A translation of Hone Tuwhare's poem 'Martin Luther King'

Abstract

Martin Luther King In Vietnam they're using a new rifle shell that's a real honey. Let's face it, King: when news of your death came through, lovers all over the World turned each other on, rolled over and turned the radio off. Hell, your continued existence had become an untidy question mark sloshed across the American Declaration of Independence.

A translation of Hone Tuwhare's poem 'Martin Luther King'

Selwyn Muru

Auckland, December 2008.

Matene Ruta Kingi

Kei Vietnam tetahi pu hou; kua whakaritea tona nei reka ki te reka o te miere pi. E ai ki nga rongo, ka paku mai ana te pu nei, ka rere porotiti haere atu nga mata kia puta i te tinana o te tangata; kotahi putu ke te whanui o te kohao ka kitea atu.

Engari i te rerenga mai o te kariri nama toru kore kore ono ka pakarukaruhia to kauae e Kingi. Engari kahore i mutu mai i kona: ka parau haere atu ki te whakamaroke i te wai mongamonga i roto i o moemoea.

Te kariri ra, kare i mohio mai ko wai au i porotehi ranei, te mini hoki. I to horapatanga ki te whenua, katahi to ira tangata ka wepua whakamuritia ki te piriona tau, kia rite ki te ika kakaru.

Kia mau mahara mai e Kingi i te taenga mai o te rongo kua hemo koe, ka huri nga whaiaipo katoa o te ao ki te whakatoratora i a ratou, ka tahuri ki roto i o ratau moenga, ka whakawahangutia nga rerio katoa.

Engari ano ra koe; he koi he mataara. Kaore koe i pai ki nga kupu whakaparahako a nga kiri ma pera i te Matua Keke Tamati me te Upoko Pakete, he kupu whakaiti katoa i te kiri mangu. Nau i keri te hohonutanga o te mana o to iwi. Mai i te taone nui o Parimingihama, huri rauna noa i o whenua, ka titia atu e koe to kaki ki waho; kia whakapuarengia atu to piki mangai mangu ataahua, ka panuitia e koe ki te ao whanui nga parekura kikino i mahia ki nga iwi o Vietnam. Ka hikoi haere koe me to patu, he moemoea: o moemoea, kaore i tautokohia e nga kiri ma o Amerika. Ka kaha atu to whakapuaki i nga kupu tapu o te paipera, me te takahi a te kiri ma i te kiri mangu, ka karangirangi ke atu nga kiri ma, ki a koe. Ta ratau whakahoki, kei ia matou te ture, ara Te Whakapuakitanga o te Mana Motuhake o Amerika. Ae, ko te take tena i puhi ai koe e Kingi.

I mua atu i te titorehanga mai o te maramatanga i o kamo, ka inoi koe i tetahi waiata tino reka. Kaore i tukua mai tenei. Tinikara ki roto i aku uaua; te kata tari tupapaku, e ngunguru ake nei i roto i aku taringa.

Martin Luther King

In Vietnam they're using a new rifle shell

that's a real honey. It describes a tumbling

parabola that could punch a hole in you

a foot square, check?

But when that 30.06

made a bloody mash out of your jaw, it didn't

stop there: kept ploughing right on through to

drain the marrow out of your dream.

That bullet wasn't meant to grunt an apology,

the meanie. When you slumped down, mankind

was hurled back a billion years, to a

jellyfish.

Let's face it, King: when news of your death

came through, lovers all over the World

turned each other on, rolled over and turned

the radio off.

But you were hip. And you never did fancy

fancy-names like Uncle Tom or Handkerchief-head.

You really dug the scene, man. From Birmingham

on you stuck your neck out; opened your big

black beautiful mouth to protest about the high

cost of dying in Vietnam. And you marched

armed only with a dream: a dream held aloft

in your red-hot parable-picking hands. Hell,

your continued existence had become an untidy

question mark sloshed across the American

Declaration of Independence. Yeah: and that

is why they shot you, King.

Before your light was snuffed out, you asked

for a song sung real sweet: hell,

this ain't much. Treacle in my veins: death-cart

rumble in my ears.

Hone Tuwhare.