Reading 46 - The Flowers of the Mbua
The Flowers of the Mbua
In the green mountain forest of the Seatura range,
The dense impenetrable heart of Mbua,
The soft plumaged pigeon’s call,
Thumps through the still spun air,
And the footprints of early morning wild pigs, show
In the sodden mud of the steep hillside path.
In the cool of shaded forest,
Giant reeds of red and orange,
And fans of purple and pink hearts,
Flame in a meke of fragrant colour,
The intense lemon-yellow flowers of the Mbua,
Held close to my nose.
Playful and flamboyant,
Chasing butterflies and birdsong,
Galloping bareback mustangs across the wide open plains,
The children of the Mbua,
Gently growing gracious,
Adorned since birth with sweet smelling flowers,
The perfume oiled into their lithe and living limbs.
It is the flowers of the Mbua
That pillar this pagan poem;
Like when Maciu, wearing a faded orange singlet, freshly washed and pressed,
And carrying in his hand a cluster of pinky-white plumes from the Mbua,
Weaves a live circlet of flowers,
To wear in the light afternoon rain,
And later, after we walk to the ground, our warm shoulders rubbing,
I played football, smelling sweet, wearing that bush king’s crown.
And buoyed by the beautiful butterfly streamers of youth,
(A flowing flower dragon, fragrance floating)
I danced all night in the Harbour Lights,
The Fijian girls held close to my chest;
Like nectar with wide Sarawangga,
Swaying in the amber lake of her body;
Misty-eyed with Wainunu Flow,
Her footsteps soft as the clouds of day,
The sun shining through her flimsy field dress,
It painting in the outlines of the flowers of the flesh;
The flowers of a flowering youth,
The hair just damp beneath my arms,
My whiteness cresting a copra brown beach.
And Maciu who plays wing-forward,
Tells me he has two small marbles inserted,
Beneath the skin on the shaft of his penis,
(“Because the girls like it”)
Climbs on the roof of my house,
And throws mangoes to his friends below.
But as the succulent night begins its ragged call,
He paints the one picture that interests him,
Of a village girl with flower,
Her smile open and inviting.
There’s no lipstick here, no eyeliner,
Only the naked flowers of the flesh,
Carnelian lilies, bathing in the river,
Our bare chests spread against the setting sun.
The flowers of the Mbua grow close to my house,
The bare grey branches coated pink,
Smelling flamboyant in the calm of evening,
Worn white-dewed around my sunset head.
The flowers of the Mbua,
Who gave these beautiful palm-frond
children-of-the god their name,
Smelling sweet,
And myself like an orphaned child refreshed,
By their waves of lapping friendship.
meke - ceremonial dance
Maciu – Fijian spelling for Matthew
