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Best Poems Written by Tiaua M Ioane

Below are the all-time best Tiaua M Ioane poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

Oratory - Power of the Spoken Word

As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.

As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.

As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.

As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties 
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.

As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?

As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.

the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel 
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

Always the Lady

An hour before time, they put her through the motions.
Shoving and pulling her strings adding oil and suntan lotion.
Hot and humid still shining in candid spirit she professes
in music, a monotone but in finesse, a tune nonetheless.

Of her welcome song intrinsic in me but to her handlers, in blase
only the mere task of steering and roping in tense power play.
Embarking though marred by obvious signs of abuse and neglect.
Her rolling in elation disguised the slippery entrance and my regret.
Drivers accommodating cramped spaces as directed, gently to fill.
Opting to maitain serenity as they in vain, placate her iron will.

Do I hear her rising blood pulses or lack of joy in welcome thereof?
No, just the sound of tumultuous creaks and human smell
of perfume, tainted sweat and punjent oil leaks let off.
Disgruntled impatience of mere sailors but of her, not a peep.
Standing tall, holding firm a class of her own as she let sweep.
Riding the waves in style directing me to the destiny I must keep.
On and on she rides tantalising the waves as they foam at the peaks.
Such insight when she lapses into a lullaby putting me to sleep.

I return to a friend who knows well to serve, to ferry me ashore.
Another blissful time with her as the sea beckons for us to explore.
She is faithful, a useful companion with its own metallic commodore.
Sailing majestically forever a classy lady, our very own Lady Samoa.

(N.B  Lady Samoa is our Inter-Island Ferry)

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Love In Episodes

Such explosions of love ecstatic
from fumbling youths and naive romantics.
In wedded bliss when passions flowed
two people alone in honeymoon glow
Flammable pleasure, ignitable moments to treasure,
we did love, we did fight, You and I.

Like awaited episodes of a reality show,
responsibilities began to gnaw as they grow.
The candle of love flickered with breath abated
claiming its due from fires deflated.
Though loving was tender still quick to temper
we did love, we did fight, You and I.

The children gone and the house deserted
alone again with our quality time protected.
A simple touch, a gentle nudge then smiling,
at such an age one mistake saw patience flying.
Eyes bleary, hard or hearing but recalling clearly,
we did love, we did fight, You and I.

The rocking chair now sways to silent music
only in the eyes can one realise, such beauty.
Smoldering fires of love and reined in emotions,
memorising every tryst with pledges of devotions.
Blessed with so much given and oceans of raw passion
in abundance we lived as God promised, His love unrationed.
still we hated, we had to fight, but we did love You and I.

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

Raping of That Virgin Drop of Rain

So pristine each drop wrapped tenderly
by clouds as air into water processed.
Why a diamond shaped of natures play
or of gravity earth awaits, greedily
life yearned for its fall from grace.

Longing for its purity Man restless,
salivating for the angelic virgin to descend.
Unspoiled, unsoiled, sweetness itself only 
God can create, a gift free not for man alone
but every living thing with desires to quench.

Alas! the greed in you and I, it was a gift...free.
Reached we have, into the space of angels,
we bastardised the very food of our souls
for can our thirst be quenched by oil or gold?
Answer ye to God when our time is done.

A virgin so pure God sent for our pains to endure.
Slashed, burnt smoke of 'acid' we returned.
Legacy left we are sure, but the poser imminent
when facing our Procurer; were we party to the 
deflowering, the raping of that virgin drop of rain?

T M Ioane (April, 2014)

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

No Man's Islands

Like cold marble statues
stiff as vague mixtures
of alcohol that stings of spirits,
cheap as famished souls.
Once were unique and proud,
now the vanishing isles!

A struggle to keep adrift 
to face the blue sky vast
and unyielding, matching 
that deep Pacific Ocean.
Hear us now gagging on
driftwood and rising waters.

Peaceful seas of dreams
where dancing bonitos circle
canoes,surfing freely cruising
with yellow fins in oceans of fun.
Now hear chokes of sinking feelings
and sirens lamenting restless souls.

As sea sprays watered eyes in contrition 
someone changed the climate in Iceland 
and desert storms rampaged our islands.
Rumblings of constipated volcanoes
longing for release but now stifled by
solar shields torn by man's greed.

As I float amongst the beaches of ghostly
Polynesian islands, the reefs cry out in 
protest as  navigation comes full circle,
back to 'hawaiki' our 'once was seen'
home of origin, a failed quest reiterating
the original theme of a people that "once 
upon a time" existed now once again 
A no man's islands.

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Island Music

The sound of the conch-shell coming from the sea,
then the beat of the drums imitating the reef.
Waves thundering when they hit the boulders,
hissing menacingly as they creep
through the channel shoulders.

As the sea awakens when the tide comes in,
the wind responses by fanning the harmony
of sounds towards the isle ancticipatingly.
The tall coconut trees are the first point of impact
breaking down the hissing wind
into melodius thunderclaps.
The silent thumbing of nuts
in union with sharp-sounding cracks.
Retaliating with the unceasing chatter
of the fluttering leaves in contact.

