New Guinea Blues
The white clouds are thick
and the birdwings are green
Oh, New Guinea,
Papua New Guinea.
The mountains are crying
and the rivers are brown
in paradise.
Oh, New Guinea,
Papua New Guinea.
The raskols are roaming
and the gold is all gone
in paradise.
Oh, New Guinea,
Papua New Guinea.
The timber is falling
and the bush knives are red
in paradise.
Oh, New Guinea,
Papua New Guinea.
The spirit house has fallen--
but the night sky so black!
In New Guinea.
Oh, New Guinea,
Papua New Guinea.
Oh, New Guinea,
Papua New Guinea.
The Garden
I climb. Through foliage
I see the flying fox,
upside down, eating my guava.
He sees me. Keeps eating.
Eyes alert, hooks dexterous,
wild black folds draped
neatly beside his orange head.
I can smell ripe pink flesh
in the humid afternoon air,
see gaping bites in my fruit.
I reach out and grasp him;
he bites; we fall. Our screaming
brings house meris, who beat
the black thief with palm-frond brooms
until he lets go. They offer
the body to us, but Mother says
they can have it and the women
take the body away to dress, to eat.
My wound is deep. My golden guava
rots with the fallen.
Twenty years later, I'm standing
before my old home. The trees
have been cut down, the car
is on blocks, the grass gone.
I want to go round the back
and find a fat, heavy guava
on my guava tree and eat it.
Taste the flesh in my mouth.
But I just stand there,
fingering the scar on my thumb.
