Arielle Taitano Lowe is a Chamorrita poet from Guam. (Click photo to learn more)

Arielle Taitano Lowe presenting her poetry at the Operation New Life Symposium on April 2nd, 2025 at the University of California, Irvine.

Ocean Mother by Arielle Taitano Lowe (University of Guam Press, 2024)

Ocean Mother weaves together riveting poems from strands of the author’s memories growing up as a CHamoru girl in Guåhan (Guam), layered with realizations she made across the ocean and upon her return home. The following poem, “Soul Fishing,” is dedicated to the author’s grandfather, Johnny Atulai Taitano, and depicts the intergenerational afterlives of the US War in Vietnam.
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Birthed in 2013

You said to me, 
Baby, write me a poem about peace. 
Something that will bring me to tears. 

On late nights like this, 
your voice slurs
and stories spill
onto the table, 

and I swear I hear 
the hum of old rifles
firing. 

The walls of our home
transform into jungle, 
and you’re a young Chamoru boy
once again,

On the front lines of 
America’s war
in Vietnam.

You were a Navy Corpsman.

At age 17, they called you
Doc. 

You took cover from bullets, 
placed pressure on wounds,
cauterized and stitched skin.

You were the island boy
who taught starving U.S. Marines
how to pick and peel 
mangoes from trees.

You were pattera to 
village mothers
birthing babies. 

Papa, 
I always wanted to be
brave like you. 

Night after night, 
I sat, at age 17, and you 63,
at your outdoor coffee table, 
cigarette in hand. 

I would swat away the smoke
and drink in your stories. 

Papa, 
my bare feet were still tender. 
I wasn’t ready to walk
a mile in your shoes. 

During the war, 

You found 
what remained 
of your best friend
in a tree. 

Clumps of his butchered 
flesh 

hung 
from branches

like mangoes. 

I watched you 
try to numb the flashbacks
with alcohol. 

With a 12-pack catalyst of abuse, 
you shot curses from your tongue
like bullets, 

except we became the casualties: 

our family has been bleeding 
for decades

in the aftermath. 

Papa, I would do anything
to set you free from 
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Papa, 
ten years later, 
I don’t sit at your table, 
but I carry you with me. 

I write this poem 
for our generational 
healing. 

You told me, 
Baby write me a poem about peace. 

This poem is for you. 
See Papa, you’re not just a Corpsman, 
you’re a legendary local fisherman. 

You’re Johnny Atulai
catching legendary schools of guihan. 

Today, you stitch nets, 
doctor plants in your garden, 
share stories and water seeds. 

Sea salt and soil
cleanse your tainted memories.

You said

Baby, don’t come to me 
with a penny in your pocket, 
because I’ve got a hundred dollars
worth of experience. 

Papa, 
whether you’re a Corpsman or a fisherman, 
I have 28 years worth of loving you, 
and no memory of war could sever
how proud I am to be a part of you. 

My apatte is a gånta of strength, 
and my voice, like yours, rings loud
through the silence.

Thank you, for taking me

soul fishing. 

(p. 28-31)