The sound filtering down the hut where she sleeps,
caressing her face and teasing her dreams.
Even in deep stupor she begins to move in rhythm,
 to the call of the siren of the sea.
Moaning gently with hips swaying in their own way,
her hands gracefully carving routes on butterfly raids.
First the breeze then the fanning of sweet murmurings
in cascading flow, swift then controlled like drops of rain.
Sinews outstretched before the conductor in refrain,
the wand came down and the reef opened up,
to receive the crashing of the angry waves.

She awakens to find him at sea, blowing the conch-shell.
She hears his calls then the waves, the drums and the palm bells.
Moaning softly, beyond her control
swaying with the rhythm innate in her.
The music of the islands begins again.

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

Moth, Light, Gecko and I

I stared at the ceiling in the dead of the night.
Depressed, devoid of feelings I needed light.
Something in the bulb, palpitating in delight.
Enticing like a siren, flashing colours ignite.

Depressed, devoid of feelings I needed light.
A dribbling Moth I espied, duped by the sight.
Enticing like a siren, flashing colours ignite.
'Stop, wake up you stupid Moth' sadly I cried.

A dribbling Moth I espied, duped by the sight.
Moth dived, got scorched on a suicide flight.
'Stop, wake up you stupid Moth' sadly l cried.
Dazed, Moth got up preparing for another dive.

Moth dived, got scorched on a suicide flight.
Creeping Gecko with a dancing tongue, I espied.
Dazed, Moth got up preparing for another dive.
Gecko's tongue lashed out, Moth got eaten alive.

Creeping Gecko with a dancing tongue, l espied.
Gecko looked at me, winked and smiled.
Gecko's tongue lashed out, Moth got eaten alive.
'Snap out of it stupid Man, go get a life.'

Gecko looked at me, winked and smiled.
Something in the bulb, palpitating in delight.
'Snap out of it stupid Man, go get a life.'
I stared at the ceiling in the dead of the night.

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

Tree of Life

This time every year I think of Him.
I yearn for when He calls for me
Once a little twig of the tamarind
tree all dried up with no leaves.
Rotten core, ready for forest floor.
He gave me water, I sprouted pores.

Sprig to branch then a thriving tree.
This time of year, they come for me.
Cut is severe but I feel no pain.
I've waited longing for His claim.
I hear His voice and am very thrilled.
Today, my destiny will be fulfilled.

'Forgive my heaviness,Your Grace.'
He smiled, lovingly I was embraced.
Then I felt through my fibrous shell,
The torture of the souls in Hell.

It was not I that was heavy, it was
the load of sins He had to carry.
I fell, He lifted and held me closer.
Then He carried me to Golgotha,
all the way upon His shoulders.

Spit, taunted they whipped His body.
Nailed, I held Him up in all His glory.
Crown of thorns, I stood with pride.
Nothing could topple the King and I.

'Forgive them for they know not what 
they do.'
Then I cried as He died for them 
and not for this piece of wood.
He said; 'You have earned the right,
people will bow before you as today,

you have become the Tree of Life.
  
T M Ioane

(For Easter Celebration)

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Losing a Child

I remembered that very hot humid day.
I forgot the sun shining down on the grave.

I remembered a howling and a scream.
I forgot the scream was coming from me.

I remembered holding in my arms a soft little bundle.
I forgot a lifeless body laid inside in a huddle.

I remembered putting her inside the coffin.
Then I saw her face and I forgot nothing

I remembered, oh how I hate remembering.
I forgot that all I had left of her, was remembering.

I remembered burying my child in agony.
I forgot she was supposed to bury and cry over me.

T M Ioane.

Details | Tiaua M Ioane Poem

Bliss In Her Ignorance

The lone coconut tree that dared

to lean towards the sea,

gave shade to her friends while

playing on the beach.

Running half-naked so natural

to those blossoming teens,

mother's lagoon fishing straddling

the sea so blue and pristine.

Water glistening on her bare breasts

with ti-leaves as a skirt,

father hunting in the bush,

tanned and muscular without a shirt.

Other than a t-string,

he was completely nude

culturally, he was fully dressed

in a traditional tattoo.



Then the missionaries came!

Pagan worshippers too many

idols, so they said 

And their One true God 

Did not condone her ways.

Erotic  moonlight dancing,

 the young's cultural right but

like nakedness, was labeled 

the devil's own delight.

They cut her hair and

she woke up wearier,

found everything foreign

was then superior.



The young's wild spirits,

broken like tamed fillies

brown skin covered

from head to their Achilles.

Mother's long tresses

made to hide in a bun

head to toe dressed in cotton,

in the heat of the sun.

Father's tattoo was a mark 

of the devil's blood rites.

Respect meant wearing suits

with matching ties.



Many years later traditional dress

covered all except the face.

Confused why bare flesh in a hot place

could be such a disgrace.

Then came the tourists,

lovers and sun-seekers to paradise.

Beaches were the destination;

brown,tanned skin the ultimate prize.

New trendsetters, a see-thru blouse,

a bikini top and mini skirts.

Worst of all were the logos

"God is Dead" on their t-shirts.

They swam in near nudity

and lovers embraced on the shore.

Oblivious to bold writings in brochures,

of things banned in Samoa:



"Please respect our Culture;

Sunday only for God to be adored,

No Flesh Exposures and do your Kissing Indoors."