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Poetry

The Lagoon of Languages

By Flora Aurima Devatine
Translated from French by Jean Anderson
Combining poetry and critical theory, esteemed Tahitian poet Flora Aurima Devatine creatively navigates the symbolic relationship between water and language.
A canoe sits in a bay in French Polynesia.
Nico Smit, via Unsplash

            Language-poetry-writing-literature

 

            Language is the water element,
                          It’s water, it’s the sea advancing inland
                          It’s water, it’s the sea as a link,
                          It’s water, it’s the sea joining island to island,
                         And linking islands to continents.

 

           Water is the language space, the space of languages
           And poetry, writing, literature,
           Are the canoe advancing over the water, over the sea, with its society, its culture, in the canoe, in the partly submerged hull of the canoe.
          And it’s the canoe that needs the language, the water element, seawater, the fluid marine space,
          In order to move forward.

 

           It’s society, the canoe-society that today, all the while continuing to weave its vauvau fenua mat, gliding over the water, needs to produce, to create with language, with languages, whatever the language may be. 
           In order to move forward in its (hi)story.

            

            Poetry, writing, literature, like the canoe, cannot move forward
            Without language,
            Without the fluid space of language, the liquid element of seawater, lagoon water, open sea water.
            Poetry, writing, literature, need language, like the canoe does, need water, make sense only on water, at sea.
            In French Polynesia more than elsewhere, poetry, writing, literature need languages, in order to set out and to travel the seas.
            They can only have meaning through language, through the use of language, of languages that vary from one group of islands, from one culture, one society, one people to another.
            Aesthetically and literarily, from one genre to another.
            And artistically and poetically, from one orator or one pen, one tool, one type of material to another.

 

            What matters, fundamentally, intrinsically, beyond language, a communicative tool,
            Is language as a space, as a place, lagoon or part of a lagoon, sea, land, where words, poetry, writing, literature can navigate and take on meaning by questioning, rethinking, and remaking the surrounding world,
            The world where there are only questions:
            Over which water, across which sea, on which internal lagoon, to travel? And what form of transportation within and toward writing?

 

            The question is no longer: “Which language to choose, or which language is suited to writing?”
            But which language is the most convenient for what needs to be said about observations, questions, analyses as we move through and into our thinking, and for our reflections?

 

            Poetry, literature, and writing use the liquid space of language as a place to journey, a place of experiences, discoveries, of creation, production, and bringing to fruition.
            The watery tongue of the mothersea flows from the originary depths, entering the land masses and shaping tongues of land.
            These tongues of land flow back toward the sea and compete against the watery tongue of the open sea.

            These are not wooden tongues, nor rolling stones, but tongues of seawater, of airy sky, and of coral, growing and progressing to infinity over time.

 

            Poetry, literature, these are the bays of languages, of tongues, of the sea advancing into the land, and the land into the sea.
            Where everything that is written forms clumps of coral, fringing reefs.
            Literature is the nibbling, the biting of the tongues into the shores.
            Literature bites, nibbles into the land,
            And that is how we hear the people of the land express themselves, grumbling, and even complaining.

 

            Which lagoon of language (of languages) should we cross to reach and to progress writing? Which direction should we follow in the expression of our thoughts?
            Which way should we choose, should we privilege in writing?

 

            Writing is a journey, an invitation to journey within and through a language, a tongue.
            Language, the place where the word is expressed and thought is written, is the place where poetry and literature travel;
            Language, a fluid and moving space, in which and thanks to which writing moves, unfurls, travels, is the place where the word and writing are forged, sculpted.
            And language, like the lagoon, the sea, the ocean, extends well beyond the canoe, the va’a, beyond the pahi, a ship or small boat that carries forward writing or the word.

 

            And just as words can become a river mouth,
            Writing, poetry, literature which meld together, come into being on the water, in the water, because of the water, are called currents in the water or floods of words flowing like water,
            Where writings become islands of words in the lagoon of languages.

 

            Writing, poetry, literature are created, travel with language, or with languages, on the tongue, in the tongue, through the tongue, and above the tongue, because of the tongue, and beneath the tongue.

 

            And to write,
            Is not to cast off from shore, or not merely to cast off from shore.

