by Albert Wendt
and blood but my father’s flaw was real
I shut my eyes (and heart) to history
My son was to never see Ao’s healing light
or know the shaping of his real parents:
That very night I abandoned him in the Whirlpools
at Pulotu’s entrance (where my father was to
find him and thrilled at last to find someone
of his kind raise him as his only heir
with unshamed pride and love without
bothering to check his ancestry)
Auva’a strangled the willing midwife — an
honour to die for your atua he blessed her —
buried her in the Temple chamber and
strode out to the assembled ali’i
and proclaimed my sacred miscarriage
and the Clot-of-Blood was now
being nursed in the fecund soils of
the Atu’olo and would one dazzling day
hatch as our atua’s Heir Invincible
Beauty just as our atua Herself had
been born out of the Clot-of-Blood
which had been hidden by Her mother
With my secret agreement Auva’a self-destructed
a week later of a supposed stroke and left
only Tagatalua and me to remember
(but never to divulge) the unexpected
consequences of our ‘natural enterprise’
to complete the ideal aiga
Why did I disown my own flesh and blood?
As the atua of a religion that preaches per-
fection I can’t be seen to give birth to imperfection
I’ve been accused but never openly of being
shitscared that my eel-tailed son was proof
I was still part-beast like my father
Choose your own interpretation but Auva’a
and I put our country and religion above
our personal interests and feelings
Hooked to maternal love and human senti-
mentality Tagatalua couldn’t and with-
drew like a hermit crab into a shell
of self-pitying silence out of which I couldn’t
entice her with a love that withered
as she withered in body and died finally in
me as she became mere accusing immortal
breath in the haggard husk of her body
growing and I found life again in other lovers
Lord Tagaloaalagi whose irony had trapped
her in the tragic riddle took pity and
gathered her into His vast Maota where
to this day she breathes in some neglected
corner like a wisp of tiputa draped
over a living silence aging eternally
11
(((A Breather)))
Let’s take a breather
from Nafanua’s overwhelming life as
recorded by Vela and see what was happening
to him: chronicles usually omit the lives of their chroniclers
but as you know the chronicler is the chronicle
the teller is the tale
As a way into that
let’s look at a song composed by an enemy
whose identity hasn’t been transmitted to us:
(1) Ta’ifau
Stop your yelping swallow your empty bark
You try to pretend you’re aristocratic
but you can’t hide your nobody origins:
your large yaw scars shine like the eyes
of a hungry dog (Your title is most apt)
and your fleas are more numerous than the stars
Without your Lady’s patronage you’re just
an ugly starving cur no woman’ll
want to heal and bless (Anyway
you don’t know cock from cunt
and prefer the unholy shithole —
and the male one at that
But then dogs are the only creatures
which eat their own spew
and hunger after forbidden places
where stench reigns richly complex)
Stop your incessant talking swallow your hollow brag
You were brought as a slave in war
now you’re the Royal Dog royal titsucker
sweateater preener drowning in self-love
You love yourself so much you’re blind to us
and the way we really see you
Why don’t you slink back to where
you originally sly-slinked from
Our Lady’s got you by the balls
and you sing whatever tunes She demands
The taulaaitu fool you with their flattery
but wait for you to fall so they can
devour your pubic hairs toenails poetry and all
A solomaker goes acutely wrong when
he eats his own vomit because he believes
it the tastiest food of all
Chorus:
Stop your yelping swallow your empty bark
Stop your incessant talking swallow your hollow brag
You’re no longer a true songmaker
but a fat flatterer of the Royal Arse
Here’s a song composed by someone
who loved him secretly —
male or female? we’ll never know:
(2) E Te Le Iloa
You don’t know the love I carry
even into the dreams of my sleep
You don’t know the pain that it is
Constantly I debate whether to reveal
it to you but desist ashamed you’re
too ali’i for this humble commoner
Ali’i of Solo you don’t know the love
this unworthy person bears for you
I’ve watched you at night with your lovers —
How fortunate they are to feel the heat
of your flesh and word and the rhythm
of your feeding blood (Yet I hate
them when I’m alone knowing
they’re using you to get status
and favours from the Lady you serve)
Last week when you’d walked past
on the morning malae I knelt
and licked your footsteps stamped
into the breathing dew but they melted
under the heat of my clumsy tongue
and the water couldn’t quench my thirst
How your footsteps would fit my heart
Chorus:
Ali’i of Song I love you so much
I want to kill you and eat you
so you’ll be part of my blood solely
and forever even when you journey to Pulotu
