1.
In the beginning,
born out of the emptiness
of dust and red dirt ,
Kukaniloku appears at 4AM
like an oasis
reinforced through the reverence
of royal births for centuries
the energy of extreme duress
focused and juxtaposed
to the serenity of natural forms.
Breathing in and out
of a circular grove,
the nocturnal breeze
animates the eucalyptus trees
as it always has.
Bearing witness
to what remains conduit,
initiating internally,
the way scent
is directly linked to memory .
The tingling of the fingers,
as it feels for release,
pushing hands with the silence.
The sequence of stones,
smooth and inanimate,
rise from verdant fields.
A woman’s profile,
in the latest stage of hapai,
her dark ridges swollen on the horizon
soon giving birth to the sky.
Deep within the
island’s center,
far from our gaze
comes the cries of strays
feral cats, wandering roosters
those sheltering under tent flaps
sound off and give way
as the last gasp of night
turns into day.
2.
In the recesses of
disassembled words,
from out of the rubble
where art is born
and trauma is transformed,
comes the point of release,
and the gradual changes,
no longer fully dark
but understood by degrees.
In the east
light fills in the cracks
like a paint that is applied
to father sky’s canvas,
the first rays of insight.
From the understaining
comes a vision, manifesting in
patchwork images and plucked lichen
that through the sea mist
stressed photosynthesis
changes color
on maritime gravestones.
It textures the illumination
beneath track lights and
on subterranean walls
the picture becomes clearer ;
a verdant field, a pastoral scene
as you step away.
3.
The Cape
was on the edge of
the distant past.
Absorbed in the fog,
disappearing into the landscape
of wood and bog
wandering like a coyote
past Chatham light at dawn.
Beyond the last clapboard cottage,
our eyes meet
as they did across the fire
in the earthen structure of the Wetu.
Wooden benches
facing each other
and in that space you imagine
all that came before, those
surviving in the face of nature.
There was no separation,
until one day we’re scattered
and the gatherings fewer.
Greater is the distance traveled
to celebrate birthdays and origins,
a mother a grandmother,
the sun which warms us
and from whom all have grown
to appreciate each passing moment.
Each time the light is
a deeper hue of gold
as it begins its descent through windows
until absorbed into the sea
and in our eyes
verdant fields grow darker
and this cycle replenishes endlessly
the sense of collective identity
on the edges and in the spaces
where most things
begin and end.
Bottom image is the painting entitled “Ispica 6” by Dominick Takis Sr.
acrylic oil lichen sprayfoam branch media in silicone caulking on canvas.
To view more of his art please refer to this website:
yakskinpocketnotes 