            To write,
            Is to seek out the mothersea, it is to go to the sea, toward the mothersea,
            It is to seek out the lost space, cut off from the sea or from the mother,
            It is to manifest a lack.

 

            The desire to write is born from lack, from absence.
            From the lack of language, from the absence of words. It is not having language, not having words to speak that paradoxically makes us write.
            To write is to give yourself a language and lay claim to a language.

 

            To write,
            Is to return to the sea and to swim in language,
            It is to dive into the lagoon of languages, it is to dive into the heart of language,
            It is to seek out words in the cave of your origins, at the maternal source of existence, of beginnings and new beginnings.
            Throughout your life and in practicing your language or languages, you write in the language of your mother or your peers, and/or, later, in the language of your tutors, trainers, teachers.
            And you dive into writing, into poetry, into literature, the way you dive into the sea. That is how you bathe in language in writing, by writing.

            But from which language lagoon should you write?

 

            You write from the internal lagoon and from the open sea,
            You write from all the oceans and from all the open seas, making your way, navigating the high seas and crossing the lagoon,
            You write to swim in language.
            Writing, poetry, literature are a swim in language in the lagoon of languages.

 

            To write,
            Is to dive,
            It’s to dive into the lagoon of languages,
            It’s to dive into and refresh yourself in your language or your languages.
            To write,
            Is to swim,
            It’s to swim, to paddle in your language,
            It’s to splash about, it’s to tremble in your language,
            It’s to turn blue-lipped and to laugh riotously in your language.
            To write,
            Is to slide,
            It’s to surf on your language, to hold fast to your language,
            And let yourself sink gently into your language, to unwind into your language,
            To write,
            Is to adopt, to ally yourself, to attune yourself to your language or languages.
            To write,
            Is to travel in your language as much on the water, in the water, as out of the water.

 

            But through which lagoon, through which language, to come to writing?
            Through which sea and through which language lagoon to come to writing, to poetry, to literature?

 

            You must set forth,
            Language is the water element, the seawater that leads to writing, that gives access to writing.
            You must set forth on a journey over the water, over your language, in your language, and through it, navigate to discover poetry, writing, literature.

 

            Languages are merely lagoons, bays, inlets, linked together by currents, passes, channels.
            And writings are the markers on the water, the clumps of coral rising above the water, and the guyots beneath the water, which are places and times to pause, where languages and thoughts are briefly anchored in the lagoon or in the oceans of language.

 

            Writings are suspension points, they are words shouted out toward the horizon:
            “Tero! Tero!” “Land! Land!”
            “Tera’i’ō! Tera’i’ō!” “Over there! Over there!”

 

            In what space of seawater or river water should poetry, writing, literature be expressed? Into which language or through which language should we enter to shout, to scream, to write?
            What means of communication should we use to travel toward writing, poetry, literature? To travel into writing? To reach writing, through writing, to arrive at writing?
            By means of which language, “from within which language,” should we write? Because can you only write “from within a language,” through the language that travels across writing, poetry, literature?

 

            In order to write, you enter into language, you listen to what the language is saying, focusing your internal ear on the murmuring and wailing of the language or languages, and you write, or you talk about it from within the language.
            But if you are to enter into it in one way or another and be able to write and to write about it,
            Sometimes you have to force the language, carry out a forcing of the language or languages.

 

            The key question, in fact, is: “what is your state of mind at the moment when you enter into the world of writing?”

 

            Writing is a world, it’s the lagoon whose length and breadth you travel across,
            Where language is the pathway that enters into the land and hollows out the land.
            And at the same time that language is the path you follow, language is the expected voice,
            The one that you must make ring out to announce yourself, to appear before others, to show yourself, to show what and who you are,
            Your genealogy, your private self.

 

            The languages of writing are multiple,
            Each of us must simply choose a writing language.
            The question being: “through which language and from inside which language can we reach writing, climb up to writing?”
            Which lagoon of language should we cross to reach writing?

 

            In fact, we must not be afraid to move through language, to cross the lagoon of the languages of writing.
            Writing, like te ao, the light, the day, is contained in te pō, the darkness, the night,
            And we move from orality, from oral writing to literature, to poetry,
            The way we move from te ao to te pō and/or from te pō to te ao,

 

            From te pō where the light begins,
            From te pō the source of the light.