But you don’t know the love I carry
even into the dreams of my sleep
You don’t know the pain that it is
As Nafanua’s Royal Dog and higher still one
of Her Ali’i Paia Vela’s feet never
touched the common ground (literally):
to protect his sacredness
the ground had to be first covered
with siapo and sprinkled with
fresh coconut milk
And whenever he accompanied
the Lady Invisible (to mortals
that is) and Auva’a Taulaaitu Most Paia
all humans were forbidden
from looking up at him
and his food specially prepared blessed
and served by special taulaaitu
who pre-tasted it for poison
After years of such sacred
treatment and power
wouldn’t you corrupt into
‘fat flatterer of the Royal Arse’ and not
perceive the common ground and a humble
secret lover (cannibalistically
deep though her/his love may be)?
As Dr Falani my crazy neighbour has said
Arselicking and titsucking turn
you eventually into an arsetit Absolute
power buggers you up arsetitly
During this affluent Period
Vela ‘invented’ a science called ‘Feetistry’
(which shows he’d become
an intolerable arsetit)
12
Uiga-o-Vae
My wise teacher Mulialofa used
to say Feet types (and a reading of their
shapes) reveal what their owners are
For a lifetime I’ve read the feet
of pilgrims from all the corners of earth
and have formulated principles of a science
(or is it an art a philosophy?) I’ve called Feetistry:
One: commoners have big feet
with soles thickened and cracked
by hard labour and neglect
Two: aristocrats’ feet are delicately moderate
(and subtly round) sensitive to rough surfaces
lingering caresses kisses and licks
Three: long thin toes mean a long life
spent on artistic and philosophical pursuits
Four: long thin toes curved upwards mean
a long life of spiritual searching
Long thin toes curved downwards mean
a long life focused on the earth-deep
emotions of the moa and heart
Five: short thick toes (characteristic of
commoners and the labouring class)
accompanied by a fat big toe mean
a short life to be misspent on food gluttony
and complaining behind your ali’is’ backs
Six: short thick toes curved downwards mean
a short brutal life of sexual satyriasis
(and perhaps incest) climaxing in heart attack
Seven: short thin toes with a stunted big toe
mean no future or one rife with poverty
Eight: this shape of sole
means a blossoming obesity
(beautiful feature of our
divine aristocratic class)
and a future of leisure and art
Nine: this shape of sole
means the threatened undernourishment of
a once prosperous aristocrat who’s mis-
spending his life on kava women
and obscene song
Ten: this shape of sole if it’s
a woman means she’s rampantly
promiscuous and greedy for class
For a man means generosity opennness
and genuine concern for everyone
Eleven: this shape of sole for a man
or woman means a life built around
an ever-demanding phallus or a brain
too big for the body — please note
the cloven heel reminiscent of the clever pig
Twelve: this shape of sole reveals
mixed ancestry of human and animal
(possibly pig) and a future centred
on the perfect navel’s philosophy
of balance and moderate demand
Thirteen: this shape of sole means
a determined achiever with firm toe
grips rooted always in our earth
to propel him forward rapidly
against all odds
Fourteen: this shape of sole for a woman
means a frightening future
full of night fears and aitu For a man
means a future of frightening
others as a fearless warrior
Fifteen: this shape of sole means mixed
ancestry of human (top-half male) and atua
(bottom-half female) — note the perfectly circled
heel symbol of Tagaloa’s
perfect universe
Sixteen: this shape of sole means mixed
ancestry of human (first half possibly
pederast) and atua (second half possibly
lesbian) who mated standing up
possibly to overcome their true natures
Seventeen: this shape of sole for a woman
means miserliness and no alofa for relatives
and others — a secret eater
For a man means admirable vanity
keeping in good fit physical shape
Eighteen: this shape of sole is that
of a generous and jovial nature
but with sloppy personal habits and
the ugly tendency to spit
often and everywhere
Nineteen: this shape of sole means
a staunch fearless heart and liver
but of little brains and the inclination
to squat back be lazy
and evacuate often and in huge heaps
Twenty: this shape of sole for a woman
means patience the tendency to nag but
with attention always to fine detail For a man
means a cowardly complaining nature
The v-shaped heel reveals suicidal tendencies
Using the principles I’ve outlined
I’ve ‘read’ the feet of four people I know well
But as a true scientist-taulaaitu-artist
and humble poet I’ve tried to maintain
my objectivity:
One: this shape of sole is Auva’a’s
and proves his exceptional intelligence
and wisdom potency and virility
(His harem numbers 20 wives and concubines
—and he’s in his lucid eighties!)
