Wayfinder
Homage to the early Polynesian navigator
This waka I guide with chant and song
for this is the whakapapa of past voyages,
the voice of my ancestors
who went fishing for islands.
We leave at dusk, our eyes fixed
on landmarks behind us.
By looking backwards,
I chart the way forward.
I observe the stars in Tane's Basket.
Each one known by name since childhood.
Each one cloaked in a different brightness.
I recall the clouds that name an island,
reflections that warn of reefs or shallows.
Some clouds mirror the island beneath.
Each wind brings its own song
to the rigging, hangs up a cloak feathered
with many scents.
Migrating birds show me the seasons.
I study curlew, plover, long-tailed cuckoo.
The albatross studies me...
At dusk birds fly in straight lines
to their island.
If I sleep and stray off course,
I am woken by drumming under the hull.
Each current has its own rhythm.
I adjust to the rope that trails
the original path.
I know the waves
that mark the approach to each harbour,
like the way hair flows on the back of a dog.
As each one breaks against the bow,
it tells of distance or nearness.
When Hoaka, the crescent moon, rises
she scares the fish away, being the first moon
bright enough to cast a shadow.
When Muku is in the sky,
it is a night of good fishing.
I give the first of my catch back to Tangaroa,
not knowing if the shadow below
is hammerhead or taniwha,
not knowing if I anger or appease him
if tonight is the night I will catch an island.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem