LAPIEH LANDU
A POEM INSPIRED by the national Haus Krai. What does it mean to be a woman, a woman of the world and a woman of our country? What does it take to know our roles and to be respected for our role in society?
I am woman!
What does it mean?
To be woman.
My womb that cradled life
A place for where he lay
My breasts, which fed my young
An ardour for my compeer
My hands, which served the needs of others
That prepares his repast for indulgence
I WROTE THIS POEM in 2005 after an overnight love and booze spree on the Arawa Bay beach with a gaggle of girls after the successful completion of polling in the Ioro Constituency for the first autonomous Bougainville election.
I was assistant returning officer in a no-go-zone where Arawa’s government public servants feared to be.
The poem reflects my then promiscuous life of running after women, until I begin to realise the shit I had being making of my life.
When reading this piece, I kind of see myself as a worst fool or idiot of the Panguna District.
Let not what you see convince you
Of our brutality
Of our aggressiveness
We are more than meets the eye
We are cultured; we are the reform of
What we were
Let not what you see convince you
Of our wear
Or our unworldliness
We are more than a babble of lies
We are cultured; we are the reform of what we were
MARY KOISEN
THIS POEM IS ABOUT A WOMAN’S TURMOIL upon finding pictures of another woman taken by her husband.
She chooses to remain in the relationship despite her overwhelming resentment. As a result she starts to display unattractive traits.
She hates the person she’s become. She wants to save herself but she does not know how. She feels stuck as it were.
Here she has a conversation with herself, going back and forth, asking the questions that ought to be asked and answering them herself.
ISHMAEL PALIPAL
GEOGRAPHICALLY, THE ISLAND OF SHORTLAND, Faul Island (Kariki) and the mainland of Choiseul Province of Solomon Islands are very close to the North Solomons mainland of Bougainville, whereas the islands of Papua New Guinea are so far away.
Some of the spoken languages are similar and people from North Solomons can communicate with these people freely compared to New Guinea Islanders.
This poem is written with that ideology in mind.
EMMA WAKPI
Her eyes;
Pools of liquid amber
An oasis;
Deep, mysterious, tender
Reflections of emotions
Glisten on the surface clear
Admonitions, exhortations
Expressed, so I see to hear
Her smile;
A gleaming crescent moon,
Bathing every
Being; present in her realm
Luminous glows and beams
Stir emotions with their rays
Cooling tempers, lifting burdens
Laughing, our souls embrace
PETER KRANZ
A woman, old legs
Hands spins with twisting
A bilum is made
Recurring pain
Mother, remember my birth
A painful joy
My wife grows mature
Her thoughts are my cradle
Love learns to know
Women are the earth
Born of volcanoes
Givers of life
An evil stalks here
Voice loud with screaming
Mothers can protect
ISHMAEL PALIPAL
EVERY DAY WE SEE, read and hear in the media about government signing new developments projects with so many sweet promises made to the local people.
These developers or investors are so pleasant at the dawning of the development, but bitter and darker they become as days draw older as the authorities ignore the people’s concern about their environment.
This is what happened at the Panguna mine leading to a decade of war and which is now to be reopened. I wrote this poem about such development issues.
My ever-wandering heart
Lingers into limbo
Lingers into despair
Lingers into loneliness
Lingers into attempt
As I lay near you lifeless
As I kiss into the air
I whisper into your shadow
And confront your ambiguity
LAPIEH LANDU
Do you have a mother?
Do you have a daughter?
A sister or a friend maybe?
For you not to stifle?
How do your eyes meet?
Does her tears serve you remorse?
Or her fear give you heed
For your unkind scheme
ISHMAEL PALIPAL
THIS ACROSTIC POEM is about the corruption which is destroying our environment. Even the good hearts are being contaminated because people think about themselves and getting more than what they need while the powerless suffer. Greed is energising these immoral actions.
Corruption is a killer virus of change
Over-riding the mood of civilized change
Ruining the lives of candid citizens
Ruling in the hearts of infected essences
Under the dark shadow of greediness
Power of self-centered ravenousness
Towards the reigns of penny
Into the large sums of money
Obtaining from the poor
Neither seeing them endure.
LEONARD FONG ROKA
‘SOMEWHERE IN THE MIDDLE OF 1989,’ Peter Era told me, ‘we watched from Onove as the PNG army torched Kavarongnau village.
‘Two days later, they again torched the next village of Tonanau when the people were busy preparing for a feast which they then left and fled and the army helped themselves with those pigs and food’.
Anger about these inhuman activities of a so called professionally trained army of country led Peter Era, then 19 years old, and other men form the villages to set an ambush for the Bougainville Copper Limited (BCL) convoys employed by the PNG Defence Force.
Continue reading "Trapped by the PNGDF: Peter Era’s lucky escape" »
I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL WRITER but every now and then I jot down my thoughts and opinions of things I am passionate about.
I love expressive arts. I absolutely love politics - Australian and Papua New Guinean. I don’t care too much about becoming a politician but would love to be a political correspondent or critic.
My experience in New Zealand has taught me a lot about being a Papua New Guinean and our socio-economic and political standing in the world. The greatest lesson being: we are not an island nation. We are the rest of the world.
