a report)
Suddenly this ordinary place is transformed once more as we lay him down to rest and wait . . . wait for Mary to resuscitate the miracle. The dirge has become less painful now these poor old head-drums have made up their minds to a mere play in double sounds. The choir is brilliant Everyone rises up to the occasion. Even the drunk who slouches in the back seat wouldn’t slip his tongue out for even a count. Who am I to fathom the mystery of His Easter grace in ordinary lives? The minister fiddles on his light blue tie I imagine it a symbolic act of mindful Christian vigilance (or is it defiance?): every Christian tie is a coffin (of former self), and on the neck a stout cross. Eyes all lifted now. More incantations. You can see the wine bubbles in the glass from even this distance amazing:
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It is his dear covenant blood that sprung fresh ever since Calvary and Company declared a New World in the sap of a second plant. The minister drinks The people shouts Amen I see Adam literally delivered From the curse of a fruit-cake.
Since then the world has never had enough of the good ol’ truth of a dying god who bubbles up!
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another good friday
(BBC: Another Palestinian suicide-bomber claimed more victims during the Jewish Passover festival; a bus load of school children is blown up outside Jerusalem, everyone on board killed; Israeli army moved in to confiscate Arafat’s headquarters)
If the meaning of the ultimate sacrifice is in the act of forgiving our enemies then the world may be made to understand somehow; How hard then is for the perpetrator to understand that if he raises his hand, the same force that propels it upward is enough to pull it down to strike him in equal measures?
But no one wants to listen!
30
by the wayside By the wayside they fell one and another; No one noticed though it never was the case when their pods were strong to withstand the heat of the noon sun. Now only afternoon crows can identify them as feed and disperse them afterwards as refuse. Sometime I think this life’s journey is refuse journey.
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manukau memorial gardens (to a mother attending to a loved one’s grave)
1 Ties that bind like bridges are to land that once one was and divided eternally by the indomitable sea;
These who’ve carried life’s mantle are here, have made their peace with land finally on this airborne mist of the Manukau soul. 2 Bridge once crossed leads to nowhere; The spirit treks on that wears off with every beaten track thus made—the memory:
Maudlin clouds crept into new shackles The unmarked—unafraid—fade quickly; No moss is gathered here yet. 3 The Upper Highway links to the inscrutable; Black bird defines the inevitable—the crucible lies where love and light converge; Horizon waiting for the next burst of rain. A mother plants flowers of plastic; Hope would never give it up!
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4 Earth to earth and surrenders what she cannot possess; one day though she’ll give up the rest. Wind wails. Hope binds all; One lifespan crossed and you’ll hear the purrs of engines. Birds! They’ll take you to where the heart is.
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the morning after (one Martin Luther King’s Day )
She wasn't spurned when truth finally dawned hovering red above a censorious horizon The Pharaoh in all his vain majesty did have a heart like others and a legend was born Wrapped in Hebrew humility Raised a prince—was meant to be prince one day, one day as he walked the last lap of the journey. She wasn’t spurned when truth finally dawned A humble carpenter with a heart had little choice and a legend was born Wrapped in Hebrew humility Raised a common man—was meant to be a revered sage one day, one day as he walked the last lap of the journey To Alabama, Montgomery to the south To the deep end of the south where horizons were dark dark and a legend was born Cloaked in Black humility Raised a black man—was meant to be Black Man one day, one day as he made that walk of the last lap of the journey. 34
lessons on aboriginal truths 1 Truth is fragile like glass clear clean pristine perishable The incapable hand is capable of splitting it into a thousand pieces. 2 The Christian professor perfected the mosaic. Down the centuries he mixed Indian blood with Spanish glasses and worked wonders on basilica windows. 3 In the corridors of power close by big truths are vehemently denied. In other places simple truths are stamped on children’s swollen eyes . . . . 4 Like this summon from court to appear for custody talks in New Zealand. Truth to prevail ought to be defended no matter the distance.
