On a Theme by Hone Taiapa
- Hone Tuwhare
Tell me poet, what happens to my chips
after I have adzed our ancestors
out of wood?
What happens to your waste-words, poet?
Do they limp to heaven, or go down easy
And what about my chips, when they’re
down—and out? If I put them to fire
do I die with them?
Is that my soul’s spark spiralling; lost
to the cold night air? Agh, let me die
another hundred times: eyeball
to eyeball I share bad breath
with the flared nostrils of the night.
For it’s not me I leave behind: not me.
Only the vanities of people:
their pleasure, their wonder and awe
Bite on this hard, poet: and walk careful.
Fragmented, my soul lies here, there: in
the waste-wood, around.