These poems from Le Paradis present a complex, unsettling meditation on colonialism, cultural erosion, sexuality, and spiritual resistance, all embodied in the figure of Titaina. Across the “Whore / Putain” sequences and the contrasting “Vahine of Bora Bora,” the text constructs a fragmented yet cohesive vision of paradise lost and partially reclaimed. Through raw imagery, repetition, and bilingual mirroring, the poet explores how external forces and internal collapse intertwine to produce both degradation and defiance.
At the center of the “Whore” poems is Titaina, a figure who is at once an individual, a symbol, and a prophetic voice. She exists on the margins of society—a “retired whore”—yet paradoxically occupies a position of spiritual authority. Her marginalization allows her to see clearly what others ignore: the transformation of Tahiti into a metaphorical “whore,” a place exploited, commodified, and spiritually hollowed out. The repeated comparison to cities like Babylon and Rome situates Tahiti within a historical cycle of moral and cultural decay, suggesting that what is happening is not isolated but part of a recurring pattern of civilization’s corruption.
The imagery in the first poem is deliberately shocking and confrontational. The violence, degradation, and chaos of the slums are mirrored in the packs of wild dogs, which function as both literal and symbolic agents. These dogs evoke a descent into animality, reflecting the loss of humanity among the people who “mindlessly beat their wives and rape their own daughters.” While such imagery is disturbing, it is used not for sensationalism but to underscore the depth of societal collapse. Titaina’s interpretation, guided by her “divining shells,” attributes this decay not merely to substance abuse but to a deeper spiritual and cultural disintegration driven by colonial influence and materialism.
Colonial critique is central to the poem’s message. The “white man” is portrayed as a destructive force, bringing nuclear testing, ecological devastation, tourism, and cultural distortion. References to Moruroa and environmental damage situate the poem in a нақты historical context, linking personal and communal suffering to geopolitical exploitation. Yet the poem does not absolve the local population; Titaina condemns her own countrymen as “traitors” who have abandoned tradition. This dual critique complicates the narrative, presenting colonization as both imposed and internalized.
Despite the bleakness, Titaina is not merely a victim. Her long, defiant speech to the dogs is a moment of fierce resistance. She asserts that while her body may be violated, her soul—and the souls of her ancestors—remain beyond possession. This distinction between physical and spiritual sovereignty is crucial. By identifying herself with deities such as Ta’aroa and Vaite, she transcends her individual identity and becomes a vessel of cultural memory and divine maternity. Her vulgar, confrontational language further subverts expectations, reclaiming agency in a world that seeks to reduce her to an object.
The second and third parts of the “Whore” sequence introduce a tonal shift. The intensity of the first poem gives way to introspection and quiet sorrow. Titaina, now alone, rocks herself and prays for rain—a symbol of cleansing and renewal. The mention of “Pangea Ultima” evokes a cosmic reset, a longing for a return to primordial unity. This desire reflects exhaustion with cyclical suffering, yet it also suggests hope for transformation.
By the third part, a fragile equilibrium emerges. Time seems suspended, and the chaos of the previous day is softened by a kind of communal amnesia or forgiveness. The phrase “C’est la vie” encapsulates this resignation, but it is not entirely negative; it represents a coping mechanism, a way to endure. The “natural Prozac” of the Polynesian environment hints at the restorative power of place, even in the face of ongoing «gentrification».
The French “Putain” versions mirror the English poems almost exactly, reinforcing the themes while adding another layer of meaning. The bilingual structure reflects the cultural duality imposed by colonial history. Language itself becomes a site of tension, as the same story is told through both the colonizer’s tongue and a localized adaptation of it. This duplication emphasizes the inescapability of cultural hybridity while also suggesting resilience through reinterpretation.
In contrast, “Vahine of Bora Bora” offers a softer, more lyrical perspective on desire and beauty. Here, love is distant, unpossessable, and dreamlike. The vahine is not degraded but revered, existing as an ideal rather than an object of exploitation. This poem serves as a counterpoint to the brutality of the “Whore” sequence, reminding the reader of what has been lost but also what still persists in imagination and longing. The sensuality here is gentle and aesthetic, rooted in admiration rather than domination.