1observed/2read/3heard/4experienced
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a fruit called misery
Religion found a way to my debt-ridden soul Like old air to a second-hand coat and I’m stuck; Never wanted it—never asked for it— And you can’t do much; First the striving to be free from totally and yet there is always a default - a mysterious slip; A sloppy flaw irritating that gnaws somewhere inside like Jonah’s worm pandering to the whims of own depravity.
Hence true forgiveness and love overflowing: The true fruit it bears—like Zacchaeus; Then there’s the riddle: Of all animal species only humans thrive on debts; The pinching of the ear—the bullying of the flesh— if only to shame the bare ribs. Debts may be reminders from above But the poor still bear the fruits of own misery in silence.
36
Life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved —Kierkegaard.
karma bird
Karma bird hops on a clean-cut lawn as if testing the right depth; and sure it is—the steel blade never disappoints; Now she can poke into the ground with much more ease and vision; Karma bird pauses to attend to a bone stuck between her nails —and still remains vigilant; Up on the corner lurks an old enemy—a forked tongue coiling maybe —deceiver of the simple-minded—spoiler of tender dreams; the sting is poignant as always. But karma bird seems to hop through it all caring more about her next meal than cutting through tough hides; or fret over life’s vow to silence that stubbornly refuses to own up— yet turns up instantly to hit her where it hurts! (she feels for the worms too); Or the fact that self-preservation is an end unto itself, and the risk may not be worth the chance; That a little hopping is only a decoy for some great sadness she may not live to tell! Karma bird hops on a school concrete looking for bread crumbs; “Hello birdie,” the principal saluted her “Croak!” “Croak!” karma bird replied (The former has chosen her favourite Sesame puppet as her new deputy).
Such is life! Such is life! 37
blood sacrifice This evening I tried to recast an old myth with fermented water for blood—it was a vain attempt; Faceless clouds—sombre shadows—grim glass-houses made camp outside the backyard fence— My vicarious reminders from Auschwits; Still I stake my faith in the night even if darkness be an indiscreet investor with colours; God keeps own loved ones at bay In their own little backyards having paid for their ransom dues well in advance. Flame-bellied Frank football fame fast was his sprung heavenward, though it took sixty-nine winters to cool him Down to standard measurement. Resigned but not without a fight. Remember that horse that would jump the edge rather than be captured!
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Upon the altar tonight when the leopard offers the lion the ultimate sacrifice; The Purifier will supply God the heart with life-renewing throbs that will sustain the world; Until Moses sweetens the water one more time.
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funerals & long speeches In funerals of long speeches silence is the enemy— Family is the collaborator And true mourners no better than the pews they sit on; It is the hour of tall conductors Beware—the slaughter can be gruesome! In the lost kingdom of dwarfs words were meant to be words; Until they wanted to measure up to a taller race whose words meant something else.
In Samoan folklore, Nuuletau, was a village of dwarfs inland of modern Paia village settlements to the south of Savaii, whose secrets were revealed by a Paia villager who encountered them; even though he was under oath not to; and as the legend goes was never sighted since.
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in autumn leaves fall In Autumn leaves fall of their own free will making way for the tiny axemen to cut and send them on their way to build new colonies; And if they make poetry there (on the supposition they are the smartest of the bunch), then surely you are in that mix. In Autumn the tallest shed leaves that don’t fall but twist and swirl—tango with the wind, Skipping hopping all the way to the next— Their moment sealed under the sun.
(upon a favoured poet’s departure)
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a rare encounter with ’the poet’ in marble in a second-hand bookshop The hand on the chisel sings in a language only stones understood that dance in courts to whet a king’s appetite; Like words at the stroke of a master bear the essence of our being to love— to Happiness; Make beds among flowers or beads on a crown whichever bust it hangs from; Some soared to greatness Some stuck on lovely shoelaces; Others found their trueness in a spoke of a restless wheel— And ruled the highway for a while; I longed for the times when words were words and rocks and grains turned gold by Midas’ touch.
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I am sure it was him I met in that old eerie hole of a shop.
A bust of Kahlil Gibran
dear word—i’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance And I wish I could have hung in there for dear life; Now someone else has paid the price—Impaled on a stick like a roasting pig on fire and worse a hook on the head: Translated—dead upon arrival. It never was his fault.
