Thursday, February 26, 2009
In recent weeks, while wandering among islands in the ocean,
I met people named Hua, Wao, Tufu, Tutu, Puna, Wi, and Hu,
Not to mention a totally silent man from Estonia named Hooh,
Who the whole extent of his conversation was to nod six times
In the twenty minutes we spent together, this was in Kapiolani,
But perhaps the most rivetingly monikered lad I met in Hawaii
Was a youth named Pikomanawakupono, who was a startlingly
Silent fellow also, and in the couple of cheerful hours we spent
Together, this was in Hanalei, he only spoke twice that I recall,
And both times he uttered words in a tongue I don’t understand
Yet, but to be fair I don’t think anyone else quite caught his gist
Either, because Pikomanawakupono has just recently arrived on
This island after a voyage I cannot even dimly begin to imagine.
You could say, with complete accuracy, that his traveling began
With dreaming, and we do not often enough salute how a vision
Insists on being born, how what we imagine so often takes shape
In this world, in this air, on all sorts of islands, in all sorts of seas.
It’s really amazing when you think about it, which I think we are.
Anyway, the two words I caught sounded rather like piu and bub,
And then his mother smiled, and gave him more of her holy milk,
And Kauai sailed on to the southeast at roughly four inches a year.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
[Editors' note: This is the final post that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]
by Laurie Barton
A young man from Rzeczpospolita Polska
hiked into a valley, powered by waffles and latte,
some blackened ahi from the night before
Reached the shore of Hanakapi'ai Beach
and flung himself in--
so far from the traffic and chill of his city,
so warm for October--
Feeling sure there was nothing but pleasure
to find, his long legs splashing a flutter-kick.
Slow currents no match for his shoulders.
Pulled to the deep--faster than it takes a cresting
wave to flatten. The pilot looked down at his body,
floating in surrender to the north swell.
Took him to Black Pot, imagined what no one
would say. How none of us
know what it's like to die strong, in the blue grip
of something much stronger.
Monday, February 09, 2009
by Sandra Krawciw
Once leashed to me,
by the undulating braid of an umbilical cord,
I see them go now,
joined by a thin black thread
to a slice of wood.
Seeking the sea’s heartbeat,
they dip their way to the horizon,
like polite princesses,
but they return like warriors,
riding their shields through the plunder,
of waves and foam.
Our eyes meet, cords real and imagined,
tighten and deliver,
gift after gift from God.
Friday, February 06, 2009
by John Ullis
[Editors' note: This is the fifth in a series of posts that recognizes the runners up of the third annual creative competition sponsored by Kauai Backstory. This year's theme: Surf. Congratulations everyone.]
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
by Alison Hummel
I hear the crash and thrash of the waters.
In my mind, I listen.
In my heart, I listen.
Listening now--eyes closed.
I scream, "Yes I hear you!"
Quickly opening my eyes to look around.
Nobody notices my outburst.
I close my eyes again.
Like I am five years old again.
Hiding from monsters under my bed.
Back to the thrashing and crashing.
I have been hiding from you.
Hiding behind the bushes in my parents back yard.
Still crashing and thrashing
like the waters that you are.
When can I see you again?
I am longing to feel the crashing and thrashing.
Of course these days, in my throat my heart lives.
It's like stuck in there.
I try to cough it up.
But no that won't work.
Fighting the tears.
And then they come so hard,
like out of the blue.
It's sort of funny.
Tears: like the surf running down my face--salty.
When I open my eyes, I look around.
I am on Fourth Street, in .
And then I remember that in my heart there you are.
And of course my heart's in my throat.
And when I let it up--the tears.
And then you are on my face again.
I cry so that I may return to you.
Return to the surf.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
by Faith Harding
I hear the surf in wee hours of the morning from my bed. It’s my natural alarm clock. Sometimes it sounds like it is coming right over Poipu Rd. As I am waking up, I imagine the surf crashing against the `aina, enveloping cars, washing the debris from the vacant developer’s destruction away…I can hear its mighty crash over and over as I lay in bed not wanting to get on with my daily rituals. Birds chirp all around me, I hear cars racing on the bypass but I can still hear the surf crashing against the shore. I think it’s coming from Shipwreck’s as it echoes throughout the open space behind where I live. It’s a fierce force. I have tumbled only once in its surf and I’ve never again gone in at Shipwreck’s. It could be from Brennecke’s too as I have boogie boarded on that surf a few times which has scared and thrilled me. I toss and turn in my bed contemplating if the crash and swish is as foreboding as it sounds. I snuggle and smell my pillow and sometimes think that the surf could come and wash me away at that very moment. I would be a castaway on my used Serta mattress with my 300 thread count sheets. However, that would be polluting the ocean and I would just sink and have to swim to shore. Reluctantly, I shake the cobwebs from my head, turn off the electric alarm clock and begin surfing through my own waves of the day.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Sunday, February 01, 2009
by Laurie Barton
Then I snuck into the kitchen of the condo
and plundered the cake, waves of blue frosting
that tickled a white foam sea, the plastic palm
trees almost real if I squinted so that Happy
Birthday Kimo read like petroglyphs at Waiopili
stream. Jim had removed the toy surfer, licked
smudges of blue from its surfboard, stashed it away.
How I would argue with him at Lihue not to bring
that extra bag of golf tees, cake candles, those empty
cans of board-wax. How close I would come to telling
him, I don't love you. After my knife slipped through
the sea, cool frosting gave my teeth such a shiver that I
could not wish or remember, nor feel anything but
the rush of sugar, fingers mashing the blue. Then I
pictured Cook sailing into Waimea, greeted by men
on koa boards, welcoming Lono. Those giant swells
pushing them up, teasing them to prove their ocean
skill. Only ali'i allowed to ride, each one snug in his
place, known for it, hailed. In the morning I would
catch a plane, look down at the waves. Wish for a
village, breadfruit and chanting, a glide to my shore
with friends waiting.