domingo, 27 de diciembre de 2015

DOUG POOLE [17.823] Poeta de Samoa


Doug Poole es de Samoa (Ulberg Aiga de Tula'ele, Apia, Upolo) y ascendencia europea. 

Reside en Waitakere City, Auckland. Él es el actual e-editor y el redactor de la poesía e-zine Chantaje Press. Sitio web:

Doug se identifica como Poeta Pasífika en su poesía y trabajo de edición. Es fundador y editor de la revista de poesía por internet Blackmail Press, la cual ha auto-financiado desde junio de 2001. Hoy en día la publicación tiene gran prestigio entre las revistas online de poesía.

Sus poemas han sido incluidos en revistas electrónicas como Trout y el nzepc (centro electrónico de poesía de Nueva Zelanda) y en antologías como Niu Voices: Contemporary Pacific Fiction 1, Mauri Ola – Contemporary Polynesian Poetry In English y Ika Journal.

En 2008 dirijió el recital “Polynation” con el apoyo de CNZ que encabezó el Queensland Poetry Festival y el Going West Readers and Books Festival el mismo año. Unió nueve poetas de descendencia pacífica y maorí con poesía estilo spoken word y música. 

Ha colaborado con la pintora Penny Howard (sus pinturas aparecen en la foto) en la exposición Atarangi Whenua - Shadow Land que se presentó en Auckland y Whangarai.


Dedicado a Katherine Uleberg 

Cuando quemaron tu cuerpo
la fale vacía se cambió en
telarañas que respiran recuerdos.
Persianas apoyadas en escobas
dejan abierta la memoria:
la lata de galletas de Kake
invadida por hormigas negras. 
Saludaba cada mañana
talofa lava y un beso.
Frotando con aceite de coco
la moteada piel seca de
la pierna mala de Kake, soy compañía
en la pouliuli de ceguera.
Kake canta y toca la armónica
mientras sacudo las hormigas de la caja.

Fale es una casa tradicional.
Talofa lava significa "muy bienvenido".
Pouliuli significa "oscuridad".
(Traducción del poema Pouliuli de Doug Poole por Charles Olsen y Lilián Pallares)


Dedicated to Katherine Uleberg 

When they burned your body
the empty fale became
webs breathing our memories.
Shutters suspended on broomsticks
let open the memory of Kake’s
biscuit tin overrun with black ants.

Greeting every morning
talofa lava and a kiss.
Rubbing coconut oil on the dry
mottled skin of Kake’s
bad leg, I am company
in the pouliuli of blindness.
Kake sings and plays harmonica
as I shake ants from the tin.

Losing My Religion

Broken Karo,
children fall,
grieve our voices,
find hands,
nothing other.
Blood blooms
for returning
spine a centipede
or a sea snake
spine a bird head
& teeth of death.
A mouth full of many footsteps.
Mourn, release light,
photosynthesis of learning,
bloom beginnings ended,
missionary alphabet,
gilded in blood.
How noble to print words 
clay walled
catastrophic violence.
Father is out stealing,
holy blankets & rusted nails.
Occupiers break the
fabric of  heaven.
Residence: past & presence
succession: deaths proximity
to the living & beautiful dead.
Children, our continuity
found (on Google)
claim for compensation,
voices became embers.
Hear us speak
Connection to wisdom
Tofa (our Ali’i)
Moe (our Tufuga)
sleep informed by wisdom
hear us speak in our children…
whose sleeping throat is alert
to voices who haunt the land
who threaten violence,
we are returning.

From Pouliuli 8

You are speaking
To me in Samoan.
I laugh, You laugh too,
your body  becomes
a siva, as you talk in the
language of youth.
Before I came to Niu Sila.
Pouliuli dwelt only in the
Depth of midnight. Before
I came to Niu Sila the Sun
and moon cleared the path to
My Fathers tethered horse.

AKA. P.C. Bully

“The PC bullies are clamping on this debate so it stays at the level of simplicity and it’s doing exceptional harm to the New Zealand economy,”- Dr Clydesdale

Why don’t you come over
to my island, so I can ask
about the underclass.
I want to tell you,
doc – tor – Clydes – dale
My grandmother arrived in
1955, worked days and nights
to get us fed, watered and ready
for our moment in the
white – hot – sun
A high titled woman who
could not boil eggs, worked
in Cambridge clothing, sewing
suits for those like you who speak
 un – tested
So come on man, come over to my house
So I can cook you – a meal from the hole –
in the wall. Watch you fall over the
“Rellies” littering the lounge room floor
minimum – wage – over – crowding
Ioe, I am full of “floating anger”
As the anglo-anthro  put it
So doc, where are you from,
Eh, where are you going?

Pouliuli 11

                To Tuaoloa, Edwina and Katherine Uleberg

Sweeping the fale floor
found a photo of you
1934, a black fox straddles
your broad shoulders.
It was beneath the old dresser,
beside the old singer, that crooner
sewed Sunday best; daughter’s
white Sunday dress.
Outside flying foxes terrify
your daughter, who hates them
more than snakes that bite
young legs.
a transistor radio hangs in the
fale, Red, languid, a gift from a
son for the return home.
No AA’s at Lou’s shop,
this is 1974 after all,
Dry-docked, Aunty Kake his
First call, his mother’s baby sister,
his favorite Aunty,
who sings and tells him stories
he has never heard before.
Sweeping out the fale, the dust
becomes a flock of manu’sina
hitting the sun, heading for perches
In the low hanging hands
of children playing.


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