Le isi Upu
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the mail box They shoved a full load through in a manner that its ears fell off—its backdoor gave way; A little box is no match— but I never heard a single sigh of complaint;
Like trees—they just cop anything animals throw at them, making them best examples of tolerance and values as such; And even if they get smarter and grow as tall as trees; Animals will still find a way to shove their rubbish in— They will bring in ladders on wheels - or chainsaws perhaps.
44
i signed a pact with a corporate thief By hook or by crook I signed a pact with a corporate thief to facilitate the sale of his expensive wares in my neighbourhood using my aroha as his guarantee;
And that means sending in the mothers and the children to do the shoving making me an unwilling partner in the crime for as long as my aroha shall bleed. Now my next door neighbour accuses me of littering; Even my own self accuses me of not being cooperative sometimes; Demanding that I clear my mail box to make way for the next day’s lot. (And we know who grins all the way to the bank).
Aroha is Maori for love
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first syllable (on pretext of a prefix)
If the first syllable does us confound then the second or last would well often rebound Words like repent, remission are regrettable; Others as The most Lord Funk, are there to be almost sworn at; Terms like pain, God can be loved as much as tree, child defiantly go all the way unpropped; Which is why I believe that relishing in front of a loving deity is such a delicate task; The guise must be dropped immediately.
I cannot believe in a God who wants to be praised all the time窶年ietzsche
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a child contemplated A child contemplated all night then took it the only way she knew how; In the morning she’s lost her smile. The tongue that promised to bind for worse or better is curled into a raging torrent leaving salt by that will forever jab at the sad wound. Long after the boils peel off on their own new tissues resprout in place of the old and the nurturing breast severed forever from sweet memory’s caress then the wound will be purged completely— Faces though remained.
47
a sigh became flesh A sigh became flesh and the flesh was revealed, and there was a great outpouring of shame and grief—and pity for them who scorned a stone that rose to reclaim a woman’s right to freedom—to power; and to Papa Tangaroa’s own Glorious Immortality.
the evening herald More winged than creature, More style than heavenly Like to think we know more than we could tell by your see-thru lingerie; So close yet so far apart Do I have to see you only when you’re glued to a window glass?
48
You who raised hell to rouse the worshippers couldn’t be more irrelevant at this time and place; And oh the squeaking—the onslaught—our reluctant surrender—as we watched the progression took form
from dust—to ashes—to nymphs; I wonder what the gods will say about the rapid rise in apostasy; Now the separation is almost complete; Thirty odd years is such a long split, And a big city is no place for you with its own noises that drown;
It’s a treeless world now. I could hardly hear you.
49
carriage The irrepressible urge to carry ourselves about in weights of gold and steel is infallibly human, But shedding off our heavy spirit burdens for the sake of lighter travel can be a leap too much for some; One might argue that the business of our carrying is not ours but gods.
Our burdens define us窶馬ot the carriage.
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51
wall 1
They travelled—sojourners: The salt-stained fisherman the soil-stained farmer—they’re all here; Brought their families and tents—and hearts also because they’ve heard that the stay will be long and strainful; inside the wall they will learn to eat the heavenly manna served on the razor-sharp edge of the grass-cutting blade and the lashing tongue; Their wives and children also will pay a litte price for the glory awaiting; A toil—a tear—a slight endured as they all journeyed together in search of the promised land. When nights are quiet inside this wall they hear familiar voices. From upon distant shores and from under solitary hills:
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Let it be Lord, may our sons and daughters be your vessels. Let them build Jerusalem on top of the hill Let them mould its bricks and mortars from rock dust mingled with tears
May they plant the healing balms of Gilead as shades, and colour its walls white with brown blood spilled and flowing freely in foothills of faraway places. Let it be Lord, may our sons be worthy, may our daughters be your vessels.
Pulotu winds carry the message on waves that foam and echo as they beat the breast of Tuamasaga reefs unceasingly.
