From Mānoa to a Ponsonby Garden (Auckland UP, 2012). ( Log Out /  © Poems are the property of their respective owners. Albert Wendt is a Samoan poet, novelist, playwright, artist, scholar, and educator. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge... Recite this poem (upload your own video or voice file). No spider's-web bridge to rainbow strung, he had slipped off an ordinary highway built for ordinary mortals, car buckling in, like a cannibal flower, to womb him in death, petrol fumes rising - a cat uncurling to lap the milk sky, the wheel spinning spun the white dew of prophecy: the ball coming down to stone, (breaking).

Words captured in print like bird footprints on the white sand of my breath.Beads. ! She was the fabric of fairy tale, the golden key to each child's quest for the giant's castle.Dead, she walks the miracle of water-lily stars, more moonbeam than flesh, the sinnet of myth I weave into my veins.5. 'The black dew,' said my pastor uncle, the pulpit juggler, at his funeral, 'does not discriminate between jugglers and engineers. I love that ‘squabble of birds’ in the Afro…. My grandfather - and I can only describe him from a photograph cobwebbed in my father's cupboard - died too of whisky, at thirty-six. Change ).

The final time I saw him, moon pouring up from the sea, he was side-stepping into a midnight plane, albatross guitar round his neck.With a roar, the silence scattering, he was winging off towards temperate sun and snow, the darkness falling on all paws on the tarmac. The Book of the Black Star (Auckland UP, 2002).

Last week, along with four others, he was recognised as a New Zealand Icon at a medallion ceremony for his significant contribution to the Arts. This poem has not been translated into any other language yet. ( Log Out /  Memories of her are flamboyant blooms scattered across pitted lava fields under the moon's scaffold, or fish darting amoung fabulous seaweed.

He has been the recipient of many awards throughout his illustrious career; in 2013, he became a member of the Order of New Zealand, the highest possible honor in New Zealand. Inside us the Dead: Poems 1961 to 1974 (Longman Paul, 1976). In Albert Wendt's new poems, his first collection for over a decade, snapshots of the close and familiar contrast with strange and mythical sequences from a vast Pacific epic in progress and a vivid impressionistic montage of global travel in the late twentieth century. Albert Wendt has published many novels, collections of poetry and short stories, and edited numerous anthologies. His crew tossed him to the sharks and sent home only his blue glass eye - crystal ball of Europe - which my grandfather buried under a palm, a fitting monument to his father's copra lust. No glass eye for this hollywood trader marooned. ( Log Out / 

Shaman of Visions (Auckland UP, 1984). ! The Adventures of Vela (Epic poem: University of Hawai’i Press, 2009). Knives. He has published more than a dozen novels and short story collections that explore many different themes in genres. ! 'My brother was brought back from the snow in an oak box polished to see your face in, designed to lock gravity in. Axe. No prayers were said for him I hope. He has published more than a dozen novels and short story collections that explore many different themes in genres. ( Log Out /  ! Bibliography: Albert Wendt . i think this poem is so fantastic because it express everything a fomer colony country should express! Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Monday Poem: Albert Wendt’s ‘And so it is’, Poetry Shelf Video Lounge: Simon Sweetman reads from his debut poetry collection, The Death of Music Journalism, Poetry Shelf Kitchen review: Ottolenghi FLAVOUR by Yotam Ottolengi and Ixta Belgfrage, Poetry Shelf review: Nadia Reid’s Canons: Complete Lyrics 2015 – 2020, Poetry Shelf review: Jess Fiebig’s My Honest Poem, Poetry Shelf noticeboard: Pip Adam named as Victoria University of Wellington Writer in Residence.

Albert Wendt has published many novels, collections of poetry and short stories, and edited numerous anthologies. Polynesians Inside me the dead woven into my flesh like the music of bone flutes:my polynesian fathers who escaped the sun's wars, seeking these islands by prophetic stars, emerged from the sea's eye like turtles scuttling to beach their eggsin fecund sand, smelling of the seas - the stench of dead anemone and starfish, eyes bare of the original vision, burnt out by storm and paddles slappingthe hurricane waves on, blisters bursting blood hibiscus to gangrened wounds salt-stung.These islands rising at wave's edge - blue myth brooding in orchid, fern, and banyan; fearful gods awaiting birth from blood clot into stone image and chant -to bind their wounds, bury their journey's dead, as I watching from shadow root, ready for birth generations after they dug the first house - postsand to forget, beside complacent fires the wild yam harvest safe in store houses - the reason why they pierced the muscle of the hurricane into reef's retina, beyond it the sky's impregnable shell; and slept, sleep waking to nightmare of spear and club, their own young - warriors long-haired with blood cursed, the shrill cry of children unborn, sacrificed.No sanctuary from the sun-black seed inside the self's cell - coral lacerating the promise, self-inflicted wounds at the altar of power will not heal.2. Change ), You are commenting using your Twitter account. ©Albert Wendt.

Our islands are Tagaloaalagi’s stepping stones across Le Vasa Loloasmall and frail but courageous enough to bear his weight and manahigh enough to keep us above the drowning and learninghow to navigate by the stars    currents and the ferocity... Albert Wendt is a Samoan poet, novelist, playwright, artist, scholar, and educator. Too late for a fortune, reaped a brood of 'half-castes' and the fled for the last atoll and a whisky death. Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email. Comments about Inside Us The Dead by Albert Wendt mawa tindipa (5/20/2019 8:35:00 PM) i think this poem is so fantastic because it express everything a fomer colony country should express! fantastic descriptions. Escape from the grasp of my tongue, images shatter into dust from which myth rises to elixir air at the rim of my skin: In her years of scarlet ginger flower snaring bumble-bee, I remember her lilt fingers in scent of moon, plucking my clumsy tongue to butterfly hymn; my mind, white as spider lily, to morning pigeon in tavai, cooing; eyes to vision of her fatal human face that knew the bravery of tears. ! This entry was posted in NZ author, NZ poems, NZ poetry, Uncategorized and tagged a week of poems, Albert Wendt on December 19, 2016 by Paula Green. Stone, iron, lava, salt, fuel to construct bridges between him nimble feet and the angels; a mathematical universe wired to his computer fingertips, the planets tick his vision of designing, the ball thrown up will not come down.That's what my brother wanted to be - feet in iron, head in the rainbow, rewinding the moon.

Arrogant gleam in his eyes with nowhere to sail without a ship, Straight junker nose inhaling the bitter serenity of failure, Thick polynesian lips shaped for wine, whisky and fierce infidelities.White-suited in a cane chair, the kaiser of whisky come-courting the camera, in love with Bismarck, burdened with the failure of Europe, heir to the cold crystal eye.4.

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