 

            The light does not exist without te pō,
            The light exists only in relation to te pō, and the fires of the volcano are in te pō of the land and of the sea.
            Writing is the opening to the cave of our ,
            It’s the space, the gap through which shines the light of our , where rises and manifests the light of our .
            It is a place where shadow and light meet and exchange. 

“Le lagon des langues : poésie, écriture et littérature” copyright © Flora Aurima Devatine. By arrangement with the author. Translation ©  2024 by Jean Anderson. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

            Language-poetry-writing-literature

 

            Language is the water element,
                          It’s water, it’s the sea advancing inland
                          It’s water, it’s the sea as a link,
                          It’s water, it’s the sea joining island to island,
                         And linking islands to continents.

 

           Water is the language space, the space of languages
           And poetry, writing, literature,
           Are the canoe advancing over the water, over the sea, with its society, its culture, in the canoe, in the partly submerged hull of the canoe.
          And it’s the canoe that needs the language, the water element, seawater, the fluid marine space,
          In order to move forward.

 

           It’s society, the canoe-society that today, all the while continuing to weave its vauvau fenua mat, gliding over the water, needs to produce, to create with language, with languages, whatever the language may be. 
           In order to move forward in its (hi)story.

            

            Poetry, writing, literature, like the canoe, cannot move forward
            Without language,
            Without the fluid space of language, the liquid element of seawater, lagoon water, open sea water.
            Poetry, writing, literature, need language, like the canoe does, need water, make sense only on water, at sea.
            In French Polynesia more than elsewhere, poetry, writing, literature need languages, in order to set out and to travel the seas.
            They can only have meaning through language, through the use of language, of languages that vary from one group of islands, from one culture, one society, one people to another.
            Aesthetically and literarily, from one genre to another.
            And artistically and poetically, from one orator or one pen, one tool, one type of material to another.

 

            What matters, fundamentally, intrinsically, beyond language, a communicative tool,
            Is language as a space, as a place, lagoon or part of a lagoon, sea, land, where words, poetry, writing, literature can navigate and take on meaning by questioning, rethinking, and remaking the surrounding world,
            The world where there are only questions:
            Over which water, across which sea, on which internal lagoon, to travel? And what form of transportation within and toward writing?

 

            The question is no longer: “Which language to choose, or which language is suited to writing?”
            But which language is the most convenient for what needs to be said about observations, questions, analyses as we move through and into our thinking, and for our reflections?

 

            Poetry, literature, and writing use the liquid space of language as a place to journey, a place of experiences, discoveries, of creation, production, and bringing to fruition.
            The watery tongue of the mothersea flows from the originary depths, entering the land masses and shaping tongues of land.
            These tongues of land flow back toward the sea and compete against the watery tongue of the open sea.

            These are not wooden tongues, nor rolling stones, but tongues of seawater, of airy sky, and of coral, growing and progressing to infinity over time.

 

            Poetry, literature, these are the bays of languages, of tongues, of the sea advancing into the land, and the land into the sea.
            Where everything that is written forms clumps of coral, fringing reefs.
            Literature is the nibbling, the biting of the tongues into the shores.
            Literature bites, nibbles into the land,
            And that is how we hear the people of the land express themselves, grumbling, and even complaining.

 

            Which lagoon of language (of languages) should we cross to reach and to progress writing? Which direction should we follow in the expression of our thoughts?
            Which way should we choose, should we privilege in writing?

 

            Writing is a journey, an invitation to journey within and through a language, a tongue.
            Language, the place where the word is expressed and thought is written, is the place where poetry and literature travel;
            Language, a fluid and moving space, in which and thanks to which writing moves, unfurls, travels, is the place where the word and writing are forged, sculpted.
            And language, like the lagoon, the sea, the ocean, extends well beyond the canoe, the va’a, beyond the pahi, a ship or small boat that carries forward writing or the word.

 

            And just as words can become a river mouth,
            Writing, poetry, literature which meld together, come into being on the water, in the water, because of the water, are called currents in the water or floods of words flowing like water,
            Where writings become islands of words in the lagoon of languages.

