Ideas to Inspire

Hilo bay

was so mālie

aku boats

wen out smoothly

your ashes was

in da tackle box

wrap

wid pua kenikeni

your wife

an mom

throwin plenny

ginger from da farm

us guys had

Lily of da Valley

we was goin

sing but hahd

afta cry so much

back at da house

everybody ate

mosly coffee

at first, get

rid of da beer

from da wake

but den, poke

kālua pig an

cabbage, lots a

sweetbread, your mom

was strong, more

strong dan us

she tol

about your grandpa

how he came

in one dream

to your aunty

night befo

you lef, funny

da day was hot

afta all da col

kinda day

you woulda

bin at da farm

when pau fishin

all night, even

your mom said

you use to

go early befo

anybody got up

nobody had

chance

to talk story

little bit, play

music, neva

had time

to say

one aloha

befo you lef

why you wen

so early?

hahd for believe

you neva

comin back

–Haunani-Kay Trask, Light in the Crevice Never Seen

In the early morning,

a bouquet of winds

swirls above the loʻi kalo.

One, like a Kuewa, a wanderer,

rambles aimlessly

coming in low to the ground

from one side.

From another side,

the wild gypsy wind, makani ʻĀhiu,

streaks downwrd

stirring hearts of leaves

that flail in commotion,

myriad hues of rippling green, dancing across the loʻi.

Makani Hoʻohani, a taunting wind,

teases and flirts with the kalo

that bob and teeter coquettishly in its wake.

And sweeping down the slope of the mountain

is makani Lena,

a cold wind from the south,

a rush of fragrant ginger.

Sea winds invade the land

with sprays of lipoa,

the strong distinctive smell

misting the air.

The kalo are planted firmly upon their mounds,

each puʻu, an island,

moated from others by

icy cold,

crystalline clear,

upwelling water from an artesian spring.

They are rooted deep, the kalo,

in this land of our kupuna,

sucking lustily of the honua, the earth.

I tread upon a bank of the ʻauwai,

the ʻauwai that flows

among the loʻi kalo.

This is a gentle walk.

I pause,

and the pungent smell

of wet, raw earth surrounds me.

Damp earth, slippery beneath my feet,

squishes

as I reach forward with my toe

to touch the water.

Oooh. . .it is cold,

so cold, this early

on a morning still emerging from the night.

I hate the cold.

I shiver at the thought of what comes next.

As I walk

to the place

where the dayʻs tasks will begin.

Images of back-bending work

with the sun beating down

on backs already stinging with sunburn;

Images of toiling in freezing water until sunset,

of hands and feet turned white and wrinkly,

too exhausted and cold

to wash the mud from our ears and hair

before going home

at the end of the day.

And always the cold

the relentless, unforgiving cold.

This will be a hurting walk

to that first step

into the water of the loʻi.

I know I must not hesitate,

yet I do.

I know I must be bold

to overcome my dread,

the shock of water so piercing,

so cold.

Still I don’t.

I hate the cold,

but I fear Mama’s wrath more,

her angry eyes,

the set of her jaw.

Now I think of all the work that must be done,

weeds that need attention,

two rows of taro to be pulled,

their beds rebuilt, new huli planted,

encroaching grasses

suckled away from the edges of the ʻauwai.

I start.

I take the hurting walk.

– Makia Malo, Bamboo Ridge, No. 73, Spring 1998

How you must have dreamed,

most venerable father,

of the perfect yomesan

who would bow deeply before you each morning,

hand you the steaming, milky miso soup

with ribbons of konbu dancing in the broth

and open your drapes

to chase away the insecurities of aging.

You had three sons,

a lucky number,

surely, one of them would bring her home,

the daughter-in-law of your dreams.

Instead, eager to break the mold

of your nisei expectations,

they brought home only gaijin

or worse, the half-breeds,

poi dogs with Japanese faces

and katonk aspirations

of moving in the fast lane in the big city.

But how well you have adapted,

most aged father,

to eating lasagna with your rice,

poi with your sashimi,

and brushing away cobwebs

of past dreams

with lauhala fans

made by your mongrel grandchildren.

–CKI, Intersecting Circles: the voices of hapa women in poetry and prose

 At Kahakai, the beach,

where I gathered these shells for you

I thought about how your dad

and I had talked about the hand-holding

between grandparents and grandchildren

that can save a language.

A bridge across “the generation born with no ears.”

I tell my students, What good writing is about is:

it’s about good thinking.

Ho’oipo said, My friends are too intense.

I think about that.

Pua said, I’ve felt like

jumping up on the big koa conference table and

machine-gunning all the people at the table

for what they’ve done to Hawaiian people.

But I do the harder thing;

I hold them with aloha.

Against y left wrist I feel

Kupuna Kauahipaula’s fingertips insisting

I learn to answer her “Pehea ‘oe?”

“Maika’i,” she says. “Maika’i,” I repeat.

“Maika’i, mahalom” she says. “Maika’i, mahalo,” I say.

She releases the firmness of her grip

on my wrist.

My pulse beats stronger,

her mana.

I am held

in her aloha.

Her hold, now

a caress.

–Hina Kahanu, Bamboo Ridge 25th anniversary

It is 1981 in Kula,

and my father, cloudy and high on booze

and pakalōlō, for all his love songs

of rain and mountain mist, is unable

to stay. My mother, unable to leave

him, showers during his frantic search

through her purse for money, clattering loose

change against house keys, for any green bill

with a face. As an afterthought, he turns,

concerned now with my witness, young eyes. Hunched

over the kitchen table, I scribble

nonsense. He bribes, “I’ll give you a dollar

if you don’t tell.” I won’t. But I pretend

not to hear him, going on with the scratch,

scrawling the illegible string of loops

I insist is real writing. He doesn’t

bother to yell. He has no time for it,

knows he must leave before the sound of warm

water, unsteady thumps against the tub

and her skin, stops.

                      I knew there were stories

there, staring down at the coil of e’s

I had just written — a bouncy ocean,

a black curly hair — that this was the start

of important work. At the paper’s top,

there was my name, full, each letter composed

of dots for me to connect for homework.

My finger shadowed each sharp corner, whooshed

over straight lines and curves, almost-circles

and space–slow and careful gestures before

the pencil’s touch. Then, holding the bitten

roll of yellow wood and lead, I pressed down

hard to make a mark. Sighing with each glide,

I worked, writing through the door’s dull thud

behind him when he left, right through the wash

of swallowed tears behind the bathroom walls.

There was only this thrilled, measured motion:

my young hand threading dots into letters,

the fullness of my name, its shape, shouting.

–Brandy Nālani McDougall, The Salt-Wind Ka Makani Paʻakai