Together, these poems create a powerful exploration of paradise as both a physical place and a spiritual condition. Tahiti, once imagined as idyllic, is revealed as deeply scarred, yet not entirely devoid of hope. Through Titaina’s voice—angry, mournful, and defiant—the poet insists on the possibility of cultural survival and renewal. The paradise of the title is not something that can be destroyed entirely; it endures “within us,” waiting to be reclaimed.
WHORE.
1) Whore (part 1)
Titaina … the one who fears spirits …
is not impressed by the stiff-lipped
and well-dressed Frenchmen, or the
Demis; to her they are the horsemen
of the Apocalypse.
She is no more enamoured of her own
countrymen, living in slums and working
for the ‘white man’ as servants to the
God of Materialism…traitors to the old
traditions, the Old Way and the
religion of Lemuria.
Looking around herself, Titaina eyes the
gang of undomesticated dogs she sees
running rampant and fearlessly on the
streets of the slums of Tahiti;
and she recognizes in the hollowness
of their spirit the vacant expressions and
frothing at the mouths consistent with that
of the men of the slums as they mindlessly
beat their wives and rape their own daughters …
or those of their neighbors.
Some blame the behavior on alcohol and marijuana
addiction … but Titaina finds the same culprit every
time she casts the ‘divining shells’:
‘Tahiti has become a “whore” – much like Babylon,
Rome, Iraklion, New York City … and the time of
redemption – while seemingly overdue – is nigh.’
Visions of Moruroa – ‘the place of the big secret’ –
and the coral obliterations caused by El Niño
flashed before Titaina’s Third Eye; explosions,
ecological disaster, cancers, quick money followed
by gentrification and tourism, loss of tradition and spirituality,
squalor, poverty and social imbalance;
all symptoms of the Hell created by the ‘white man’,
and exported to the naive descendants of Lemuria and Atlantis.
“We have gone to the dogs!” exclaimed Titaina,
throwing herself upon the street pavement and
screaming in vain; her voice could not be heard
above the howling of the dogs.
As she looked up towards the approaching gang of
canines, Titaina shook her fist at them and reached
for a couple of stones within her reach. The fiery-red
eyes of the dog-gang leader burned like coals in her
eye-sockets – prompting Titaina to yell:
“You son-of-a-bitch – stay away – I know who you are.
You are the guards of Cerberus – and your number is
six by six by six (666); but you will never vanquish these Golden Isles.
Our Paradise lives on within us and, with the help of Ta’aroa
and Vaite, we shall soon resurrect ‘your heaven’.”
The dogs looked unconvinced and unimpressed, and the screams
of the female victims of the inebriated and stoned masculine
slum-dwellers came neither to a halt nor were they toned down.
Titaina prepared herself to be overcome and ravaged by the
four-legged ‘beasts’, saying: “Do with me as you will, but mark my
words – I will haunt you and your devilish masters until the waters of
the Great Wave once again wash away the sinfulness
of your modern ways.
I shall personally dance upon your crushed bones
in my best grass skirt, flashing my wrinkled and
low-hanging breasts and stamping my feet –
not in your memory – but rather in a vehement attempt
to transform your evil to fruitful creation.
Be finished … or be gone with you …
we
don’t want or need your luxury hotels,
your tourist business,
your jobs borne on the backs of atomic destruction
and ecological ruin … or your perversion of
our traditions and culture into
parodies of your own disillusionment
with religion and sexuality – now
reduced to a fundamentalist interpretation
of rules and regulations (regularly broken,
and whose perverse transgressions
are the fundament of all ecstatic
whoredom ). old body,
fuck my dried out cunt and
let your lasciviousness drool incessantly from your jowls –
but you will never possess my soul,
or the souls of my ancestors.
Your presumptuousness irritates the Gods;
and the godliness in yourselves
will equalize the imbalance that you have created and that
my countrymen have accepted –
out of powerlessness, greed and
naive curiosity.
I am no longer curious about you;
no longer afraid … and no longer
ashamed of who I am.
