Sometimes
as a frog feels
the coming rain
so my awkward fingers
sense the end
of laughter.
Therefore,
friend,
before the wind shakes
and the sky gathers
let us sit a moment
by the hum’s edge
and the fringe of light,
the quiet water under
the bullfrog’s assertion
where the finger of water
points into silence.
There our words
will find the delicate filaments
that anchor brain to belly or heart,
words to tease other words
and words
that bear unseen
the source
which we must touch
to see.
(for Al)
There is no wind
to lift the darkness
crouching upon this strip
of browning water,
only the masks of disparate
voices floating in unison
of foam and bubbles,
from the hills again
sloughing off
towards two islands.
The reef is loud
with the rages of the undersea.
Above, the cornered stars
withdraw.
Other corners of sky gather
beyond the voices
(engine room of a berthing ship)
knowing. The fisherman
beyond the reef
by his lamplight waits.
It is the night for the unquiet
sleepers’ walk,
in which one may see
the many dead returning —
before the gown of the white woman
startled your afternoon sleep,
rustling through your passage
and into sunlight,
before the pet beast
savaged her child in its sleep,
before the conflagration,
the raging flames
for bewildered men,
before the powder flash
and the limp club and spear
and the might of war canoes
trembling on the water
sealed the fitful destinies,
the strange meeting
of musket and Word —
the alphabet of the mercenary
word,
the savagery of submission,
the crossed flag and the arrogant cross,
the saving flag, the redeeming cross.
The water tasted of the dead
or you walk with the tang of ashes.
Beyond the night of the strangers’ ship
going down, and the voices of men and women
mingled in the wind
rounded the promontory
into these delta waters.
Before the roar of amphibians,
the engines of a modern war
and the thud of fliers’ heels,
there is Kau the strong
an ancestor of phallic fame
sailing his courting poems
for the maiden of Suva,
the lady of Nukulau,
sending his sons far out
wooing wives
for his old insatiable mats
and the houses of Vugalei.
There goes Rokola
with the huge oar
poling his canoe
to a friend to clothe his sons.
Tomorrow I shall hear
the stadium battles roar,
and tell my Pacific brothers
of the spirits that we plundered
and their imminent second coming.