Kone Tigers welcomes you to #PNG, 2012

Another December day lies painted beneath tainted skies,
As he sits perched behind burials of precious tries.
Here where young minds with aged gaits loiter and linger.
Here of climes that see one ciggy tarry on many fingers –
Burnt yellowed, like quartered buai that abounds,
Here see balls of vivid dreams travel in silvered rounds
under the jingle of a Kina and curt handshakes.
Dazed and glazed, yet an intense gaze to remedy the shakes.

Here where men of today and the morrow wrestle
As a synthetic pigskin sees heat of battle,
Here where mud, silt, shit and gore knead a dirty dough.
Reckless and endless till skeletal fences; show no dough.
Where rustic refuse of bygone grandeur remain in a Toyota Crown chassis.
Simile of resplendent days from whence this spit is its basis.
Here to the legendary servitude of Kone Tigers Oval,
Hear the Same ol’, same ol’, nothing really novel.

A lull settles with the drawn out toke on the whistle,
Letting to surface the lisped hisses of savanna thistles,
As Akon stabs the cool breeze with yesterday’s pop
From speakers which sound more like a flop,
Spiking the air with fast love and a girl named Candy,
Drowning out Tom Lari and Ambai Sandy.
An ostentatious voice stabs Akon in turn
and visions of bubblegum wither and burn.

As Enga-laced, trynabbe Aussie speak rumble out,
in plastic vowels, like irritants on his fucking gout.
The assault continues under orders from conceit.
Thoughts under oath from Keats beat a retreat
as freestyle fancies a chance in this trance,
With free-fall and shit-talkin’ taking this dance.
The spirited breeze in the cool of the day wears thin,
Becoming oppressively languid until it is but a din.

Corniness pervades the air further at 5 O’clock.
Enter Michael Learns to Rock.
Hell No!
Fuck No!
Fuck this gay shit!
‘S’time to beat it.
I’m scribbling outta here.
Like this roller-coaster year.

Twothousandandfuckingelevenbaby!

Exeunt 2011!

PS: Thanks for the extra PM. Now the world cannot resist #PNG…or somethin… Be seeing y’all 2012…

Exeunt dreamzmedia!

• Appropriately penned at “2pm”, 29/12/2011

The entrance to the Kone Tigers Oval preludes the disgrace that awaits within.

Poem: Coffee

Coffee

In many a land well-favoured, crowds
They stand to proclaim their renewals.
And invite bees onto many a pearly stage,
Then yellow their limbs with their jewels
As bees in hype and gaily dances engage.

Some begin to bow under jovial loads,
As green gold replace many a pearly stage.
This transformation, bees send to hive
With gentle persuasion to kindly disengage.
Then days of colour prepare to revive.

O! masses upon masses, more beautiful,
Load grey brown branches. And between
Weary green leaves, paint them shiny red.
O red! pleasant red! a signal to convene;
Hurry! please hurry! or they will shed!

And men, women and children convene
With excitement and many a gaily song,
Under weary branches to lighten a load.
And then for many an happy hour long,
Bags after bags and more they overflowed.

By: Jeffrey Febi

Ready for the picking

This is Jeff’s second poem on this blog. You can read his other beautiful poem here. I believe both have been entered in the Crocodile Prize Writing Competition. For all you aspiring writers out there,  find out more information on this fantastic competition at Keith Jackson’s PNG Attitude.

~ero~

Poem: My Grandfather’s Bilum

My Grandfather’s Bilum

How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.

How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.

For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant

Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.

By: Jeffrey Febi        25 Oct 2010

  

A bilum (woven bag) from PNG

 

 ::my take::

I have the pleasure of sharing my friend Jeff’s poem here. Just like the bilums we so love, his rhyming scheme and the imagery is beautifully woven into play, connecting each stanza to the next via what I would like to call a conduit couplet.

In turn this poem takes us on the journey of a bilum down the line through three generations and we can see the changes in culture from traditional to the contemporary, in a way through the bilum’s ‘eyes’ and the author’s yearnings to compromise both cultures. Living in the postmodern world and trying to fill it up again with what used to be in it; the sage words of the forefathers and our quickly diminishing traditions and cultures. And this is a constant battle (I hear you bro…. na spos mi skelim karangi, ok yu toksave:)).

Yep we got poets here living.

Beautiful. Superb. Stupendous.  Brilliant. Fantastique. Magnifique! :p

~ero~

Come Away (a poem)

There is no promise of fast cars, bikes and blings;
but of buses, Dynas and dugouts.
There is no promise of hotels, motels and cocktails,
but regales of tales and gales of laughter.

Amidst the chit-chat chatter,
of chirrups and chirps,
over gurgles and babbles
of eddies down dales and vales.

Buai stains, Blavk earth and blue skies.
To cool nights of endless stars;
Chandelier of celestial stares
witness the passion of this fire.
Even in the dying embers,
your eyes will hold their flame,
as I catch the glint in ‘em.

Heart beats in staccato to head rush,
like the distant roar
of the Baiyer wild in perpetual rush,
beneath ancient shadows of stoic Mul,
who thru tufts soft of shifting shapes,
in silent whispers of hallowed zephyrs,
breath your name in the quite cool.

Hey baybay,
Hey baybay!
Come away,
Come away!

~ero~

Mutulap Crk, Enga, © N.I. Piakal, 2009

Some Facts

*Buai is Tok Pisin (pidgin) for Betelnut. Chewing it in PNG is a cultural pastime, albeit detrimental as it is to teeth and gums. 🙂

* The Baiyer River is a tributary to the Yuat River (as does Mutulap Creek above) which eventually meets the mighty Sepik.

*Mul is the ORIGINAL name of Mt Hagen (the mountain) which stands at 3800 metres above sea level.

Dancing in the Mine Fields

How can this heart go against,
The wholly,
The holy logic of reason?

How can something so wrong
Like a thorn in a thong,
Feel so damn right?

How can I still sow
When I already know
What bitter harvests await?

How can our eyes linger?
Dry throat, sweaty finger
When these eyes should be cast away

How can these tissues throb
Even at the slightest sob
But… – DOWN, STANLEY!

Dare I disclose this?
The pieces of a thesis;
A thesis of psycho-anarchy?

Dare I pull her close?
One shot, last dose.
One shot, blood pool.

And I am afraid.
So very afraid.
Dark clouds beckon in the horizon.

From the depths within,
For your window to the world.
Your mind to digest this black.

_{For you!}

::sja::