Joshua Toumu'a
Pantoum for a Funeral
Maybe we are all born to weep,
forever closing the blossoming wounds
through the heart; broken like a bone.
Something deep and ancestral
forever closing the blossoming wounds.
I can write a poem about a desire:
something deep and ancestral
and it will be titled in blood.
I can write a poem about a desire
to have you back; to have a homeland
and it will be titled in blood:
‘how can I not grieve
to have you back; to have a homeland?’
so I will write you back into existence:
how can I not grieve
when I was left nothing but?
so I will write you back into existence
like a forgery
when I was left nothing but
ink through the page.
Like a forgery,
maybe we are all born to weep
ink through the page;
through the heart; broken like a bone.
Impressions
carve your name into the base of a pine tree - - (leave no stone unturned) - - to be buried in time - - (your name on a ring) - - like what once was grass - - (here before we came to be) - - now worms in the soil - - (eat and be eaten) - - there will be nothing left - - (nothing new to solve) - - the hills will be as quiet as you left them - - (as was foretold) - - as we become more carbon to date - - (trillions/trilobites/kilobytes of data) - - to file into cabinets - - (semi-permanent word) - - more rings in the lumber to count - - (wearing our years) - - until we’re just papercuts - - (fine print) - - bruises on the hillside - - (where did we come from?) - - driftwood washed ashore - - (first amphibians) - - or oil to burn - - (queue asteroid!) - - for future civilisations - - (when everything is balanced) - - a distant word - - (think of the ark) - - and that word will be a name - - (think of every animal) - - carved into wood - - (floating the waters) - - for forty days - - (waiting for a sign) - - for forty nights - - (waiting to be free)
Autumn Famine
And it was a beautiful country indeed,
deeper than it was wide and
blindingly bright down to the bone.
And those bones were beautiful, although
they sat more like foundations than like a body.
You can only imagine what kind of fool built his house
upon these sands. The rain came down and
the sea rose to our thigh and we were told
it was biblical: A woman bathes Jesus’ feet with
oil and wipes them clean with her hair.
Just like that, our minds were wiped clean of
transgressions: the storm drains cleared, and
the flooding migrated down and seawards.
Salvation came after many months
from the heavens like an olive branch.
We extended our hands outwards,
cupped for communion.
They placed in our palms
corned beef and powdered milk
and we looked upon them like patron saints;
they were patron saints indeed.
‘Come! Take, eat,’ they said, electric.
‘For this is my body, given for you.
Do this to remember me.’
Joshua Toumu’a is a queer Pasifika poet and uni student living in Te Whanganui-a-Tara. He is the winner of the 2022 Schools Poetry Award, and has featured in Starling, Symposia, The Spinoff and elsewhere. He likes long walks on the beach, long naps on the beach, and long dogs on the beach.