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 | Writing Wellington: Twenty Years of Victoria University Writing
Fellows |  |
68
Utu
1 Haunui
Haunui's the name—Big Wind,
at your service. Caught them
at it, didn't I? My woman
and Weku, my best mate—
not any more, he's not.
Trusted them, you know—him
and her who brought me so much
pain. Caught them red-handed—if
you'll pardon the expression—
at Waimapihi, a sacred spring
whose waters immediately drained
away for shame, for shame.
at your service. Caught them
at it, didn't I? My woman
and Weku, my best mate—
not any more, he's not.
Trusted them, you know—him
and her who brought me so much
pain. Caught them red-handed—if
you'll pardon the expression—
at Waimapihi, a sacred spring
whose waters immediately drained
away for shame, for shame.
2 Weku
He'd a stupid grin, like he was
making out some other lecher—
may he rot in hell!—could
be the culprit. Should have
heard the piwakawaka!
The leaves concealing them
rippled with their merriment.
Any other time I'd have
not
when I'm sporting the pair
of horns he put on me.
Couldn't let it pass, could I?
when my pride and honour,
yeah, and dignity
as a man, were at stake.
making out some other lecher—
may he rot in hell!—could
be the culprit. Should have
heard the piwakawaka!
The leaves concealing them
rippled with their merriment.
Any other time I'd have
not
when I'm sporting the pair
of horns he put on me.
Couldn't let it pass, could I?
when my pride and honour,
yeah, and dignity
as a man, were at stake.
3 Te Ana o Hau
He hid in a towering bluff,
but with one blow of my fist
it became an archway down
which he dropped, abseiling
for dear life—a katipo, God
damn it! He hit the
beach
running, but I was swifter,
squashing him flat with my foot.
It was goodbye, Weku boy.
His soul, snatched up by a lizard,
howled all the way to Te Po.
Will miss him all the same
when fishing—him and his whoppers.
That big one out there,
yeah, Kapiti. It's one that
didn't get away. We fished it up—
not that trickster Maui,
with his impudent claims.
but with one blow of my fist
it became an archway down
which he dropped, abseiling
for dear life—a katipo, God
69
running, but I was swifter,
squashing him flat with my foot.
It was goodbye, Weku boy.
His soul, snatched up by a lizard,
howled all the way to Te Po.
Will miss him all the same
when fishing—him and his whoppers.
That big one out there,
yeah, Kapiti. It's one that
didn't get away. We fished it up—
not that trickster Maui,
with his impudent claims.
4 Maui
He lolled against the archway
to the Underworld, murmuring
how Wairaka's ghost brushed
past him, eyes and mouth agape
in a soundless scream. A liar
he may have been, but he
wasn't all bad. Trying to abolish
death at great personal
risk showed real nobility,
but try telling that to the
piwakawaka, who fell out of
their tree with laughter,
when Hinenuitepo turned massively
in her sleep, closed her thighs,
crushing his skull like eggshell.
to the Underworld, murmuring
how Wairaka's ghost brushed
past him, eyes and mouth agape
in a soundless scream. A liar
he may have been, but he
wasn't all bad. Trying to abolish
death at great personal
risk showed real nobility,
but try telling that to the
piwakawaka, who fell out of
their tree with laughter,
when Hinenuitepo turned massively
in her sleep, closed her thighs,
crushing his skull like eggshell.
5 Wairaka
She had to be punished. Couldn't
live with the humiliation.
She beat it south, squawking
like a weka, and where the coast
baulks at the corner, she looked
back and tripped, her feet
ensnared by seaweed. The little
bush birds, attending her,
begged me to forgive
her,
but my heart was stone. It wasn't
good the thing I had to do—
turned her into the monstrous
rock of ill omen that's named
for her—Wairaka. Sort
of miss her, though, glowing
black eyes, black hair tumbling to her
bottom—lovely, that. Could
weep, thinking of her and
how it used to be . . . Ah, well,
that about wraps it up,
yeah, that's about it.
Kia ora.
live with the humiliation.
She beat it south, squawking
like a weka, and where the coast
baulks at the corner, she looked
back and tripped, her feet
ensnared by seaweed. The little
bush birds, attending her,
70
but my heart was stone. It wasn't
good the thing I had to do—
turned her into the monstrous
rock of ill omen that's named
for her—Wairaka. Sort
of miss her, though, glowing
black eyes, black hair tumbling to her
bottom—lovely, that. Could
weep, thinking of her and
how it used to be . . . Ah, well,
that about wraps it up,
yeah, that's about it.
Kia ora.
| Writing Wellington: Twenty Years of Victoria University Writing
Fellows | |