“Two queer Hawaiian poets find each other at the 13th Festival of Pacific Arts & Culture in Honolulu and a friendship unfurls like bright kupukupu,” is how Noʻu Revilla and Kai Gaspar billed themselves when they turned in this interview. Hard to improve on that, and we won’t even try. But we will amplify.

First, this interview comes about as a way of celebrating the one-year anniversary of Ulu, Kai Gaspar’s debut poetic memoir from Hoʻolana Publishing. On publication the poetic memoir created a sensation among readers of poetry locally and nationally for its combustable sensory overload of language, island beauties (in every sense of the word) and frank sexuality. 

When the editors at Ho‘olana, a new entry on the Hawai‘i scene, got in touch with THROB about doing something with the book, their first, we suggested finding a kindred soul to converse with Gaspar. No‘u Revilla is that and more. Born and raised on Maui, her debut book of poetry, Ask the Brindled (Milkweed Editions), broke big when it won the 2019 National Poetry Series, followed by the 2023 Balcones Prize, awarded by the creative writing department at Austin Community College. 

Writing in The New York Times Book Review about Ulu, Megan Kamalei Kakimoto, author of Every Drop is a Man’s Nightmare, noted how, “with captivating, sensual imagery, Gaspar immerses readers in his native village of Hōnaunau, weaving together themes of queerness, desire, protection and possession with the abiding spirit of aloha ʻāina.” (Italics are those of the NY Times; we don’t italicize Hawaiian words.)

Ulu’s publishers at Hoʻolana are poets themselves: Ryan Oishi, Tiare Picard, Sage Uʻilani Takehiro and Rain Wright and it shows in their description, also worth quoting: “A raw and lyrical poetic memoir, Ulu captures with haunting vivacity the world of Hōnaunau, Hawaiʻi in the 1970s and ‘80s: the humanity and hunger of its unforgettable villagers, who ‘seed and feed and breed in the dark,’ the sensual coming-of-age of the poet narrator, who, with his keen eye, and desire to protect and heal, “honors, recollects, and chronicles both the troubled and the healing moʻolelo of his ‘āina.” 

As Revilla and Gaspar write, the interview celebrates “the value of poetry, aloha ʻāina, and creative community.”

An Interview with Kai Gaspar and Noʻu Revilla

NO‘U REVILLA

Aloha nui, dear friend. Piha kuʻu naʻau me ka mahalo. Ulu is such a gift. Page after page, your writing affirms how we as ʻŌiwi cannot write about desire without writing about ʻāina, and we cannot write about ʻāina without writing about desire. The wahi pana of Hōnaunau [on the southern Kona coast of the island of Hawaiʻi, where Gaspar grew up] is a foundational presence in Ulu. Can you talk about the ways ʻāina guided both the making of this book and your growth as a writer?

KAI GASPAR

When I was little on the shore of Hōnaunau, nights were dark because no electricity. Only kerosene lamps. I enjoyed reading in their light and playing in the shadow gradations. When everyone slept, I used to remove my clothes and wander because the nighttime promised exploration and encounters with spirits and anything else traveling the shore. You know how we talk about “state of innocence”? Before I was aware of oppressive forces and hateful humans who wanted me dead, I felt innocent being in nature, being of nature, rubbing myself on the shrubland, smelling the ocean until I fell asleep. Someone always found me and carried me home.

When we moved up into the forest, we still lit nights with kerosene. This was a time I began shifting into a pig so I could run in the dark and smell for rotting things. I would look down at my pig body and see my tusks and struggle against anyone who tried to make me human again. I thought why are you doing this, why are you taking me away from my pig perceptions which included feeling moonlight on my bristles and rubbing myself on the ʻāina.

NO‘U

The shapeshifting you invoke here reflects great intimacy and trust, not just in ʻāina but in your own body’s capacity to respond to ʻāina. Unsurprisingly, imagery is a potent aspect of your writing. For example, in “Kukui” you write:

My shimmering greasepaint made some vigorous kāne of Kohala wink.
The Moaʻe kū blew my hair into a Meli’sa Morgan kine style for captivating their minds.
I serviced Kohala’s prepared kāne who knew the ways of pelvic heat.
They gave me fragrant lei and sugar cane that can wound the mouth.

Your appeals to readers’ bodies, especially our senses of touch, movement, smell, and taste, are utterly striking. For you, how does imagery serve the worldbuilding of Ulu? 

