Cuttings from a Pacific Garden
For Albert Wendt
I cried for Alistair Campbell last night
I cried for Alistair Te Ariki Campbell
and his house perched
on that windy mountain
overlooking Kapiti Island
and Te Rauparaha.
How solitary.
No, I wouldn't have lived there either
but he had Meg
almost to the end.
You introduced me to him, actually.
More than twenty years ago now –
can it really be that long?
I loved him from the first page.
When I say I loved him
I mean his words
his poetry
his magic.
I cried for Alistair Campbell this morning.
At 5.27am
my tears had formed little pools
in the indent and crevasses of my Novotel pillow.
I thought of those cuttings in your garden
so obviously symbolic
yet utterly disarming.
They have grown, survived, thrived.
They are us, all of us
who have loved
Alistair
and Hone
and Epeli
and John Pule
and Patricia Grace
and so many others
and you, of course –
writers from our part of the world
whose stories and poetry
speak to us in rhythms familiar
who speak to us
touch us
move us
make us cry at 5.27am in the morning.
Just like those precious yet hardy cuttings
from Alistair Te Ariki Campbell's garden
you nurtured us and
let us grow
strong.
Last night
the new generation of Pacific poets
held their Te Papa audience captive.
Their voices
joyous
angry
questioning
poignant
proud
beautiful.
Last night I cried for Alistair Campbell.
Last night I also smiled for those poets
and all of us
cuttings from your garden.
Objets Trouvés in the New Caledonian Archives
Intriguing
a button
in the Lost and Found column
of the colonial rag
a brass button
no longer shiny
a bit tarnished
fallen
or torn
from some
sweaty settler’s
well-worn
coat
quite unsuited to
tropical climes
cut in the fashion
of a decade
ago
a dull
discoloured
metal
button
precious
obviously
as it occupies space
in the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
much like the
pair of trousers
lost too
on the side of the road
down in a ditch
thick
rough
cloth
kicked off
chafed
pasty
legs
in a moment of passion
with a pock-faced pute
imported from Ireland
via Sydney
or a duskier maiden
surely missed
in the morning
by the sharecropper
in shirt-tails
once the
whisky
had worn off
titillating
and clearly
treasured
as they occupy space
in the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
Buttons
trousers
thimbles
broaches
handkerchiefs
hairpins
stirrups
boots
all lost
or found
all
cherished
evidently
as they occupy space
in the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
fertile land
terraced taro gardens
freedom of movement
languages
autonomy
severed heads
on pikes
or preserved in alcohol
all lost
none found
of no value
obviously
absent
unsurprisingly
from the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
Flame Tree or Portrait of a Reunionese Woman in New Caledonia circa 1908
A warm day in sleepy Ouégoa
and you would much rather
be sitting
legs stretched straight out in front of you
on the grass
embraced by the shade
of the cool flame tree
eating achards
or bread and chillies
or lychees
freeing the sweet flesh
from the shell
the pulpy goodness
slipping down your throat
as you spit the seeds
on the soil
to settle
silently
like your many children
in this Southern Pacific isle
Instead here you are
stiff
hot
itchy
uncomfortably elegant
trussed up in this unforgiving costume
of black fabric
with a peep of white ruffle
and lace
wound tightly around your neck
heavy petticoats and ample overskirt
obscuring your sturdy limbs
whose muscles bear witness
even now
to your prowess as a horsewoman
riding for hours through the bush
to help
to heal
to gather herbs
to deliver new life
a wise woman and sage-femme
respected
and a little feared
by the other broussards
both exotic and native
in this Southern Pacific isle
Your tiny brown hands
disguised by the hide
of creamy kid gloves
grip the wicker chair
a photographer's prop
that dwarfs
your diminutive frame
a ti paille en queue
who crossed the oceans
bidding adieu to the craggy cliffs
the volcanic soil
the cirques
the sugar plantations
and the social stigma
of your slave name,
fleeing Bourbon's impoverished shores
centuries of knowledge
stored deep within
to be shared with your daughters
and no one else.
“It must not be said”
le non-dit
guardian of all manner of family skeletons
in this Southern Pacific isle
A miner's widow
this is not a familiar ritual
but you handle it with aplomb
posing with your absent husband
standing rigid
head intelligently cocked
black eyes staring directly through the generations
in front of a hastily erected damask
that does a poor job of
shielding
the corrugated iron
and wooden crates
that decorate
your garden.
You think of the flame tree
a living memory of your past
brought on the boat
as a sapling
now flowering
brilliant red
and providing cover
as its roots
spread wider
deeper
hiding
in plain sight
like your people
in this Southern Pacific isle
The Night Before Waitangi Day
Birthday Eve
In Poihakena
No holiday tomorrow
This country does not stop to reflect
Upon what has been
And what might have been
And what could be
Written between the lines
Inscribed in blood
Across the way
In Aotearoa
No time off to
Contemplate what was
Translated
Creatively?
Faithfully?
Culturally?
No,
Erroneously.
Dangerously.
Colonially.
All a bit slapdash
Really.
Never mind
Not important
The power in the hands
Of those writing
The history
And all that.
Fudge it
A bit
The natives will never notice.
Besides
They won't be here long
To relate their version
Their history
To question
To protest
To speak
Even.
Absence
Silence
Extinction
Progress
Taming
Homogenising
Nation building
Or some such
Developmental bullshit.
Wasn't that
The plan?
Not so different here.
No treaty though
No celebration
No day off work
No discussion
No critique
A non-event
Almost.
Birthday Eve
In Sydney
Time to remember.
Biography Karin Speedy
Karin Speedy grew up in South Auckland, spent several years in Paris and is now an Associate Professor and the Head of French and Francophone Studies, at Macquarie University, Sydney. Her interdisciplinary research focuses on the Pacific where she works on historical, cultural, linguistic and literary links between the Pacific (including New Zealand and Australia) and the Indian Ocean. She also likes to write poems.