I am Ta’aroa…I am Vaite.
Fuck with me…
and you WILL get fucked!”
The leader of the gang of dogs
looked into the hardened eyes of the old
woman Titaina, and backed off,
saying to his buddies: “Let her be; she is
just an old bitch, who cannot even feel
the fear of our conquest …
not only is it bad meat,
but the limited pleasure is
not worth our energy.”
And with that, the canine followers retreated –
chasing after sounds of barking
a few blocks away – and the leader limped
haltingly after, hoping
that the solitary tear in his left eye
would remain unnoticed
by his colleagues.
2) Whore (part two).
Titaina…
retired whore…
weeps to herself.
Arms crossed
over her chest,
in self-embrace.
Rocking while
sitting on the floor;
begging the Gods
for rain –
to wash away the
pain of reality,
while secretly
hoping for
Pangea Ultima:
that cleansing
lullaby which once
in a blue moon
most effectively
restores all to
order, and gives
humanity yet
another chance
to choose another
horse on the
relentless carousel.
3) Whore (part three).
Today, Titaina receives her
relatives in understated
elegance; much like the
cultured Parisian women
she so avidly read about
in her young adult years.
It is the ‘day after’ and
yesterday’s indiscretions are
forgiven, if not forgotten.
After all, we all have our
demons… our secrets,
which terrify and tantalize
both us and those who
get caught in our web.
The best part of having
a “meltdown” in French Polynesia
is the inevitable suspension of time –
an aquamarine flood of gentleness –
which quiets the madness of tension
and restores calm; a natural ‘Prozac’
cradling us into eloquent indifference:
“That’s life! So it’s not all bad.”
FUCK.
1) Damn.
Titaina… she who fears spirits…
is not impressed by the
stiff, impeccably dressed French, or by the
half-breeds; to her, they are the horsemen of the apocalypse;
she is no longer in love with her compatriots,
who live in slums and work for white men
as servants, serving the god of materialism,
betraying the ancient traditions and
religion of Lemuria.
Looking around her,
Titaina observes the packs of stray dogs
she sees sniffing through the refuse of Tahiti’s slums;
she thinks she recognizes in their drooling mouths
and in the depths of their minds the empty expressions of these lost men,
these scoundrels who, for the slightest reason, beat their wives,
then rape their own daughters.
Or those of their equally unfortunate neighbors.
Some attribute this stupid and bestial behavior
to their penchant for alcohol and marijuana.
But Titaina encounters the same plague
every time she opens the oracle shells of the mussels:
‘Tahiti has become a whore—
just like Babylon, Rome, Heraklion, New York…
but the era of redemption is near—
even if it has been a long time coming.’
Images of Moruroa—’the place of the great secret’—
and the coral obliterations caused by El Niño
are reflected in Titaina’s third eye;
nuclear testing, ecological disaster, cancers,
the quick money brought about by gentrification and tourism,
the loss of traditions and spirituality, abject misery,
poverty, and social imbalance;
all the symptoms of the hell created by white men
and passed down to the naive descendants of Lemuria and Atlantis.
‘We have fallen into the snake pit!’ “Titaina screamed,
rushing onto the sidewalk, letting out a futile cry,
her voice drowned out by the barking of the dogs.
As the raging packs approached,
Titaina raised her fist in their direction
and picked up some stones.
The reddened eyes of the pack leader
burned like hot coals—
then Titaina began to scream:
“Get away, you sons of bitches—
I know who you are,
guardians of Cerberus—
you move in groups of six by six (666);
but you will never conquer these golden isles.
Paradise continues to live within each of us, and
with the help of Ta’aroa and Vaite,
We will soon resurrect yours.
The dogs look at her, barely surprised,
while piercing cries of women can be heard
from the slums, beaten as they are by
drugged drunks, relentlessly pursuing their misdeeds.
Titaina prepares to be attacked and devoured by the pack of dogs.
“Do with me what you will, but beware—
I will haunt you and your diabolical masters
until the waters of the Great Wave
come to wash away your modern-day sins.