KAI

Plugging into the grid was tops! I was in water heater and television heaven. After cable came our way, we siphoned signals for a while until some unskilled interlopers made the operation so messy, we had to go legit. When the man at the cablevision asked my mother what channels she wanted, my mother said “All.” She knew I was a movie-obsessed loner and a good kid, so this everything access was her way of saying “Knock yourself out.” Deep night television offered Australian New Wave, B-movie glory, softcore on the Dutch Coast, visions of paradise. I learned how the parts of moviemaking came together for my enjoyment. When I write, I see movies in my mind. As the scenes play and replay, the production designs, the lightings and scores combine, the Odorama cards offer their smells, the imagery firms up, the arranging make me feel good. 

NO‘U

Can imagery deepen trust between a writer and their readers?

KAI

Mr. Luther Vandross begins his Never Too Much album with these lyrics, which I am singing acapella right now and hitting all the notes.

I can’t fool myself, I don’t want nobody else to ever love me
You are my shining star, my guiding light, my love fantasy
There’s not a minute, hour, day or night that I don’t love you
You’re at the top of my list ’cause I’m always thinking of you

Mr. Luther’s vocal mastery, exquisite arrangement, and deep knowledge of love drama creates the captivation factor that sends me every time. I see Mr. Luther in heaven right now tuning into his stories. When I first heard Never Too Much, I trusted that the rest of the album would make me feel the feelings. An artist who can serve that level of excellence has my attention and my willingness to go more.

My kāne and I went to a Thursday matinée of Ran, the first Kumu Kurosawa film I ever saw as a kid. The opening scenes reveal such mastery of composition, lenses, sound design, editing, music, costumery, one can trust that the rest of the film is going to blow your mind.

In real world situations with material consequences, when it comes to trusting somebody who might just happen to be adept at writing up scenarios—do not buy any magic beans without guarantees. Request a demonstration. Show me. 

NO‘U

One aspect of Ulu that certainly lives up to the spirit of “show me” is the archive of family photos you incorporate. Why did you choose to share family photos in this poetic memoir? How did you envision the relationship between text and images?

KAI

From early on I searched for sensations that would expand my grammar. Before I could access the grown things I enjoy now, sticking my head into the outhouse pit and inhaling the stink thrilled me. When I see the photo of my rainbow lua, I think “That’s me.” I have strong sense memories about toilets. Public ones were such instructional spaces. There’s a scene in Stephen Frears’s Prick Up Your Ears in which Gary Oldman, as playwright Joe Orton, engages kāne in a toilet—my early encounter with cruising art that wasn’t graffiti. I thought, “I can’t wait to grow up.”

It was important for me that Ulu be entertaining. Since the seascape orientation of the pages reminded me of a movie screen, I included photos (my mother snapped all but three) to give the book more sense of cinema. Early on, you’ll see photos of my baby lūʻau—plenty food, music, smoldering imu, beautiful people. Then a photo of Hale O Ho‘oponopono, which was built as an alternative school to teach kids fishing, wa‘a maintenance, net making, all kine useful skills. My parents were part of the school’s community construction in the 70s. I included a photo of my Godparents Dixon Enos and Helen Malapit because they welcomed the responsibility. Plus, barefoot Godmother rockin’ a pantsuit gives me life!

A later sequence shows the launch of Keōua Hōnaunau Canoe Club, which my Tūtū Clara was instrumental in forming. Practices and races offered the Hōnaunau boys constructive ways to channel their energies. You can see Keōua’s former coach Uncle Calvin Kelekolio, my father behind the wa‘a, then feeling his release. My windswept parents—damn, they were beautiful. 

Photos of our shack in glorious color. My kāne says there’s a cat in the left photo, but I’m kinda Blow-Up about it.

Of course, the plumeria boy who lies with dogs dreams of running away with the loving, strong, sophisticated boy giving life to Keāhole in his floral Hilo Hattie and rainbow slippahs.   

NO‘U

Our conversation has me circling one of the things I cherish most about this collection: musicality. You pay such rigorous attention to sound and rhythm, which makes the reading experience feel seamless. When it comes to making sure the music of your storytelling is just as strong as imagery and narrative, what does revision look like for you? How often are you reading your work out loud?

KAI

Oh No‘u, mahalo so much for feeling the musicality. I share countless hours spinning records, cutting rugs, and loving tight arrangements. So much learning to do. I figure if I dig what I’m writing, then some folks in the honua will dig it too.

You know how food and spirits have mouthfeel. Words too. If I enjoy what my tongue is doing as I read out loud, I’m satisfied. I made sure Ulu’s arrangements offer good mouthfeel.  