 

            Writing, poetry, literature are created, travel with language, or with languages, on the tongue, in the tongue, through the tongue, and above the tongue, because of the tongue, and beneath the tongue.

 

            And to write,
            Is not to cast off from shore, or not merely to cast off from shore.

            To write,
            Is to seek out the mothersea, it is to go to the sea, toward the mothersea,
            It is to seek out the lost space, cut off from the sea or from the mother,
            It is to manifest a lack.

 

            The desire to write is born from lack, from absence.
            From the lack of language, from the absence of words. It is not having language, not having words to speak that paradoxically makes us write.
            To write is to give yourself a language and lay claim to a language.

 

            To write,
            Is to return to the sea and to swim in language,
            It is to dive into the lagoon of languages, it is to dive into the heart of language,
            It is to seek out words in the cave of your origins, at the maternal source of existence, of beginnings and new beginnings.
            Throughout your life and in practicing your language or languages, you write in the language of your mother or your peers, and/or, later, in the language of your tutors, trainers, teachers.
            And you dive into writing, into poetry, into literature, the way you dive into the sea. That is how you bathe in language in writing, by writing.

            But from which language lagoon should you write?

 

            You write from the internal lagoon and from the open sea,
            You write from all the oceans and from all the open seas, making your way, navigating the high seas and crossing the lagoon,
            You write to swim in language.
            Writing, poetry, literature are a swim in language in the lagoon of languages.

 

            To write,
            Is to dive,
            It’s to dive into the lagoon of languages,
            It’s to dive into and refresh yourself in your language or your languages.
            To write,
            Is to swim,
            It’s to swim, to paddle in your language,
            It’s to splash about, it’s to tremble in your language,
            It’s to turn blue-lipped and to laugh riotously in your language.
            To write,
            Is to slide,
            It’s to surf on your language, to hold fast to your language,
            And let yourself sink gently into your language, to unwind into your language,
            To write,
            Is to adopt, to ally yourself, to attune yourself to your language or languages.
            To write,
            Is to travel in your language as much on the water, in the water, as out of the water.

 

            But through which lagoon, through which language, to come to writing?
            Through which sea and through which language lagoon to come to writing, to poetry, to literature?

 

            You must set forth,
            Language is the water element, the seawater that leads to writing, that gives access to writing.
            You must set forth on a journey over the water, over your language, in your language, and through it, navigate to discover poetry, writing, literature.

 

            Languages are merely lagoons, bays, inlets, linked together by currents, passes, channels.
            And writings are the markers on the water, the clumps of coral rising above the water, and the guyots beneath the water, which are places and times to pause, where languages and thoughts are briefly anchored in the lagoon or in the oceans of language.

 

            Writings are suspension points, they are words shouted out toward the horizon:
            “Tero! Tero!” “Land! Land!”
            “Tera’i’ō! Tera’i’ō!” “Over there! Over there!”

 

            In what space of seawater or river water should poetry, writing, literature be expressed? Into which language or through which language should we enter to shout, to scream, to write?
            What means of communication should we use to travel toward writing, poetry, literature? To travel into writing? To reach writing, through writing, to arrive at writing?
            By means of which language, “from within which language,” should we write? Because can you only write “from within a language,” through the language that travels across writing, poetry, literature?

 

            In order to write, you enter into language, you listen to what the language is saying, focusing your internal ear on the murmuring and wailing of the language or languages, and you write, or you talk about it from within the language.
            But if you are to enter into it in one way or another and be able to write and to write about it,
            Sometimes you have to force the language, carry out a forcing of the language or languages.

 

            The key question, in fact, is: “what is your state of mind at the moment when you enter into the world of writing?”

 

            Writing is a world, it’s the lagoon whose length and breadth you travel across,
            Where language is the pathway that enters into the land and hollows out the land.
            And at the same time that language is the path you follow, language is the expected voice,
            The one that you must make ring out to announce yourself, to appear before others, to show yourself, to show what and who you are,
            Your genealogy, your private self.

 

            The languages of writing are multiple,
            Each of us must simply choose a writing language.
            The question being: “through which language and from inside which language can we reach writing, climb up to writing?”
            Which lagoon of language should we cross to reach writing?