The long sole lines and circled heel show
his undoubted powers of spirituality
prophecy and his adherence to the Va-
view of Reality (However the imperfect over-
all shape of sole is true to his manipulative nature)
Two: this shape of sole is Our Lady’s
symmetrical and perfect in shape
The fern-shape on the heel is Her perfect
Spirituality and Va-view of Reality
The fan-shaped lines under the toes
reveal unmatchable courage but also
the tendency to boast about achievements
and feats — not a flaw if you’re
an atua mind you The faint but definite
aura line is undeniable proof of divinity
Three: this Shape of Sole is our Great Creator’s —
doubly-divine (note the double aura lines)
Totally atua for all His creations
to see into it whatever they want
whatever they need
Six toes? Cloven heel? Again He’s granted
us freewill to interpret even those
whatever way we wish (Thank you
Supreme Father in Heaven for your
Gift of Freewill and forgive us if we misread your Sole)
Four (but a footnote): this shape of sole
is your humble servant’s: thin upturned
toes show sensitivity spirituality and
artistic gifts The symmetry proves
well-balanced appetites and mind
The long lines around the inner sole convince
of the wise Va-view of life (and
a hatred of violence and brute force)
The two inner circles prove your humble servant’s
ability to control the senses and enjoy
even long periods of celibacy during
which he composes his most-inspired solo
The delicately dainty small toe speaks
of modesty reticence (and love of
the small and common people)
The faint aura line around the heel
could mean possible future deification
or at least an extremely long and
prosperous life devoted (wholly) to serving
(unstintingly) Our Lady and Our Supreme Creator
13
Grave by the Sea
(1)
Here by the placid midday sea I sit in
the pandanus shade
and let the insistent waves
roll-in roll-out roll-in through my eyes
washing clean
the cave of my head
Quick rain had run-in
and off to the west and the black river stones
of the grave shine like the retina of the eye
in whose gaze the floating world is
reflected and ciphered
Only Nafanua knows
who’s buried here: every morning
She places on it a white pua
the La feeds on
as It rises
Around the grave
scarlet ti plants gleam like the bleed-
ing of new wounds The suspicious
pandanus trees above it watch me
to protect Nafanua’s secret
(She knows
I’m hooked
to her stories and truths —
and now to
this grave’s mystery of weeping stone)
Once Her miserable captive
now Her most honoured confidante
chronicler Royal Dog
(and the envious say Tit-
sucking sychophant)
Still a captive but now to
my ravenous gift and vanity: a chronicler
can’t be without chronicles to record
and to be a great chronicler needs great
chronicles and Nafanua’s are just that
And She feeds my gift
with mystery after mystery — enough but
not quite enough to satiate
my craving (now an illness I sacrifice
all else to — even sex)
In turn I feed Her vanity — without me