2 Yesterday a man entered the wall with a basketful of vegetables a little bit late; I wondered how he would manage to make a sale at all. I saw him walked past again with the same basketful into the haze of a bland sunset.
53
This morning two young children entered the wall from the east with three ‘ula pu’a; I know they will come back again tomorrow and the day after tomorrow, until they are old enough to choose to find another job to support their families, or migrate like everyone else to Australia or New Zealand; But they will keep on supporting their families in order for their families to continually support the good maintenance of this wall—and of the many other church walls; And whether they knew it or not they have staked all their lots on this wall. And when they have children and they grow up they will also be taught to cast their lots on this same wall.
I saw your silhouette in my wakeful sleep splitting waters while I threw grass into the laumei pool. How you have staked your lot on the same wall only He knows; But I have seen you tied a shilling on the top end corner of your lavalava to hide —and carried it with you the whole week long — for the sustenance of your God’s ministry, while your husband was dying of a drink of laumoli and sugar. And you’re gone Mother of the father of my father and I wondered whether all that you’ve strived for was in vain, or was it that thirty years ago was such a long time passed, and walls kept on changing their paints and faces!
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3
Yesterday we met inside this wall. We talked about its potential as the people’s fortress. Yesterday.
Maluapapa means rock fortress
laumei—turtle lavalava—sarong laumoli—lemon leaves
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let not a word—let not (a word in deference to sons & daughters of Samoa’s diaspora who’ve done their parents and country proud)
Let not a word– let not if the intention obscures the true meaning; And how you’ve coped listening to empty words the stream no longer whispers; A broken-winged bird is smothered out in the cold rain. A cripple can do nothing— Let it die in vain; New land new consciousness! The song sung by the bosom of old dear mothers had carved into flesh a modern tatau of meanings: Let us pledge never to surrender to the surreal make-believe world of the powered madmen with gun-toting reputations; And since we must love you as sons love, then let us love, let us prove our worth freely; In rags or riches or in a thousand scattered tears no emperor would dare drink.
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And let not a word to the cold babblers or they will drink joyously to that other meaning.
In the rhythm of the dream we will always meet half-way, like casual lovers meet and part graciously at noonday.
Tatau—Samoan for tattoo, typically the male traditional tattoo around the waist
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bitter ‘ava Come my friend Let us drink away our sorrow just like yesterday when drink was pure, And we weren’t afraid to spit fate from out the bitter end of our one bowl of ‘ava. Come my friend Let us drink away our sorrow just like yesterday when love was stronger, And our fathers weren’t threatened by the taunts of fatal tides. Come as if our ways in the stars have never been infiltrated. Come as if our lands have never been purged as if our seas have never been violated. Observe the vision as if the sky is still alive with the laughter of sega, and the forest still soothes our pain with lupe sad cooing. Come now while our sorrow stays and strong Or we will never feel the difference.
Ava—Samoa’s ceremonial drink Sega—Bird, the red-headed parrot finch Lupe—pigeon
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on a clear day (a father in HIS Image)
On a very clear day you will see him wading knee-deep across the old village lagoon; A shoreline pulls around his waist, a fish net hovers from his lean breast. On a quiet night you will see him toss his line into the deep, the moonlight hung like silk on a shore. You will wake up again next morning to find him in the lagoon, in a perfect pose perhaps; Stooping down gently to weigh his option or standing at ease browsing the endless horizon of sleepless ages, the hard loss the gain the million more dispersal of stars by random countless tosses of his net. You have begun to admire his patience, adore his pain all these years since you were a child who’d silently observed his every rise and turn with the tide. The fishes populate the universe.
