Somare's Paddle.(Poem)(Illustration)

 
SOMARE'S PADDLE 
 
   Somare's paddle hung on the wall. 
   An artefact topped by a Murik Lakes figurine. 
   I had to return it to its owner 
   living in Castlemaine. 
 
   Somare delivered me tomatoes and 
   other garden produce from the Marienberg Hills 
   and sometimes fatherly advice about the girls 
   I was going with 
   while his son gathered forces 
   in Port Moresby and Wewak. 
 
   Somare's icon was imprinted to my soul. 
   I carved my own paddle from a hardwood plank 
   three metres long. 
   I shaped a bird of sorts on the handle 
   and incised Somare's totem on the blade. 
   The canoe? I had none. 
   But my sailboard would do. 
   Somare's copy would balance me 
   standing as in a dugout. 
 
   On the River and barats from the border to the sea 
   I weaved the Sepik's glory into my heart and soul; 
   Kanganaman hooks and Tambunam orator stools, 
   Chambri hearths, crocodiles, sea eagles, 
   hanging blue orchids, and floating grass islands 
   ready to be captured and put to work as new land. 
 
   Moonee Ponds Creek meets the tidal drift at 
      Macaulay Road. 
   It threads under many a bridge and towering 
      columns 
   cast in concrete carrying toll traffic 
   creating a shadowy, rumbling overhang. 
 
   Armed with Somare's look-alike I drop the boat 
   in a drain beneath the electricity sub-station, 
   clatter through plastic bottles and 
   gingerly place myself on board. 
   His totem saves me from polluted waters 
   ingested fatally into the lungs. 
   I take the grip and hold my muddied feet 
   in balance against the forces of the ditch 
   and any sudden breeze 
   carrying sounds of trains, semis and cars. 
 
   The tide is moving out. 
   I'm dipping the blade and holding course 
   for the first of eight low bridges. 
   Occasionally the remains of hardwood piles 
   knock at the tail fin and lurch me to a stop. 
   I ...