Selina Tusitala Marsh is of Sāmoan, Tuvalu, English and French descent. She was the first Pacific Islander to graduate with a PhD in English from the University of Auckland and is now a lecturer in the English Department, specialising in Pacific literature. Marsh is the co-ordinator of Pasifika Poetry (www.nzepc.auckland.ac.nz/pasifika) – a sister site of the New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre. She is the author of Fast Talking PI (AUP, 2009), editor of Niu Voices: Contemporary Pacific Fiction 1 (2006) and is currently working on a critical anthology of first-wave Pacific women poets writing in English. Her academic and creative writing deal with issues that affect Pasifika communities in Aotearoa New Zealand and indigenous peoples elsewhere. She lives on Waiheke Island with her family.
morning
I’m with
eighteen year olds
we talk about the crisis
in NZ lit
and the problem of reading
like
they don’t
there’s a fictional yawn from the back
their books weigh down
their bodies not their minds
afternoon
I’m cooking with five year olds
sculpt flour, yeast, water
mozzarella fingers dip and rise
I keep an eye
on my new starter
under an over-confident uniform
he’s educating me
in bravery
yesterday
I’m baking a cake and roasting a chicken
simultaneously
blowing up gold balloons
taping them to the king’s throne
a creased kindy hat becomes a tama āiga crown
as green spears fan between toetoe heads
over a crayoned five
kids said the chicken was good
it tasted like cake
today
the eighteen year olds buzz over
Wendt’s ‘Robocop in Long Bay’
theory pop pops the air
V guarana cans
moor the tables
as the book floats away
I throw out a life line
but no one’s read it
tomorrow
the five year olds
are Tagaloa’s boat builders
o le tala i tufuga o le vaa o Tagaloa
they stomp-sing, pull
fell and gnaw with their teeth in the dark
till they see the dawn
they know when to hide
they’ve all read the story
fetu tasi
I call forth Mata Ariki, the Eyes of God
to watch over Papatūānuku and her people
I call forth wishes for the new June moon
spoken in shadow corners
steaming in palmy places
fetu lua
I call forth the pickled eel in brine
lolling like tongues of story
let loose under a feasting sky
I call forth the moki and korokoro
to fatten nets
that they might feel the weight
of wealth in giving
fetu tolu
I call forth matariki ahunga nui
the overturning of the earth
the bearing of new seedlings
I call forth the kūmara and kalo
rooting in fanua for this divine moment
of cyclic beginnings
I call forth the planting of all things
fresh in the soil of the mind
fetu fa
I call forth the pākau
the six-tailed kites
to tickle the heavens
make us laugh
I call forth kete bulging with treasures
woven histories pressed
and plaited by kuia thumb
I call forth the smaller hand
unfurling in the bigger
whānau spiralling like
an unfathomable prime
I call forth the harvesting of whakapapa
the sowing of blood lines
the clearing of weeds from graves
the tihei in that first born breath
fetu ono
I call forth the knotting of star-charts
by sinnet and shell
I call forth the vaka and all manner of vehicle
navigating by our light
into the long safe journey home
into the uncharted night
fetu fitu
I call forth the rising of my six sisters
in Ranginui’s pre-dawn cloak
I call in greeting
talofa mata ali‘i
ia orana matarii‘i
aloha makali‘i
kia ora matariki
I call forth the music of bone flutes
the chant, the song, the karakia
guiding the traveller’s feet
and heavenward eyes
Gauguin,
you piss me
off.
You strip me bare
assed, turn me on my side
shove a fan in my hand
smearing fingers on thigh
pout my lips below an
almond eye and silhouette me
in smouldering ochre.
I move
just a little
in this putrid breeze
hair heavy to
fuscous knees, still
I’m the pulse
on the arm of this wall
and I’ve drawn her to me again.
Here she comes.
Not liking that she likes me
not liking you, but knowing that she
likes me, not liking you
liking me, but she
likes me and sees me,
but not you,
because you
Gauguin,
piss us
off.