Poem 303
Somewhat tongue in cheek, this was sparked by a few things – my angle lamp poised over my typewriter (start with what’s in front of you), an acquaintance at university who accompanied an anthropologist on a field trip into a recently opened up area of highlands in PNG and came back as the first white woman ever to contract a particular skin disease (which at the time I considered to constitute the last word in cool) and a documentary I saw about a PNG man preparing a massive pig-giving ceremony who always wore a t-shirt with Why Don’t We Do It In The Road? on it …
… imagine this as emanating from the point of view of a fevered or otherwise altered individual who is increasingly losing their grip on both their geophysical location and cultural norms …
( I like the onomatopoeic monkey chatter of inter tribal warfare … )
Anthropology
is this an angle lamp
or an exotic tree?
is it night
or day turned back under the leaves?
silence singing
or the taut stretched net of insect song
see the aluminium bird
scratch the rare skin disease
take the pig as money
hear the monkey with the
nervous breakdown
inter tribal warfare
inter tribal warfare
are these white lines on the road or painted
up your face?
take me to the single mens hut
get me drunk on ferment
home milk delivery
is that a custom or a superstition?
flash me a strange bird hit me
with a courting ritual
I want a pot-bellied view
of a quirky mixture of old and new
I mean I'm dancing
look at me
I'm slapping
time
I mean
is this a poem
or a neck ornament?