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10: Caroline
Sinavaiana & James Thomas Stevens
Funeral
Song, from Samoan
Alaga’upu Proverb
Ua tala lali lapopo’a. Beat
the big drums.
Lagisolo Funeral Song
Sema e, ‘o ai ‘ea e pisa? Friends,
who is making that noise?
Pe se soa le va i le faga? That
noise, like a song in the bay?
Pe ni fa’aali’i ‘ua tata? Or
are they beating wooden drums?*
who
calls
who awakens
who answers
whose
alarm
whose drum
whose skin
who
fell
who arose
who left
whose
friend
whose mother
whose cadence
sounding
from the mangrove bowl?
—CS
* Pratt, George, 1911. Pratt’s Grammar and Dictionary
of the Samoan Language (4th ed.). Malua: Malua Printing Press, p.
109.
Ice
crystals
slice a fingertip
trying to clear the way.
Aches to open.
Pulse—who makes this noise?
Pulse—like
the watery
stir of stars
slouching across the lake.
Pulse—the
waterdrum,
begins again,
¾uid red beneath
the skin.
Ice heaves
then sounds no more.
—JTS
My
Pigeon, from Samoan
La’u Lupe ‘Ua Lele My
Pigeon
La’u lupe ua lele, lele ‘i le vao maoa, forest. My
pigeon has flown into the dense
Talofa e la’u pele, la’u pele ‘ua leiloa. My
dear, my darling is lost.
Ta’aga e o teine o lo’o ‘ua gasolo mai Here
come the young girls walking,
O’u mata e tilotilo ‘e te le ‘o sau ai. My
eyes look, but still you have not come.
The
air rushes
with your leaving,
wings brushing tall
trees in long shadow.
Your
heart trails light
tracing forest path
its
dim way to
fragrant altars
of
maile and moso’oi.
I wait near deep
woods and watch
for you.
—CS
Fine hairs stirred
when you left
for the Atlantic.
Earlier, sitting cross-legged
your dark hair
around my knees,
like a set of somber wings.
Others
have come.
Young, with downward
lashes
and red iris ¾ashing.
But
in every cell
mine upward turn,
toward the peak
of El Teide.
Returned
and never returning.
—JTS
Cornbread Song, from Mohawk
Kana’tahrokhon:we
teiothwe’non:ni. This
cornbread is round.
Ne se ni:’i kwa wake:kahs. I
like it.
Kana’tahrokhon:we teiothwe’non:ni. This
cornbread is round.
Onkwehon:we ronon:ni. The
Indian people form it.
Cornbread
Song
Circular
we move
to create
the seminal form.
Pleasured
but saddened
creating a circle only.
The
principle,
for people
to give it form.
Lamenting,
we simply lay.
—JTS
from Cornbread Song
The
yellow moon holds Sina
and her daughter pounding bark
cloth for the people.
Food
for the hungry eye
when our hands are vacant
& the circle is thinning.
Fill
the baskets with
the sight of them, &
light the cook½res.
—CS
These
poems stem from a project proposed after meeting Sinavaiana and
reading her book Alchemies of Distance. I felt an immediate
kinship with her language and an odd echo between our Samoan and
Mohawk cultures. I had been working on a series of what I deemed
“sui-translations” or translations for the self. This
involved working from Mohawk songs and stories, gathered from
various sources, in the original language, then translating them
literally, and ultimately writing poems based on the translations
that would create personal relevance to my own narrative. This
was partly to stress the importance of change in the oral tradition,
an unconsidered element, which often served as the reason for
anthros to write off entire tribes as “lost.” “Corn
Bread Song” (found on Kahon:wes’s Kanienkehaka Language
Web site) is a translation developed by comparing Kahon:wes’s
translation with my own translation from available Mohawk dictionaries.
I contacted Sina and proposed a cross-cultural poetry project
that would involve exchanging translations with each other and
writing our poems from them. These are the first fruits of our
efforts, and I’m excited at this opportunity to share words.—JTS
Until I was two, the only language I heard was Samoan, so I have
the originary linguistic imprint. But then we moved to the U.S.,
where my parents were told that, if they wanted us to make it
in America, they should speak to us only in English. Now, fifty
years later, my English is fine, but my Samoan is elementary and
reluctant. Then I heard from the Mohawk poet James Stevens, suggesting
that we try a collaborative translation exchange. Working from
traditional song texts, Samoan and Mohawk, we each wrote poems
based on our own and each other’s cultural texts. There’s
an idea I learned from another Native American colleague, about
how, when we meet each other, our ancestors are meeting each other
too. This is what these poems are unfolding for me. Not only do
I find the collaboration process—it’s really call and
response—deeply enriching, it’s the most fun I’ve
ever had as a writer. In the spirit of harvest, then, these first
fruits are for Chain.—CS
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