Runt to complete the litter of six brothers and five sisters (remember
Christ had twelve disciples) but unlike Maui Ti’iti’iatalaga
and our other superheroes he wasn’t born of a randy atua
and delighted accepting mortal: his ringwormed father had to carry
his filariasis-bloated balls around in a sling
his mother bred heirs in obstinate silence and was always hungry for pork
(They’d squeezed him in one rainy afternoon in their taro patch
in between weeding and planting — too quick a squeeze they hadn’t enjoyed it)
Unlike our ancestral demigods he was to be
no ingenious faitogafiti
no lusty adventurer
no reckless stealer of fire ‘oso and ava
no expert fisher-up of islands
no conqueror of Mafui’e Atua of Earthquakes
no plaiter of magical snares
no snarer and beater-up of arrogant La
no suicidal challenger of death Goddesses
He wasn’t even to be his parents’ favourite
to be envied despised picked on by jealous older kin
In truth they’d let him fatten his sinews
off their uncomplaining generosity
(afterall aiga must feed aiga)
In the Beginning there was only Tagaloaalagi
Living in the Vanimonimo
Only He
No Sky no Land
Only He in the Vanimonimo
He created Everything
Out of where He stood
Grew the Papa
Tagaloa said to the Papa Give birth!
And Papata’oto was born
And then Papasosolo
And Papalaua’au and other different Papa
With His right hand Tagaloa struck the Papa
And Ele’ele was born the Father of Humankind
And Sea was also born to cover
All the Papa
Tagaloa looked to His right
And Water was born
He said to the Papa Give Birth!
And Tuite’elagi and Ilu were born
And Mamao the Woman
And Niuao and Lua’ao the Son
In that manner Tagaloa created
Everything else
Until Tagata Loto
Atamai Finagalo and Masalo were born
There ended the children of Tagaloaalagi and the Papa
The Lulu Atua of his aiga swept in at his birth
and perched on the fale rafters
gazing down
In the Atua’s moonbright silence
he was to hear his death song
at the moment of his birth
Death
Death is
Death is a song
To hear it early is to decipher
all paths to all songs
Each song wellcaught wellshaped wellsung
illuminates the ocean path that dances
from the Fafā at Falealupo World’s End
and the agaga begin their shuffle
to Pulotu Estate of Saveasi’uleo half-man
half-congereel who cannibalized his brothers
in the waves and in repentance retreated
to Pulotu to await the promised fulfillment
of his genealogy in Nafanua his daughter
the Clot-of-Blood-that-was-Hidden
Atua undefeated uniter of our islands
last to relent to the Albino aitu
with their magic Book and preaching sticks
Our songmaker started in the Lulu’s gazing
and like us had to pace the lava channel
until he was agaga in Tagaloa’s reflection
leaping up into Saveasi’uleo’s inventive mouth
(and the promise of time without end)
to survive each shade of Po:
loto searches for the yearning body
Pouliuli Night-that-is-Black
agaga can’t map the moa’s geography
Posoloatoa Night-that-is-Forever
when fear in the soul has no ending
Pomalemo Night-that-Drowns
finagalo is abandoned in the formless tide
Potuputupu Night-that-Grows
mana’o reaches the atua’s bowels
Pofanau Night-for-Giving-Birth
Tagaloa’s maggots become human
Pomaliu Night-for-Dying
masalo is convinced there is an ending
Poula Night-for-Abandonment
the senses break into dance and orgy
loto agaga fear finagalo mana’o
maggots masalo fuse in the uninhibited
conjunction of sprung phallus and vulva
and we are born with wisdom
Uncauled but slick still with amniotic fluid and blood
roped to his mother as the impatient midwife drags
him out he slaps into the Ao and screams/sings:
Va-Va-Va-Va-aaa!