I will dance upon your broken bones
in my finest grass skirt, swaying my
wrinkled, sagging breasts, stamping my feet—
not for remembrance—but with
the firm intention of transforming the evil you represent
into fruitful creation. Stop your misdeeds, or go to hell!
And drag your masters,
these Highway Robbers, into the turmoil.
We neither want nor need your
luxury hotels, your malevolent tourism, your job offers
concocted after your atomic explosions and
environmental destruction… after you have perverted our traditions
and parodied our culture for the sole purpose of compensating for your disillusionment
with this faith you have…” lost, and your
sick sexuality—now reduced to a distorted interpretation of the rules,
whose perverse transgressions have made the nest
of the New Prostitution.
Go ahead: trample my shriveled old body, fuck my
withered cunt, and drip your lascivious saliva over me
—but you will never possess my soul,
nor those of my ancestors.
Your arrogance angers the gods;
and your piety will neutralize the imbalances
you have created and my countrymen have accepted—
fruits of impotence, avarice, and naive curiosity.
I am no longer curious about you; no longer afraid,
nor more ashamed of who I am.
I am Ta’aroa… I am Vaite.
Fuck me, and you shall be fucked!
The pack leader stares into
old Titaina’s hardened eyes,
then recoils, whispering to his buddies:
“Leave her alone; she’s just an old bitch,
who doesn’t even know how to fear us anymore,
she’s just spoiled meat,
and not worth the trouble.”
And with that, the others withdraw –
drawn by other noises and the barking of the neighborhood –
while the leader hobbles on, still hesitating, hoping that no one
has noticed the solitary tear lodged in his left eye.
2) Damn (Part 2).
Titaina…
retired whore.
She weeps softly,
arms crossed
over her chest,
and rocks
back and forth, sitting on the pavement;
praying to the gods
that it will rain –
that they will take away the pain
of reality,
while
secretly invoking Pangea Ultima:
that purifying lullaby
which, becoming so rare,
allows humanity,
once again, to mount
another horse on
the implacable carousel.
3) Damn (Part 3).
Today, Titaina
receives her family
with understated elegance,
much like the cultured Parisian women
she heard so much about
when she was still a young adult.
It’s the day after, and
yesterday’s indiscretions are forgiven,
if not forgotten.
After all, we all have our demons;
our secrets, which terrify and tempt
us all, and those
who let themselves be drawn into our frenzy.
The best thing about this mental breakdown
in French Polynesia is
the inevitable suspension of time—
the great aquamarine wave of kindness—
the one that soothes the madness within us
and restores serenity; a natural Prozac
lulling us into eloquent indifference:
“That’s life! So it’s not all bad.”
* – * – * – * – *
Vahine of Bora Bora (my secret love).
I have a secret love:
as mysterious as the coral reef,
and as sweet as the scent of
coconut oil mixed with tiare flowers.
We have never spoken, and yet we
instinctively recognize the caresses
clumsily hidden behind our stolen
glances and repressed giggles.
I have a secret love
that cannot be possessed.
She is an object of beauty
to be admired from a distance
and to be made love to in my dreams.
I am for her a curiosity, and only one of many
images of passion to be communicated
in her ritual and ceremonial dances.
I cannot help but stare at the sensuality
of her womanly curves and gyrations
which capture me and hold me hostage.
I have a secret love:
she is my vahine…
in my dreams.
Vahiné from Bora Bora (my secret love).
I have a secret love:
as mysterious as the coral reef,
and as sweet as the scent of coconut oil
mingled with tiare flowers.
We have never spoken,
but we instinctively sense
the caresses awkwardly hidden
beneath our stolen glances
and stifled laughter.
I have a secret love…
that cannot be possessed.
She is an object of beauty,
admired from afar
and made love to in dreams.
I am to her only a point of curiosity,
one of the thousand images intruding
upon her rituals and dances.
I can only gaze at her,
admiring the sensuality of her curves,
her feline grace
that bewitches me
and holds me captive.
I have a secret love:
in my dreams
she is my vahine…
See more excerpts from «Le Paradis» here on my blog.
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