IMAIKALANI KALAHELE

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.

Ē Laka Ē

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.

Make Rope

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

guys them

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

boy

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.’

A Letter to My Brother

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

when hāpai everything

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?

School Street Bridge

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.

Kaho‘olawe

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