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once a fine village (The art of reclaiming shadows)
In a village long forgotten, tall tired coconuts bowed to bid us welcome; The embattled mangroves looked familiar, despite the long lost years; they seemed to have stood their ground; and the renowned black waters still brooding over its cavernous roots and cuddly shoots—the forlorn fau and marshes still well-fed; had nourished the village all these long years; By waters you were defined—nurturer—mother—life’s provider; And like any good mother would, still tending to an empty house, pretending it’s still ‘the good old days’; Only the wind and sun are free to amuse—if anybody cares; The rest is reclaimed by the world of quiet shadows. Today it was the rain’s turn as we made preparations for a funeral, one sailor returned, willing to submit to the shadows; We who remain are hopeful that not everything be counted against; that some things are worth defending - of this place; Because this tiny isthmus was once a living village; A fully functioning thriving village that once fed the heart and mind; ancient habitat of strange coexistence—gods and mortals living side by side—with a nine-headed demon; A great many people frequented this place—wooers and lovers their stories long etched in the memory of time; Here a forbear once settled who came all the way from Europe with nothing but a song;
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Traders, missionaries, government envoys—they were here for all sorts of reasons; A famous prince called in for matters of the heart; A well-loved minister and wife added to the allure of a legend that this once little gem of a nest was a drawcard. Until time moved hurriedly by and people began to move hurriedly by—many left for good; This sailor sneaked back in just in time for the march. Many locals were quick to reclaim us – lost childhood friends, former schoolmates, relations, an old admirer perhaps; Then you’ll find that the art of reclaiming shadows is not as easy as you would have liked. But when a herd of well-mannered cattle paid us a visit for the third time; we then knew for sure that the reclaiming—against all doubts—has already turned into serious business.
Pisceans are the finest movers under shadows. Coincidentally, in Qunu, South Africa, the world gathered to bury a renowned captain; they lay him down at high noon sharp; their way of minimising shadows; Vaovai village is nestled between Matautu and Poutasi in the Falealili district; ‘fau’ is Samoan for a common hibiscus species.
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moon kites (a song to childhood)
Upon Memory Lane you will find: She comes swinging with the tide, her big black bags of disposables— green moons, amber stars in funny shapes and playful eyes; The children flew them like paper kites from one sandbar to the other. Then: the winding rivers were winder, wooden bridges much longer, Safe’e’s lair looked ruthless, enticing— (some said it was young Tagaloa’s kite that got stuck then turned into an islet); The moon was watchful And we were deep into hiding and seeking for something, pausing, wond’ring, Urging the storyteller to do the tailspin magic:
“The beauty and beast grew older and bolder; the beast in the form of an eel struck Sina in the eye, making her leave her parents and childhood forever.” (I blame this wet September for the urge to remember the pretty kitten that climbed up my roof-top - and which got stuck there ever since!)
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Tagaloa—aka Tangaroa, supreme god in Polynesian folklore Sina—mythical lady in Polynesian stories Safee—aka Nuusafee, an islet off the Falealili coast
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lessons on exotic cuisines & fire
We sat listening to the cackling of firewood; watched amber-tongued flames licked lardy lollies — Fires couldn’t tell monkey from stone, do they? ‘You see, no matter what they tell you, if it wasn't for Tiitii, we’d never tasted rubber this better . . .’ the old man continued. ‘And if it wasn't for the coconut kernel then does fire matter!’ his wife retorted. ‘Yes, fire does matter. And if it’s a choice, who cares about pe’epe’e’, he responded. ‘You want to eat tasteless rubber! C’mon!’ his wife countered. The old man chuckled, flipped a head into the bowl and the waking arm found its hold—squeezed—holy sweet; More crimson than brown—odourless aroma even Uila would have envied; With pe’epe’e, the churning bowl is an alchemy of colours.
Tiitii, short for Tiitiiatalaga, was a warrior who stole fire from a giant named Earthquake according to Samoan folklore; Uila, short for Uilamatutu, the notorious cannibalistic Malietoa according to Samoan legends; pe’epe’e is Samoan for coconut cream.
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another ordinary funeral
Since when did the dead and the living decide to trade freely was when lesser animals found solace in theology And predators discovered its manifold advantages; Thus when the beggarman appeared and claimed his portion it was another ordinary funeral; Only a selfless orphaned town monkey thought it was a bad idea. It was just another ordinary funeral.
Where the dead is, the vultures gather—Jesus.
‘beggarman’ refers to a Salelesi; a matai from a Samoan village of the same name who, individually or collectively, is given free rein by culture to grab and take foodstuff from a funeral freely.
