An artist, poet and political activist, Imaikalani Kalahele was born in Hawai‘i in 1950. He is a graduate of McKinley University and currently lives in Kalihi on the island of O‘ahu.
Famous are you Laka.
Laka the Storyteller,
the Documentor,
the Historian.
Ē Laka Ē
Laka of the Forest,
The Tree-Cutter,
The Chip-Maker.
Ē Laka Ē
E Kū Mau Mau.
Laka our Sister.
Laka our Brother.
Laka Dancer-Through-Time
Ē Laka Ē
Ē Laka Ē
Ē Laka Ē.
get this old man
he live by my house
he just make rope
every day
you see him making rope
if
he not playing his ‘ukulele
or
picking up his mo‘opuna
he making
rope
and nobody wen ask him
why?
how come?
he always making
rope
morning time … making rope
day time … making rope
night time … making rope
all the time … making rope
must get enuf rope
for make Hōkūle‘a already
most time
he no talk
too much
to nobody
he just sit there
making rope
one day
he was partying by
his house
you know
playing music
talking stink
about the other
I was just
coming out of the bushes
in back the house
and
there he was
under the mango tree
making rope
and he saw me
all shame
I look at him and said
‘Aloha Papa’
he just look up
one eye
and said
‘Howzit! What? Party?
Alright!’
I had to ask
‘E kala mai, Papa
I can ask you one question?
‘How come
every day you make rope
at the bus stop
you making rope
outside McDonald’s drinking coffee
you making rope.
How come?’
e wen
look up again
you know
only the eyes move kine
putting one more
strand of coconut fibre
on to the kaula
he make one
fast twist
and said
‘The kaula of our people
is 2000 years old
some time … good
some time … bad
some time … strong
some time … sad
but most time
us guys
just like this rope
‘one by one
strand by strand
we become
the memory of our people
and
we still growing
so
be proud
do good
‘and
make rope
boy
make rope.’
Where does the sun set
Is it here? Is it there?
I know it was somewhere
Perhaps a storm came
and the stream
washed it away?
Perhaps the mountains
came down on us
and covered it all up?
Maybe it was the kai.
Maybe the kai came up
and flooded the valleys
and on its way back
and take it all out to sea.
Nah, bra,
it wasn’t any of these things.
The storm was greed,
swelling like a dammed-up stream
making ready to over run
and wash away.
And the mountains that crumbled
did so because of absence.
Absence from the land.
Absence from the kai.
Absence from the people.
Absence from the mana.
And we know what the wave was!
Genocide.
Flooding the valleys
and stripping the limu clean
from the rocks.
Sweeping away the ‘ōpae
from the streams,
the ‘ulu from the land
and the maoli from the earth.
So … ah … tell me, brah,
where does the sun set?
Is it here?
Is it there?
Oh … ah … tell me
where do I take Granpa’s bones?
Small kid time my brother Bully when carry me on his back to the middle of Waikahalulu. And there he taught me to swim. Today I walk past that pond. Even more polluted than before, down past the ‘ele‘ele cement slide with the broken bottles and empty beer cans, under the School Street bridge. I discover mountains of cement canvases painted with the songs of the young. Spooky music, bra, spooky music.
My brother George
your voice
will always live
on the winds of change,
E mau ka Maoli!
And damn to hell
the puni kālā
that came and took you.
ha