From Wellington Fool by Mark Pirie

Roots

(i.m. Maui Dalvanius Prime, 1948-2002)

Dalvanius dies. At least it's made
the news. 'He was a Maori joker

wasn't he?' a man says reading aloud.
I think back to the '80s. Where was

I when the Patea Maori Club topped
the charts? Somewhere near Hawera

I think, visiting my Great Aunt, or in
Stratford on a trip, moving down those

long wide streets of dairy town,
working class New Zealand, and unaware

of the frigid existence of many.
Now, older, it comes back in the form

of Dalvanius's corpse. The last of '80s
Kiwiana perhaps. Another icon

dipping down like the cattle flung dung
or that typically local tele-setting country sun.

(For Apirana Taylor)

1
Stepping on to the marae,
I sit by the wharenui,
eyeing up the ancestors -
the tekoteko of madness above me:

Who are you Pakeha?
Why are you here?
Do you come
to challenge?

They eye me, they issue
their wero. I eye
them back. I am unafraid of
history and utu.

There is only aroha left
in this slow-ticking heart.

2
Inside,
I look across at Titokowaru,

his carved face, his mana hanging beneath:
von Tempsky's corpse,

yet, even the Great Warrior himself was
humbled, imprisoned, left in a cell,

until Hine-nui-te-po equalled him finally
inside her terrible womb.

Te Herenga Waka Marae, Wellington