 

            In fact, we must not be afraid to move through language, to cross the lagoon of the languages of writing.
            Writing, like te ao, the light, the day, is contained in te pō, the darkness, the night,
            And we move from orality, from oral writing to literature, to poetry,
            The way we move from te ao to te pō and/or from te pō to te ao,

 

            From te pō where the light begins,
            From te pō the source of the light.

 

            The light does not exist without te pō,
            The light exists only in relation to te pō, and the fires of the volcano are in te pō of the land and of the sea.
            Writing is the opening to the cave of our ,
            It’s the space, the gap through which shines the light of our , where rises and manifests the light of our .
            It is a place where shadow and light meet and exchange. 

Le lagon des langues

Langue-poésie-écriture-littérature
La langue, c’est l’élément eau.
     C’est l’eau, c’est la mer qui s’avance à l’intérieur des terres,
     C’est l’eau, c’est la mer qui fait lien,
     C’est l’eau, c’est la mer qui relie les îles entre elles,
     Et qui relie les îles et les continents entre eux.

L’eau, c’est l’espace langue, l’espace des langues,
Et la poésie, l’écriture, la littérature,
    C’est la pirogue qui avance sur l’eau, sur la mer, avec sa société, sa culture, dans la pirogue, dans la coque en partie immergée de la pirogue.
    C’est la pirogue qui a besoin de la langue, de l’élément eau, eau de mer, espace marin fluide,
    Pour avancer.
    C’est la société, la société-pirogue qui aujourd’hui et tout en continuant le tressage de sa natte vauvau fenua au fil de l’eau, a besoin de produire, de créer avec la langue, avec les langues, quelle que soit la langue,
    Pour avancer dans son histoire.

La poésie, l’écriture, la littérature, comme la pirogue, ne peut avancer,
    Sans langue,
    Sans l’espace fluide langue, l’élément liquide eau de mer, eau du lagon, eau de haute mer.
    La poésie, l’écriture, la littérature, ont besoin de la langue, telle la pirogue, de l’eau, et qui n’a de sens que sur l’eau, en mer.

    En Polynésie plus qu’ailleurs, la poésie, l’écriture, la littérature ont besoin des langues, pour se mettre en mouvement et sillonner,
    Elles n’ont de sens qu’à travers la langue, qu’à travers l’utilisation de la langue, des langues qui varient d’un groupe d’îles, d’une culture, d’une société, d’un peuple à l’autre,
    Esthétiquement et littérairement, d’un genre à l’autre,
    Artistiquement et poétiquement, d’un orateur ou d’une plume, d’un outil, d’un matériel à l’autre.

    Ce qui importe fondamentalement, intrinsèquement, au-delà de la langue, outil de communication,
    C’est la langue en tant qu’espace, en tant que lieu, lagon ou portion de lagon, de mer, de terre, où la parole, la poésie, l’écriture, la littérature peuvent naviguer et prendre du sens en questionnant, en repensant et en refaisant le monde alentour,
    Celui du lieu où il n’y a que des questions : Sur quelle eau, par quelle mer, dans quel lagon intérieur voyager ? Et quel moyen de transport dans et vers l’écriture ?
    La question n’est plus : Quelle langue choisir, ou quelle langue convient pour écrire ?
    Mais quelle langue est la plus commode pour ce qu’il y à dire des observations, des questionnements, des analyses au cours des déplacements par/et dans la pensée et pour exprimer ses réflexions ?

    La poésie, la littérature ou l’écriture se servent de l’espace liquide langue comme lieu de voyages, comme lieu d’expériences, de découvertes, et de création, de production, et de réalisation.
    La langue d’eau des mer(e)s au flux des eaux abyssales ou matricielles, entre à l’intérieur des terres pour former des langues de terre,
    Lesquelles langues de terre au reflux s’avancent vers la mer et rivalisent avec la langue d’eau de haute mer.
    Ce ne sont pas des langues de bois, de pierres qui roulent, mais des langues d’eau de mer, d’air de ciel, et de corail qui poussent et progressent à l’infini avec le temps.

