Nafanua Purcell Kersel’s debut poetry collection Black Sugarcane is a radiant celebration of the heart and soul of Pacific life, language and legacy. Kersel weaves emotion, culture and wit into words that hit you like a wave—sometimes gentle, sometimes crashing, but always leaving you bathed in feeling.

Kersel plays with language on multiple levels like a DJ spinning vinyl, scratching and remixing it into something fresh and alive. The collection is structured around the long vowels of Indigenous Oceanic languages—ā, ē, ī, ō, ū—a nod to the rhythms and roots of her heritage. Each vowel becomes a doorway, opening into new realms of sound, meaning and connection.

In the poem ā?, Kersel takes us on a deep dive into the concept of the vā through the lens of therapy, zooming in on language so close it feels like you’re inside a sci-fi flick. Think Tron, but instead of neon grids, you’re navigating the curves and connections of a single letter.

…maybe I’m wondering what it is like to be one of the twin ancestor
points at the top of the letter v, and what does it matter if they are
joined at the base anyway?

Kersel’s poems are deeply rooted in Pacific family and culture, and she paints these connections with such warmth and precision that you can almost smell the sapasui simmering on the stove. In Butterheart, she captures scenes filled with the unspoken bonds that tie families together.

Big kid cousins make room at their little plastic table for the twins
to eat their dinners. They chew slowly, everyone’s eyes on them, and
their eyes on their parents, so far away at the big table.

The collection is also a testament to Kersel’s versatility as a poet. She moves effortlessly between humour and heartbreak, the micro and the macro, the playful and the profound. In Names ‘n shit, she delivers a sharp, witty critique of cultural appropriation with a bold and biting voice.

Even before you know all of my names,
you ask me to teach you
how to say shit in Samoan
so you can, what? Offend me in my own language?

The erasure poems in Fono Ma Aitu are a standout. A stunning example of Kersel’s ability to find meaning in the spaces between words. Sourced from a document by Tui Atua Tupua Tamasese Ta’isi Tupuola Tufuga Efi, these poems are like constellations emerging from the darkness, each word a star guiding us through the night.

The tsunami sequence is another highlight, a powerful reminder of both the fragility and resilience of life. And then there’s the title poem, Black Sugarcane, which delivers the searing line:

Every Sina from Sāmoa has bitten skin,
Welts like visa rejection stamps.

Throughout the collection, Kersel’s love for language shines through. There are so many striking images and memorable lines. One of my favourites appears in Letolo Plantation House:

His son’s palm-green Mustang rolls up the gravel road,
A slice of sunlight winks off the galloping emblem.

It’s a moment of wonder, and delight. Andrew Motion once described poetry as “the senior service…the most difficult thing to do well.” In Black Sugarcane, Kersel not only meets this challenge but exceeds it, crafting a collection that is moving and masterful. This is a book that celebrates the power of words to connect, to heal, and to transform. It’s a brilliant addition to the canon of Pacific poetry and an inspiring debut.

In short, Black Sugarcane is a triumph—a collection that invites us to marvel at the wonder of language and the vast creativity of a gifted poet.

Gina Cole is a Fijian writer living in Auckland. Her collection Black Ice Matter won Best First Book Fiction at the 2017 Ockhams. Her novel Na Viro is a work of Pasifikafuturism.