His first song is of the Va the Space between all things
like the birth fluid holding all in the Unity-that-is-All
Va the relationships that must be nursed and nurtured
Va the Harmony in which we are one: stone bird fire
air fish atua blood bone shit sound colour cloud
tree smoke eye lizard turtle shark
Our ancestral superstars sometimes
took their names from
their birthday’s omens
No auspicious signs on our
songmaker’s day though: the midwife griped
about not being fed
the placenta was shoved
into a shallow hole under a palm (dogs
would dig it up that night and devour it)
in Niusā the Sacred
PalmGrove the wind dozed
in the conch’s mouth
no vaisalo for
the exhausted mother who didn’t care
what name he got
in the bay his brothers
raised their night lobster traps
and found them empty
their father snored on
under sad dreams floundering in
the rafters of the aumaga’s fale
Someone suggested Vela Cooked
because he looked red and hot
(The records don’t identify the suggester)
Over the elusive stretch of his self-
making he was to be called
(in order of aging):
Velaputa Fat-Vela who at
two was as cuddly as
a succulent suckling pig
Velavaetoga Yaw-footed-Vela who at
twelve sprouted screamingly painful yaws
as large as hibiscus flowers
Velasoso Stupid-Vela who at
fifteen stuttered at the girls
and tripped over their cruel giggles
Velafaipese Vela-the-Songmaker who at
twenty and the arrival of Mulialofa
sang his gay way everywhere
Velalēāu Vela-Can’t-Reach who at
thirty was wifeless (or haremless as was
the practice) and childless
Vela-ma-le-Ma’ila Vela-with-the-Scar
who at thirty-five got speared in the arse
for seducing the blind widower next door
Etc
Etc
Etc
Yet unfluent in the sea’s languages
in the beach’s dreaming in the coral’s pain
in the turtle’s talk in the dolphin’s leaping
in the sue’s slow dance in the octopus’s grasp
at ten he could catch the To’elau’s fluent skip
sweep and leap its quivering caress on his skin
its wise songs of islands to the south where
men ate dogs sharks and one another sucking up
the blood’s salt tunes and mana and hung
their agaga from āoa trees to dry
and the fat daughters of Po suckled insatiable aitu
with dog claws and pig mouths on the milk
of the earth’s languages
as his lean mother had tuned him at her hungry breasts
shaping the net of his ears to snare
the lullabies of allthings
In his old age veins clogged with night he was to sing:
We can’t rewalk the exact footprints
we make in the stories of our lives
But we’ll hear again our footsteps
like the lullabies our parents sang us
the moment our stories end
Perhaps out of our footprints
our children will nurse wiser lullabies
Aside One
In my telling there’ll be many asides —
my style wanders but I promise
they’ll all tie up finally to our songmaker
Everything is intelligent said Pythagoras
Everything is relative said Einstein
Everything is floating
We’re atua with arseholes
and a man called Freud is dead
said Dr Farani my crazy neighbour
What’s an arithmetician a dreaming
physicist and a wise madman got to do
with our songmaker? you may ask
(And who was Freud? And what
are they doing in our pre-
Papalagi saga?)
Sang our songmaker:
Through my songs I explore
all my possibilities to sustain myself
I’m Pythagoras Einstein Falani
and Freud I’m everyone
I’m everything
And everything is intelligent
relative and we are atua excreting our deaths:
we can imagine ourselves immortal
yet know we must revert
to Tagaloa’s maggots
We’re holy rock ’n’ rollers looking for seats
in Tagaloa’s rocking band
So c’mon babies suck up and shoot
out the joy of all who we can be
Tagaloaalagi Boss Atua won’t let us self-destruct
We’re holy rock ’n’ rollers searching
for the unique beat of our land
Even songmakers are reefed on
the inevitable mystery of cock
springing fatly and humming
The taulasea split his foreskin’s tightness
It bled but a week of stinging
seawater healed it
his penis sprang roundheaded and demanding
He discovered it a onestringed instrument
of exquisite pleasure and he played
it tightly into the sultry To’elau
weaving around him like a temptress
Fia mea! Fia mea! he chanted
monotonely to the beat of his composing hand
(he’d heard his brothers’ urgent singing
in the secrecy of the pigpens)
He hummed to his instrument’s centre
Then POW it spat whitely into the To’elau’s clutching
Addicted he played it nightly sometimes furiously
when in the fale’s communal dark he heard
his brothers and their wives furtively thinging
‘I’ve so much to give away
but no woman’ll have it’ he sang
in his erect loneliness
In our country pigs are aristocratic
(Sometimes fed better than our children)
Our songmaker’s duty was to feed those beauties daily
Kinky stench of pig and mud
in the grunting darkness the moon as round
as a raunchy sauali’i’s testicle
sniffing wetnoses of pig nudging his crevices
‘Hold still! Hold still! Hold still!’ he sang
to his thighs pumping
‘Hold stiiiill you beauty!’ And into
the hot clutch of slippery pig
he shot his gift no woman wanted
That week as he fed his beauties
and sucked in their heady odour
the song caught in the net of his head
one he was never to make public
but crooned under his breath whenever
he thinged woman man or beast:
Pig is best
Pig is delicious
Pig is true aristocracy
Pig Pig Pig!
Pig never spits back
So hold still my lovely hold still
(By the way he never ate pork again)