Doug Poole is of Sāmoan (Ulberg āiga of Tula‘ele, Apia, Upolu) and European descent. He resides in Waitakere City, Auckland, with his wife, Anja, and their three children. He is the current e-publisher and editor of poetry e-zine Blackmail Press (www.blackmailpress.com/index.html). Doug has been e-published in Trout, OBAN 06 and Fugacity at the nzepc, Soft Blow, Nexus Collection and many other electronic publications, as well as Niu Voices (Huia) and Landfall 218, edited by David Eggleton. Doug produced the Creative New Zealand Pacific Arts Board-funded performance poetry show POLYNATION, performed at the Queensland Poetry Festival 2008 and Going West Books and Writers Festival 2008. You can contact Doug by email: editor@blackmailpress.com.
There is a gecko in our room
it watches us every night so
I cover my underpants
with an ‘ie lavalava, ’cause
you never know it could be
a relative or someone
we don’t know
Gogo‘sina says, it is
good luck to have her
I think to myself it looks
like a boy, ‘cause he just
stays there all night
hiding from the flying
fox who hangs upside
down outside our window
On the underside of a breadfruit
leaf is a white tree snail
listening to the flying fox
dream; memorising the
genealogy escaping
as sleep talk, but
Gogo‘sina says
coming in through
the window
The chickens sleep too
I wonder if they know
we are leaving next week?
Gogo‘sina says go to sleep
We’re shopping in Apia tomorrow
He smacked her in
the mouth, strangled her
on the lounge room floor,
she, the great granddaughter
of a high chief of Safune.
Down the front steps
crushed-cash tumbleweeds
are we coconut offspring
of an English gentleman?
Just take the bloody money.
He rolls down the front stairs
crashes next door to borrow
a cigarette, bruises his arms
back, legs, an’ Peter just laughs;
smiles the smile darkness fears.
He falls into the colonial light
of red lions & factory floors
lucky dips, benefit draws,
bets on the horses on ‘Amelikan’ cars
wakes in pouliuli banging.
Open the fucking door!
There is terror in her
eyes as the front door pane
gives way to a stupor fist.
Up late, her son sits
poured over his head.
The sink turns blood-
red and shakes.
to Karlo Mila
You, are the black butterfly
gracing our sleeping mouths
your words retrace movements
beneath the feet of ancestors
folds, to sit within cinematic Va
You, are the blue taupou,
her courage to shake the
frigates from her back
fingertips shattered pearls;
words the gogolo of tidal rain
are you listening to the singing scales of Va
before Tagaloaalagi split the stone
unimpeded by gravity, the thin ear
You, break the shackles of oppression,
giving Rangatahi expression
partaking in your heart; words
from your open hands soaring