    La poésie, la littérature, c’est la baie des langues, des avancées de la mer dans la terre, et de la terre vers la mer,
    Où tout ce qui s’écrit forme des pâtés de corail et des récifs frangeants.
    La littérature, c’est le grignotage, le rognage des langues dans le rivage de la terre.
    La littérature rogne, grignote la terre,
    Et c’est ainsi que l’on entend l’homme de la terre s’exprimer, ronchonner et même râler.

    Quel lagon de langue (de langues) traverser pour atteindre et pour faire avancer l’écriture ? Dans quelle direction aller dans l’expression de sa pensée ?
    Quel sens suivre, privilégier dans l’écriture ?
    L’écriture est un voyage, une invitation au voyage dans et à travers une langue.
    La langue, lieu d’expression de la parole et de l’écriture de la pensée, est le lieu de voyage de la poésie, de la littérature ;
    La langue, espace fluide, mouvant dans lequel et grâce auquel se meut, se déploie, voyage l’écriture, est le lieu où l’on forge, le lieu où l’on cisèle la parole et l’écriture.
    Et la langue comme le lagon, la mer, l’océan, se poursuit bien au-delà de la pirogue, va’a, du pahi, navire ou petit bateau qui fait avancer l’écriture ou la parole.

    Et tout comme la parole peut devenir bouche rivière,
    L’écriture, la poésie, la littérature qui se fondent, se font sur l’eau, dans l’eau, par l’eau, sont dites courants en mer ou flots de mots coulant comme l’eau,
    Où les écrits deviennent îlots de mots dans le lagon des langues.
    L’écriture, la poésie, la littérature se créent, se déplacent avec la langue ou les langues, sur la langue, dans la langue, par la langue, par-dessus la langue, à travers la langue, et sous la langue.

    Et écrire,
    Ce n’est pas quitter le rivage, ou pas uniquement quitter le rivage.
    Ecrire,
    C’est rechercher la mer/mère, c’est aller à la mer, vers la mer/mère,
    C’est rechercher le lien perdu, le lien coupé avec la mer ou avec sa mère,
    C’est manifester un manque.

     Le désir d’écrire naît du manque, de l’absence, du manque de langue, de l’absence des mots.
    C’est de n’avoir pas de langue, pas de mots pour parler qui paradoxalement, fait écrire.
    Ecrire,
    C’est se donner une langue,
    C’est revendiquer une langue. 
    Ecrire,
    C’est retourner à la mer et c’est prendre un bain de langue,
    C’est plonger dans le lagon de langues,
    C’est plonger dans l’intériorité de la langue.
    C’est aller rechercher les mots dans la grotte matricielle, à la source maternelle des origines, des commencements et des recommencements.

    Tout au long de sa vie et de la pratique de sa langue ou des langues, on écrit dans la langue de sa mère ou dans celle de ses pairs, et/ou sur le tard, dans la langue des éducateurs, des formateurs, des enseignants,
    Et on plonge dans l’écriture, dans la poésie, dans la littérature, comme on plonge dans la mer.
    C’est ainsi que l’on prend un bain de langue par l’écriture dans l’écriture.

    Mais par le lagon de quelle langue écrire ?
    On écrit par le lagon intérieur et par le large,
    On écrit par tous les océans et par toutes les hautes mers, et chemin faisant, haute mer navigant et lagon traversant,
    On écrit pour prendre un bain de langue.
    L’écriture, la poésie, la littérature sont un bain de langue dans le lagon des langues.

    Ecrire,
    C’est plonger,
    C’est plonger dans le lagon des langues,
    C’est plonger et se rafraîchir dans sa langue ou dans ses langues.
    Ecrire,
    C’est nager,
    C’est nager et c’est patauger dans sa langue,
    C’est s’ébrouer et c’est trembloter dans sa langue,
    C’est bleuir des lèvres et c’est s’esclaffer dans sa langue.

    Ecrire,
    C’est glisser,
    C’est surfer sur sa langue,
    C’est tenir sur sa langue et c’est se laisser s’enfoncer doucement  dans sa langue,
    C’est se délasser dans sa langue.

    Ecrire,
    C’est adopter,
    c’est s’allier,
    C’est s’accorder à sa langue ou à ses langues.
    C’est voyager dans sa langue autant sur l’eau, dans l’eau, que hors de l‘eau.

