Besides their stories of love, the Maoris of New Zealand also have
poems, some accompanied with (often obscene) pantomimes, others
without accompaniment. Shortland (146-55), Taylor (310), and others
have collected and translated some of these poems, of which the
following are the best. Taylor cites this one:
The tears gush from my eyes,
My eyelashes are wet with tears;
But stay, my tears, within,
Lest you should be called mine.
Alas! I am betrothed (literally, my hands are bound);
It is for Te Maunee
That my love devours me.
But I may weep indeed,
Beloved one, for thee,
Like Tiniran's lament
For his favorite pet Tutunui
Which was slain by Ngae.
Alas!
Shortland gives these specimens of the songs that are frequently
accompanied by immodest gestures of the body. Some of them are "not
sufficiently decent to bear translating." The one marked (4) is
interesting as an attempt at hyperbole.
(1)
Your body is at Waitemata,
But your spirit came hither
And aroused me from my sleep.
(4)
Tawera is the bright star
Of the morning.
Not less beautiful is the
Jewel of my heart.
(5)
The sun is setting in his cave,
Touching as he descends (the
Land) where dwells my mate,
He who is whirled away
To southern seas.
More utilitarian are (6) and (7), in which a woman asks "Who will
marry a man too lazy to till the ground for food?" And a man wants to
know "Who will marry a woman too lazy to weave garments?" Very
unlover-like is the following:
I don't like the habits of woman.
When she goes out--
She _Kuikuis_
She _Koakoas_
She chatters
The very ground is terrified,
And the rats run away.
Just so.
More poetic are the _waiata_, which are sung without the aid of any
action. The following ode was composed by a young woman forsaken by
her lover:
Look where the mist
Hangs over Pukehina.
There is the path
By which went my love.
Turn back again hither,
That may be poured out
Tears from my eyes.
It was not I who first spoke of love.
You it was who made advances to me
When I was but a little thing.
Therefore was my heart made wild.
This is my farewell of love to thee.
A young woman, who had been carried away prisoner from Tuhua, gives
vent to her longing in these lines:
"My regret is not to be expressed. Tears like a spring
gush from my eyes. I wonder whatever is Te Kaiuku [her
lover] doing: he who deserted me. Now I climb upon the
ridge of Mount Parahaki; from whence is clear the view
of the island Tahua. I see with regret the lofty Taumo,
where dwells Tangiteruru. If I were there, the shark's
tooth would hang from my ear. How fine, how beautiful,
should I look. But see whose ship is that tacking? Is
it yours? O Hu! you husband of Pohiwa, sailing away on
the tide to Europe.
"O Tom! pray give me some of your fine things; for
beautiful are the clothes of the sea-god.
"Enough of this. I must return to my rags, and to my
nothing-at-all."
In this case the loss of her finery seems to trouble the girl a good
deal more than the loss of her lover. In another ode cited by
Shortland a deserted girl, after referring to her tearful eyes, winds
up with the light-hearted
Now that you are absent in your native land,
The day of regret will, perhaps, end.
There is a suggestion of Sappho in the last of these odes I shall
cite:
"Love does not torment forever. It came on me like the
fire which rages sometimes at Hukanai. If this
(beloved) one is near me, do not suppose, O Kiri, that
my sleep is sweet. I lie awake the live-long night, for
love to prey on me in secret.
"It shall never be confessed, lest it be heard of by
all. The only evidence shall be seen on my cheeks.
"The plain which extends to Tauwhare: that path I trod
that I might enter the house of Rawhirawhwi. Don't be
angry with me, O madam [addressed to Rawhirawhwi's
wife]; I am only a stranger. For you there is the body
(of your husband). For me there remains only the shadow
of desire."
"In the last two lines," writes Shortland, "the poetess coolly
requests the wife of the person for whom she acknowledges an unlawful
passion not to be angry with her, because 'she--the lawful wife--has
always possession of the person of her husband; while hers is only an
empty, Platonic sort of love.' This is rather a favorite sentiment,
and is not unfrequently introduced similarly into love-songs of this
description."