MICHAEL DOM
The Poet’s voice has been silenced.
There is only an after echo of fading thought.
It is the snuffing of candlelight at the market table.
The Poet’s voice has been silenced.
It is the Politicians who croon your sweet lullabies;
It is their Priests who offer you the wine of forgetfulness.
The Poet’s voice has been silenced.
It is the Politicians who scheme your Melanesian philosophies;
It is their Priests who dictate your customary offerings.
This poem describes my heritage. My people of Masumave Village, Ungaii Bena in the Eastern Highlands, identify themselves with a tree. Not just any tree, but the sturdiest, the strongest and the tallest....
My heritage links me to thee
Not a man, nor a woman
Nothing nearly as human
It is but a tree
My heritage links me to thee
A tall and grand content
Moulded with grit, sculpted with ardour
It is but a tree
LEONARD FONG ROKA
Never trust promises these days. She was so sweet back then on the shimmering streets of Arawa. But when he was beyond the shores of beautiful Bougainville, she took another man breaking his heart into a spree of shattered dreams....
Under the swaying cool of a mango tree we stood;
Statues of long lost lovers, on a shimmering street of Arawa.
Taruito was fine a girl of the fecund Kosia slopes
That paced high on stilts that kept me dancing to narrate
The aired reasons in the hills of
Why the Kavarongnau boy loved her.
LEONARD FONG ROKA | Supported by the Jeff Febi Writing Fellowship
IN 1989 WHEN THE GOVERNMENT TROOPS began raiding the Tumpusiong Valley; torching and looting homes, Noel Monoung, then a teenager, fled with his family to be with their relatives in Siae village, inland from the provincial capital of North Solomons, Arawa.
They lived in Siae as ordinary villagers, concealing the fact that they were refugees from Panguna.
For the young man, Siae village was freedom. He was everywhere doing whatever the locals did, but missing his home in Panguna which was the subject of PNG military frisking and destruction. Always he was eager for news from home.
Continue reading "Road to militancy: PNGDF roasted me on tar" »
ISHMAEL PALIPAL
THE PANGUNA MINING PIT is now a large scar on the heart of North Solomon or Bougainville Island. The company dug out a large amount of copper but beneath it was with gold and no good was done to the island and the people there.
Yet they are still fighting to get more out of it. My question to them is: “Where did that money go out from that large pit?”
North Solomonians tinting gut na yumi go (think properly and we move).
LEONARD FONG ROKA | Supported by the Jeff Febi Writing Fellowship
This short story is dedicated to all young people of Bougainville and the rest of Solomon Islands
“Teo’ri. Ningka’mau, wake up or Ill pour a bucket of cold water. It’s time to pray,” the boys’ papa called.
“Teo’ri, do you hear me?” His tone was quite harsh. They sprang out of their bed because at any moment their fantastic papa would rush in like a gust of merciless wind and drag them out by their auricles.
The boys quietly galloped through the open door and sat cross-legged on the bare dusty floor.
LEONARD FONG ROKA | Supported by the Jeff Febi Writing Fellowship
IN 2005, STANDING ON the romantic beach at Olava in Buin, I was shocked by what I saw; a peaceful complete Northern Solomons of jet-black people.
Upon taking a boat trip across the evil international border to Ovau, and looking back at Bougainville, my island was so beautiful and playful to its little children like Ovau, Choiseul, Shortland Island and the other Solomons pearls.
My heart was sad and sick of the indoctrination my people are still subjected to by the laws and institutions of Papua New Guinea that rules our island. By then I knew deep in my bruised heart that Ovau is my island.
It’s been such a long time
since we got to be ourselves
It’s been years and years ago
But still you remain the same
It’s been about 10 years now
since we came to be ourselves
We thought your caring will save
But as the new day dawns
The more you turn to love him
DAVID GONOL
‘WILL I ALONE enjoy the fruits of my labour today?’ I thought. As this thought was bubbling in my mind and I went to one of my brother’s house for a visit.
He is a lawyer, and he and his family live in a high covenant house. The family is very healthy and enjoys the finest food. The house has three bedrooms, separate dining, living, bath and shower rooms.
But to my surprise the leader in the house was not him, but his youngest son – little Junior. He demanded things here and there. Switched the TV on and off and controlled everything else as if it was nobody’s business. He even demanded separate tinned meat for himself as if what he had already been served on his plate was not enough.
Continue reading "Will I alone enjoy the fruits of my labour today?" »
Known as the land of Mekamui
where the black people bear in mind as holy land
the land of their black ancestors
who lived by the conducts of their culture
the culture which is very unique
with the traditions of the land
the Island known as Monahe
I, a Red Skin, as some may delight to call me,
I have heard the tales of horror, from my dark skinned foes.
I have heard the tales of terror, from others who became my friends.
And I have walked with a dark skinned woman of their tribe.
We walked in the beauty of her courage, together. Tearless.
Tearless, we both were, as she spoke, for tears, only gods could cry for her.
I am a Red Skin dog.