NO‘U

Mouthfeel, yes! I know we keep coming back to this but it’s so important to remember: poetry belongs to the body. So we should be reading poems out loud—to ourselves, to each other, putting the words in our mouths and giving them ea and bite and whatever else the moʻolelo is asking for. I wonder, do you want readers reading these pages out loud? What about those who connect with the emotional current of your writing but are not versed in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi or Pidgin? Does the musicality of this book invite readers to listen or to sing out loud alongside you?

KAI

I just received a late-night fortune that said music would be a topic of lucky discussion. Ooh. During the mouthfeel process I projected Ulu onto a big screen and read out loud with lots of drama like I was starring in a movie. I would love for readers to put Ulu in their mouths and give the earholes some personalized excitement. If you want to sing alongside me, come and sing.

My interest in esoterica appears throughout Ulu, but Ulu is not esoteric. After years of writing undergrad essays that once or twice came back to me marked up with ‘WC’ in red ink, I’m careful with words. To the poetry lovers, mouthfeelers, bodytalkers who are not versed in ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi or Pidgin or the slang I grew up with—no worries, I got you. Even if you don’t understand a word here or expression there, the stories are still accessible. You’ll have a good time.

NO‘U

Earlier you spoke about the seascape orientation of the pages in Ulu. Knowing a little of your interest in architecture, I am not surprised that the structure of your book is intentional. How does the layout of Ulu activate the moʻolelo? What would be lost if Ulu was not designed as longer, seascape pages?

KAI

Mahalo for vibing that the architecture of Ulu is on purpose. When I was little, I daydreamed of running a lei stand at Nāpo‘opo‘o, enjoying my quiet thoughts while sweetening the air with plumeria like the aunties and tūtū whose beauty and elegant fashions I admired. Writing Ulu felt like making lei. A seascape orientation gave me space to make the long kine lei that drape from your neck to your na‘au. The fancy kine lei Hawaiian beauty queens wear while horsebacking during parades on Ali‘i Drive.

I’ll take a good story however I can get it. Shadow puppets, hula, just give me something good.  

I love when filmmakers know how to use a 2:35 ratio, a seascape orientation, wide horizons for the visual storytelling. Don’t give me no pan and scan, “this film has been modified to fit your screen.” The Great Amy Hānaialiʻi Gilliom—“KHBC” whotah!—told a story about how THE Leina‘ala Haili considered stripping for a performance at Ala Moana’s center stage. Ala Moana should only be so lucky. When Ms. Gilliom said Auntie, you cannot do that, Ms. Haili said if the song calls for stripping, the song calls for stripping. Ulu called for widescreen. And I like the way the pages spread open on my lap. 

NO‘U

We are celebrating the season of Ulu’s one year anniversary. Last year, you first celebrated in Depoe Bay with a soft book launch on August 15 then on October 8 at Native Books here on Oʻahu. After one year of the book living in the world, what have you learned? How have readers surprised you?

KAI

I didn’t expect folks to send me messages after reading my book to say how it made them feel.  The word “vulnerability” kept coming up in conversations. I survived colonial schools and churches full of wrong thinking, wrong acting people who used shame to try and silence me, homogenize me, keep me from being my natural flesh-and-bone self. When I started writing Ulu, my kāne and I were on our way to a Ms. Stephanie Mills concert. We kept her Personal Inspirations album on repeat the entire journey. I knew I was going to explore aspects of my kid-time trauma, but on that day Ms. Mills’s gospel so lifted me, I started with my joys. And the more I explored them, the less risk I felt testifying to my own experiences.

My mother and brother are both Leo people, fire types. I knew their warmth would send me to the many good things that have happened since last August. I wish I had a transporter like the Enterprise kine so I could do a quick materialize with dear ones in near and far places for more storytelling and fun. Dearest No‘u, mahalo nui loa for your time and energy. Can’t wait to cruise with you! To all the right thinking, right acting people in the world—live long and prosper xo

Kai Gaspar is a Kanaka ‘Ōiwi poet and teacher whose works have been published in Mauri Ola Contemporary Poems in English / Whetu Moana II, Hawai‘i Review, Tinfish, Yellow Medicine Review, and elsewhere.  Kai learned to read by kerosene lamps on the shore of Hōnaunau, graduated from Kapi‘olani Community College, then earned a PhD at UH Mānoa. Ulu is Kai’s full-length debut.

Noʻu Revilla is an ʻŌiwi poet and educator. Born and raised on Maui, she prioritizes aloha, gratitude, and collaboration in her practice. Her debut book Ask the Brindled (Milkweed Editions) won the 2019 National Poetry Series and 2023 Balcones Prize. She is an Associate Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Hawaiʻi at Mānoa and a lifetime “slyly / reproductive” student of Haunani-Kay Trask.

Banner image courtesy of Олег Мороз.