[ProsePoem#2] Closets

For Papua New Guinea

It seemed to be light outside for hours at night, until the world
outside our screened windows with the slats to direct the
nonexistent breezes was at all once black as a tropical night
can be, without street lamps and headlights. The buzz of the
insects, the chorus of the dogs, that rooster who never knew
the time of day - all these things came out of that darkness,
erupting like invisible lava over the sense already on overload,
due to the confusing nature of this inconceivable country.

Laying on mats on the ground, a thin sheet covering us for
pure nostalgia, we tried to sleep, praying the fan would continue
to spin, spin, spin, all through the night. The fan's rotation
meant the power was in operation, which also made the closets
glow. An unexpected comfort, our nightly companion and
nightlight were the closets that housed lightbulbs to dry
our continuously damp clothing and towels, always in danger
of mold in the country with 98% humidity for days on end.
The air was thick with moisture, you only had to open your mouth
to drink it in, but our poor cotton t-shirts were drowning.

And so, in the unseeing tropical night, when the palm trees
swished with some imagined wind and the dogs howled in Pidgin,
our dreams were guided by the glow of the closets,
a constant in a world so entirely foreign. Until the power went out.

[Poem#18] Splits Boys

{in honor of my dear PNG friends, about whom I do not think nearly enough}

Stepping gingerly, we avoided gaps and
rotted wood as we walked
along the walkway kept suspended above

the waters of the Pacific by resting on
knotted fallen tree trunks.
A tropical drizzle began, only

uncommon for those of us not native.
Way over there, a walkway separated
from us by the sea, three young boys knew

what to do. Instant nudity, as they stripped
off clothes with abandon and decency
under their mother's clothesline.

When they saw our pale faces,
they shouted and jumped. We gave
them our full attention, and so they performed

with joy, splits, naked legs wide on the rotting
platform. We laughed and clapped, the universal
language of appreciation, and so they jumped up

and did it again. And again. In the rain.
And we were all happy for a moment.

[Poem#4] Pig Killing

(Since we're in the PNG mood...)

Pig Killing

The first thwack shimmers through
the Papua New Guinea humidity
and it is surpassed by his screams
that rise over the green palm
trees and kaukau plants.

It’s not over for him, unwilling participant
in a final performance meant to shock me
while proclaiming cultural pride.
The wooden club flies toward its target
and the screams erupt again.

It is almost more than my sheltered
life can take. I come from a place
where my bacon has always been bacon,
bearing no resemblance to the snout \
and hooves it once sported.

But here I am watching my dinner
wail as his wild eyes seek
out the dark eyes of his attacker
and look for sympathy. There is
none. My tears are not welcome here.

Finally the show ends, and the one who walks
upright with the bloodied club smiles,
his teeth stained with the redness
of the buwai plant in an empty face.
My face is empty too.

Later we eat our meal together in
the central clearing of the village,
after the loser has been steamed
underground for eight hours,
light animals and dark animals
slain by our own bestiality.

[ProsePoem#1] Ioanna

(the challenge levied by my poetry group: a prose poem. Since I don't really care for/believe in prose poems, I can't tell you if I succeeded.)

There is only one picture of him among the hundreds that freeze the dipping palm trees, the rocking grasses, the swaying people. A fellow American traveler sneakily took the shot of us saying good-bye just beyond the Papua New Guinea customs desk. The flash did not go off, though, and so now, a year later, all that is visible is a foggy version of me: pink lips wide, eyes cast down demurely, and white face shining both from the New Guinea humidity and the attention. In the photo, his features are indeterminable, his dark face blending into the shadows of the background. All I can remember are his white teeth, the tribal tattoo imprinted on his arm, and that I’ve never been looked at like that in all my life. Because, for once, in the eyes of another, I was exotic. Foreign. Beautiful.

I met him over the Pacific Ocean, in that halfway space between here and there. I felt his gaze as soon as I sunk into the gray leather seats of the Air Niugini aircraft. He let me sit by the window when he heard it was my first trip to his island, and he was pleased by my nervous anticipation. With his quiet voice, just barely audible above the jet engine, he was eager to share stories of his tropical home and the tribal beauty that lay within. I said told him we were going to meet a village, and he smiled, a silent smile with bright teeth, before saying they would paint my face. I could see through his eyes the delight of this white girl in the clothes of his ancestors.

On a whim, I asked for advice, and he told me, do not be afraid. I could see he was his country, and so was asking me to not be afraid of him. I smiled and responded, I will not be afraid, and the look of his white teeth gleaming through his lips is the only picture I have of him now.

[Poem#3] Tarmac Miracles

(I feel like this might be better as prose…and it's FAR TOO LONG)

I.
I rarely am a spectator to the rising
of the sun, but today I had no choice.
I drove through the fog to the departure

gate and, two hours later, emerged
onto the tarmac in the pale light
of new morning. Fog had been burned

away by the licking fingers of the sun,
and it flickered in glee as it rose over
the mountain. Warmed to see my old

friend, I waited, with others, on the stairs
outside a too-small airplane to visit a place
without mountains. The air was cold,

but see-through, clearly, freshly morning.
I often forget that I like how the morning
flames with possibilities.

II.
Another plane took off with a rushing roar
as we stood on a nearby runway. Conversation
ceased, heads turned in awe to watch

the miracle of flight, the sound, the fury
of modern travel. Moments later, we entered our
own plane and promptly forgot.


III.
The man in front of me, with short curly
dreadlocks, really should have checked
the luggage he’s carrying: his guitar.

Instead, it goes on the plane, on a packed-
out flight. The cheery attendant tries to help
shove the instrument into an overhead bin,

but it’s just a little too thick, with the case.
I see a slight concern wrinkle the space
between his deep eyes and I understand.

On our crowded flight, only two seats
are unclaimed – one next to him, 14D,
one next to me, 15C.

So he sits by his guitar, carefully strapping
it into a seat belt that hugs its curvy body,
at peace with his lovely companion.

My seat remains unfilled,
(save for a magazine tossed carelessly
over after finishing the final page.)