And yet we walked together and we talked – together, fearless,
LEONARD FONG ROKA | Supported by the Jeff Febi Writing Fellowship
Black man,
A thief in his Africa;
A disease in his Australia;
An onlooker of his pride and wealth on Bougainville
He is, since
Many years ago
And gone…joy of the land.
His progenitors roamed trouble free
From cave to cave;
Jungle to jungle
With the law of the land
Prevalent in laughing hearts and
Smiling across all seasons.
DAVID GONOL
A ballad of the Prince of Peace and the Lord of Lords
God the Father and the Son, one fine morning,
opened the window of heaven and looked down
to see the man they had created, how he was doing.
Alas! Their hearts were broken – broken into pieces.
They gasped – holding their breath in deep anguish for the man,
the apple of their eyes, was ensnared by the Devil in his net of sin
In order to eventually boil him in his kitchen – the lake of fire.
Continue reading "God and man at the table of the wedding banquet" »
EMMA WAKPI
Yes, may you come to know his love - although it can never be fully known - and so be completely filled with the very nature of God… - Ephesians 3:19
See the Christ, Anointed of God
Glorified in Heaven, worshipped and adored
He’s Magnificent and Awesome, Majestic and Enthralling
Omniscient, Omnipotent, Omnipresent, Enduring…
But what love is this?
See Him rise from His throne
To lay aside His crown, His scepter and gown
But what love is this?
See Him descend from on high
To mingle with sinners...
Sinners such as you and I
LEONARD FONG ROKA
At menarche,
Down the road to Dotama…
On my bare foot
That gloomy day, for god’s sake,
I whispered to Wils:
“In love we are…where there’s will
There’s a way
Along all oddities of life.
My girl, no rides as you may think,
On a bed of roses…
It’s not a bed of roses I give.”
LEONARD FONG ROKA | Supported by the Jeff Febi Writing Fellowship
Hideout.
In the hideout,
the papa and the mama and the sick pikinini…
save the flowers:
the mister bougainvillea, the black roses
and orchids
of brilliant colours.
O plumage of your dreams
and blood streams.
The future clouds of rain
making to this barren land.
caressed by greed
of intruding savage storms
In repeated fire flight
of uneased raging fist and windy bushfires.
O infernos of uneasiness…
Mastering the rains, nights o floods.
Don’t ever snore nor scoff
but track on and on
like hunter dogs you’d dreamt of
sniffing in thought
and peeing around
for cool heartedness.
Your roaming sacrifice,
dearest papa creature.
MICHAEL DOM
This translation is dedicated to Phil Fitzpatrick for re-inspiring
the arguments for the use of Tok Pisin in our literature
Hamaspela gutpela man isave bihainim tok win bilong yu?
Hamaspela lidaman na hamaspela bikman tu?
Hamaspela man isave harim poret stori bilong yu?
Hamaspela man bilong tok singsing na hamaspela man bilong Anutu?
Long wanem strong tru bai ol lusim naispela pasin bilong yu?
Ol ino inap abrusim graun taim ol istap long lek bilong yu.
Hamaspela gutpela meri isave poretim tok win bilong yu?
Hamaspela bosmeri na hamaspela yangpela meri tu?
Hamaspela isave gut tru long bikpela bagarap bilong yu?
Hamaspela matron long haus sik na hamaspela meri bilong Anutu?
Long wanem strong tru bai ol traim resis wantaim yu?
Ol ino inap abrusim dispela kalakala bilong yu.
Hamaspela meri na hamaspela man tru
Bai inapim mak bilong Dispela Nambawan Meri Tru?
LAPIEH LANDU
Dedicated to my better half, my mother, Susan
I couldn’t put words to describe you
I couldn’t compare you to anything in this world
The scent of the most beautiful flowers could not equate
The magnitude of the universe, could not measure
The womb from which I came from
Fabricated by unreserved love
Peerless to anything alive
You are mine
The bust of enrichment
From which I gained life
Merely entailing wholesomeness
You are mine
The hands that mould me
Healing every graze, every contusion
With pure heed and intention
You are mine
The mouth that guide me
Steering every option
Without judgement but a whisper
You are mine
The feet that walked grave miles
Gracing all roads to life and wisdom
To educate me, to protect me
You are mine
Why put words to describe you
Why compare you to anything in this world
Your scent is solitary
You are my Universe, You are mine
CHRIS JAYSON KUMIE
Fortunate to be born in a society where culture is my identity.
Not like city kids from Port Moresby or Lae.
Having to know my cultural values as a requirement in the society.
Not like Port Moresby or Lae where culture is unnecessary.
Obeying my own culture is an ethical behavior in my society.
Not like Port Moresby or Lae where there are a lot of unethical activities.
Later having to explore the land called Papua New Guinea through the path of education where the City Kids dominate.
Describing me as a primitive pig from the village;
Do I look like a pig?
Do they have a village of their own?
Do they have their own culture?
Do they have their own ‘Bigman’ or Chiefs?
Feeling so depressed in the land of the City Kids.
Where speaking fancy English and trendy dressing is a norm.
Is English their vernacular?
Do simple like people like me understand the importance if wearing Calvin Kline or Prada?
Where am I?
New York City or Tokyo.
One thing I dislike is the driving force of Western influence.
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