Wasavulu Stones

from w
I found this poem in a file while cleaning up the computer. It was published a while back in a local anthology.

Wasavulu Stones


Goddesses hauled stones overland,
.the men’s temple was built,
tabu to women, a secret place.
A priest's falsetto prepared for war,
ritual blood smeared the grass,
the shark-god was feared.
as mana leapt over stones.

Near our grandfather's garden
knee-deep in uncut grass
we leap barefoot over flat stones,
duck around grey pillars,
target trees with coconuts,
make leaf spinning windmills.
Mere calls out for lunch
'Come and eat shellfish and yam.'

Grandfather, after a Christian grace,
says, 'The gods are friends;
they organize, sustain us.
In return we host others,
bhaini and bhaiya, who then
plough valleys and hillsides,
and lease money becomes
our new tradition.'

Men no longer dance in moonlight
but glance sidelong at neighbours
as school buses stall on rough roads.
Sandals slap bitumen in political marches
and hymns are sung at a road-block.

But now, men dream over kava bowls,
cannot speak of islands
burnt by the sun, but strum guitars
and sing in falsetto
of silver seas and lost love..


Notes:
Near Labasa in Fiji there is a historical site called Wasavulu. Mana is the Polynesian word for spiritual power. Bhaini and bhaiya – Hindi words for sister, brother - refer to the presence of Indian cane farmers. After the first coup of 1987 Fijians in Labasa protested against the disregard of the Sabbath. Today, people seem passive even with tight emergency laws.

Wasavulu

from w
When sorting out old poetry files yesterday I came across a poem I'd written way back to the time of the road blocks in Labasa which must have been about 87. I rejigged the poem a little and here it is. Wasavulu of course is a historical site a few k out of Labasa town.

Wasavulu

Near our grandfather's garden
knee-deep in weaving grasses
we leapt barefoot over flat stones,
ducked around grey pillars,
targetted trees with coconuts,
made spinning windmills.
Mere called out for lunch
'Come and eat shellfish.'

Grandfather, after a Christian grace,
said, 'The gods are friends;
they organize, sustain us.
In return we host others,
bhaini and bhaiya, who
plough valleys and hillsides,
and lease money becomes
our new tradition.'

Tabu to women once, a secret place,
a priest's falsetto prepared for war.
Ritual blood smeared the grass
and mana leapt amidst stones.

Goddesses once hauled stones overland
after a skirmish in Cakaudrove.
The bure kalou now invisible,
The shark-god not spoken of.

Men no longer dance in moonlight
but look sidelong at neighbours
as school buses stall on bad roads.
Do you remember when sandals
slapped bitumen in political marches
and hymns were sung at a road-block?
Now men dream over yaqona bowls,
cannot speak of islands scorched by the sun.