     Mais par quel lagon, par quelle langue arriver à l’écrire ? Par quelle mer et par le lagon de quelle langue arriver à l’écriture, à la poésie, à la littérature ?
    Il faut partir, et la langue, l’élément eau, eau de mer qui mène à l’écriture, permet l’accès à l’écriture.
    Il faut partir en voyage sur l’eau, sur sa langue, dans sa langue, et par elle, naviguer pour découvrir la poésie, avancer dans l’écriture, la littérature.

    Les langues ne sont que des lagons, des bras d’eau, de mers, reliés les uns aux autres, par des chenaux, par des courants, par des passes,
    Et les écrits en sont les balises sur l’eau, les pâtés de corail hors de l’eau, et les guyots sous l’eau,
    Des temps et des lieux d’arrêt, d’ancrage provisoires des langues et des pensées dans le lagon ou dans les océans de langues.

    Les écrits, ce sont des points de suspension et des mots criés vers l’horizon :
        « Tero ! Tero ! », « Terre ! Terre ! », 
        « Tera ‘i ’o ! Tera ‘i ‘o ! », « Là-bas ! Là-bas ! »

    Dans quel espace d’eau de mer ou de rivière doit s’exprimer la poésie  l’écriture, la littérature ? Dans quelle langue ou par quelle langue de communication entrer pour crier, s’écrier, écrire ? Quel moyen de communication emprunter pour voyager vers l’écriture, la poésie, la littérature ? Pour voyager dans l’écriture ? Pour arriver par l’écrit à l’écriture dans l’écriture ? Par le moyen de quelle langue, « par dedans quelle langue » écrire ?
    Car on ne peut écrire que « par dedans une langue », la langue de la traversée de l’écriture, de la poésie, de la littérature.

    Pour écrire, on entre dans la langue,
    On écoute ce que dit la langue, en tendant l’oreille intérieure au murmure et au vagissement de la langue ou des langues, et on écrit, ou on en parle par dedans la langue.
    Mais pour y entrer d’une manière ou d’une autre et pouvoir écrire et en écrire,
    Parfois, il faut forcer la langue, faire du forcing de la langue ou des langues.
    En réalité, la question principale est : dans quelle disposition d’esprit on est au moment d’entrer dans le monde de l’écriture ?

    L’écriture est un monde, c’est le lagon que l’on traverse de long en large, où la langue est le chemin qui entre dans la terre et qui creuse la terre.
    Et en même temps que la langue est la voie que l’on emprunte, la langue est la voix qui est attendue,
    Celle qui est à faire résonner pour s’annoncer et se présenter devant l’autre,
    A partir de soi, de ce que, de ce qui l’on est, de sa généalogie, de son intimité.

    Les langues d’écriture sont multiples, chacun doit simplement faire son choix de langue d’écriture, la question étant : Par le biais et par l’intériorité de quelle langue arriver à l’écriture, se hisser jusqu’à l’écriture ? Quel lagon de langue traverser pour atteindre l’écriture ?
   En fait, il ne faut pas avoir peur de traverser la langue, de traverser le lagon des langues de l’écriture.

    L’écriture, comme te ao, la lumière, le jour, est déjà dans te po, la nuit des temps,
    Et l’on va de l’oralité, de l’écriture orale à la littérature, à la poésie,
    Comme on va de te ao à te po et/ou de te po à te ao,
        De te po d’où point la lumière,
        De te po source de la lumière.
    La lumière n’existe pas sans te po,
    La lumière n’existe que par rapport à te po, et les feux du volcan sont bien dans te po de la terre et de la mer.

    L’écriture, c’est l’ouverture de la caverne de notre po, c’est l’espace, l’intervalle par lequel apparaît la lumière de notre po, ou par lequel surgit, se voit la lumière de notre po.
    C’est un espace de rencontres et d’échanges des ombres et des lumières.

Chers lecteurs, chers auditeurs, ici prend fin le voyage dans Le lagon des langues !

Si l’on poursuit le voyage, e ao te po e e po te ao !

Avec l’espoir que vous y avez perçu quelques rais de lumière !

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