Sometimes I write. There were times I would write every night, bad poetry, meandering musings, garbled anguished diatribes. Now and then I might put some up here...

This is a set of three poems written well over 10 years ago, when I was an 18 year old on my first trip back to Samoa. I spent a lot of time writing in a hardcover 2B5, vignettes, observations, poems, attempting to make sense of my experience. I wish I could find that book! I would love to see what else lies within it.

dusk rolls down, it seeps down the sky
seeps so far down that the deep ground swallows it,
and spits out the night.
This is the domain of the flying fox and the centipede,
where what light that survived the slaughter,
will reflect off your oiled skin,
coconut today, warming and melting with your body,
leaving a fragrance in your wake,
mingling with the jasmine from the graves out front,
and the kerosene lamps,
as they fire up for the night.

***

in the quiet of the sullen night
fragrant air laden with the scent of memory,
and regret. i am...
and sometimes when the night reveals itself
just so...
i’ll sit,
back against the housepost
spilling into the dark
and look at all I have left of you
one photo,
framed,
and I see you seeing me
from out behind the lush ‘ula,
the lei
that I draped there for you.

***

shall I string you one by one
piece by piece and fragment by fragment?
every tiny circle as delicate as the last,
pliable,
watch as they each succumb to my needle,
passed through the centre with red.
hours i could put into you,
investing my existence in your creation,
and yet,
if my eyes did not search deep enough,
all you would yield to me would be meaningless beauty,
but look deeper they say....
pierce the surface
delve deep and excavate the flesh of you
search for you
your histories and your lost stories
past heroes and their sins and deeds gone by
all witnessed
from the neck.

- Leala Faleseuga