John Pule was born in 1962 on the family land of Pia in the village of Liku on Niue. He arrived in Aotearoa New Zealand in 1964 and held a number of labouring jobs before he started writing poetry in 1980. He has published poetry and prose, and his publications include Winter, the Rain (1981), The Shark That Ate the Sun (1992), Burn my Head in Heaven (1998) and Bond of Time (1998), as well as a collaboration with Nicholas Thomas, Hiapo: Past and Present in Niuean Barkcloth (2005). He received the Pacific Island Arts Award in 1996. John Pule has been writer in residence at the University of Waikato (1996), the University of the South Pacific (1997), the University of Auckland (2000), the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa (2002); and artist in residence at the Oceania Centre for Arts & Culture, USP (1997–2006), the Cultural Museum, Rarotonga (2004) and the University of Canterbury (1998). In 2004 he was honoured with a Laureate Award by the Arts Foundation of New Zealand. Hauaga, a book on his art, was released by Otago University Press in June 2010, to coincide with the first major survey exhibition of John Pule’s work, curated by the City Gallery, Wellington.
What is a rock like me
doing in a small forest?
being on the coast I should be
where the sea brings news.
My mind sways the way I like
between oblivion and joy
the wind for example
tells me I am mythical.
Then again the music I hear
is a reminder of the years I
have spent pondering death.
That cloud is my friend I don’t know
that sun-ray is my god I think
whether that falling leaf is my end.
it was the sea I dived into
sharks sensed my urgency
my hands the clouds succumbed to
the lives of stones pulsating.
my head I tried to rise
and understand these memories
climbing mountains
towards god,
carrying one wing, heart
I want to live for you
there will be another time to parachute
not today
nor tomorrow
South Sea morning 3 a.m.
what am I, who close your eyes
I am, and I am alive
if I am he, let my soul agree
purpose is a hopeful time
a kind of leaf, a big hiss
a mountain I painted by yawning
yes, I know I am a glow,
bleeding as I grow,
not from the black star
running. I go.
You told me once, you cannot satisfy me, there was a time when I was a stone my soil was made of memory at times a brilliant sun shone on me
instead of dying, I said, I want to live, I stood up, threw a bottle into the dark, afterwards, when I was drunk I masturbated, yes,
I spilled a sperm capable of
a baby, forcing its liver to induce
a country made of paper and air,
when I was lost, tempted my lungs,
to explode. Every day I ran
into a beautiful Pacific Ocean.
to my daughter
On the early hours of Thursday morning
around 1 a.m., I grabbed an
18-year-bottle of Glenfiddich
and proceeded to drink.
That morning was the 24th of August,
your birthday, you would be 14 years
old today.
I danced and sang, not realising
it was the day you were born
in that late afternoon – in Grey Lynn, in 1992.
I fell asleep at 4.30 a.m.
Your mother called me at work at 9 a.m.,
she cried. I did too, the ocean
between us, you, her, me.
A candle was lit for you in Auckland
and in my office in Suva.
I will join you eventually
that makes me content
knowing you, again
When a small light finds
me, it is the sun
or a magnificent tree
reminds me that my hands
could still hold that first flower
which grew at my mouth
which drew
breath from a nameless petal
that sun was a reflection
that showed itself in glass
I slept, woke up, slept,
I am an ocean
that had a broken heart
that let the first saliva
make itself known as an airplane
To the sea we drove
in a day of rain and clouds
and in that small time
yes we cried
the sea called us
we threw red carnations
the waves ate the lollies
yes we cried
returning to the city
it was possible
to go to heaven
and even there we will keep on crying
You cannot hold the wind down,
is how my sister described my life.
You have always been a free spirit.
A fire lit up, then quickly died.
The raw smoke emanating from it
joined the clouds above,
careful not to knock my tongue
as a puff left my mouth.
Yes, that’s the story of a stone,
in my mother’s pocket I arrived
carried from house to house,
hospitals, doctors, police stations,
courts, detention centres, jails, funerals,
a legacy of an invisible dream.
another day as a stone
as a piece of nothing amongst
crowded insects
sun beam is a broken axle
but I must ride it
a centre of a poet’s life
is just another form of fruit
the core if anyone dares to look
is a dark hill where grows
a stubby tree
one bird lives there
as a messenger of a lucky sky,
should, if I do not give in,
sing the most glorious song
to free me from this earth