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“Now I know we’re done. That kind looks familiar, isn’t it?”
clock girl You wouldn't miss the clock girl standing under its shade no matter which angle Mr Director Sun picks for the shot; How can you miss a scene so enticing straight from Broadway America Maria in rags strutting her stuff in a foreign town; Commuters whizzed by eyes rolled, a tap and go—free for all; It matters nothing because she will keep on coming to make fire; A small town needs a bit of warmth too— on a cold morning or on a light drizzly afternoon; Besides its no big deal for a roadside flower that’s forgotten her own pull;
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The clock girl stands under the cool of the pulu shade steadying herself calling it a day; It will be another long ride back home.
(But her band of fallen brothers Salute her every morning).
(For Evelina)
pulu—rubber plant, latex (say pul-oo)
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poet prophet
‘To be or not to be’ one or neither?
Fate decides that he cannot be one with either; Unless he decides to be just like the simple guy who lives down the block; Problem is he’s already got started you see! Once you will it you own it, taking you as if by a force of some contagious diseases. And he cannot claim to be a poet who refuses the role of prophet; Even if he’s got the most able reason— like deep suffering haunting poverty suicidal or near insanity— You see, if you want to know the truth I will tell you. This guy never wanted to be a prophet, let alone spend his entire life writing sad poetry. You see! he’s even hired a scribe to scribble out the hurt on his behalf.
Then said I: “Ah, Lord God! Behold I cannot speak, for I am a youth.”—Prophet Jeremiah
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spring wedding (Gospel of John)
The outcasts decide to make their move pressing forward more confidently this time to catch a glimpse of the man of the moment;
He is spotted squatting with arms resting on knees. He appears unmoved eyes cast above a new storm-cloud brewing. The miracle has robbed him: A staunch pause weakened gave in succumbed to Night’s sweet tang and swell— He opens his eyes looks long into the sensuous cup What new recipe the Brewer have in mind? Outside the poor huddle around a cold hearth looking for ancient fire sparkles.
On such clear night both fools and stars Do stumble and smile.
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enigma
Enigma you are Each day we take our leave swiftly—evenly for lack of a better word.
Enigma you are The burning fire within our breasts Every night tells a story every story has the same end. Enigma you are that teaches the rain to dance the blues drizzle that sang you are the great morning mist who boasted you are the galactic avalanche that said you are Revealed and Concealed Time and space in one whom we see yet we see not. The truth is for too long we play the fool who thinks he can live up to your humble will every minute.
Ah, but have I said anything yet?
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the traveller All byways lead to Emmaus God predestined for the lonely traveller whose weary feet stay true to the end;
There will find a hidden pool of cool waters—fed and a shade by the wayside spread.
Luke 24: 13-35: That same day two of them were walking to the village of Emmaus, about seven miles out of Jerusalem. They were deep in conversation going over all these things that had happened . . . .
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Levi Pesefea Simeona Sogi Niko Tavita was born in Malie, Western Samoa. He attended Vaovai, Magiagi, Malie Primary Schools, Sagaga Junior High and Samoa College. He pursued studies at the University of the South Pacific in Suva, University of Auckland, and Auckland University of Technology respectively. He served in Samoa’s Public Service for 10 years before emigrating to Australia then to New Zealand in 1990. He has settled there since. His involvement with a New Zealand based newspaper (Samoana) led to the issue of his first published work, Aupa o faamoemoega. This is a selection of old and new materials, some of which were published already, with minor editions to be noted. He has also published a biographical sketch,
King of the Island, A story of Felix Bernhardt Dävid, among a list of educational titles in both Samoan and English. His major translation work in Samoan was a biography of Rev John Wesley by Dr Basil Miller. Prior to his involvement with newspaper work, he has worked for the Ministry of Community Corrections, the New Zealand Special Olympics and also had a brief stint with the Labour Department. He started his teaching career at Mangere College in 2001, and now devotes more time to his role as publisher of educational books and Managing Editor of OLA, an educational bulletin promoting the Samoan language in New Zealand and internationally. He is married to Saili Aukuso, a teacher and writer herself.
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