Erereng Poem by Leonard Fong Roka

They cross the seas in dozens…island hopping!
The Kawas dreaded and hid
Silently secured in heaven of gold.
Of gracious heavens, he wandered…
That was harmonious torrential waters
In the swaying land of Monahe.

For this, the beast
Fights the streets and dry the creeks up
And bit the strangest drums
Scaring far the eyes that see…
And ears that hear
That foreign song of death
Glaring fierce than tearing crocodile.

But this invader; cares not… the law, and
Robs that house beside dreams
Through that window for gold
He fingers the white child
Giving life beyond needed—screaming—hysteria!

To the silent holy night
Cyclone blustering neighbourhood’s doubt
So the morning on Bougainville
Sees nothing lovely
But messed up cups, spoons and forks
And run away attire
For that beautiful Sunday morning

That erereng
No oasis in yoking moment
Strolls the street up and down
Looking the whitefella in the face
Pealing dingdong at
That gate of last storm… he knew ‘bout

“Laikim wok’a, ”he say with fear
Clouds gather…
Hours getting longer and longer
As whitefella laughs: “Me thinking you out.”
The sun gets gloomier as he stands
“Cleaner your pikinini pekepeke, okay.” He interrupts.
He alas, confesses, to the world
That straying trouble of the Arawa nights.
As whitefella puffs to his ears: “No wok’a. Only skul boy needed”

Wonder tortures him down…
No spoons for the fading hours…
So, belly ringing painfully for a pot of rice;
And cool eyes on the bins,
This wander boy, roams off.
Roams the peaceful nights hour raving his dirt.
Beyond the asphalt laid for the Blackman, he travels
To the black hillocks, he staggers
To peep and rape the motherland.

He loots, fruits of sleepless nights and gobbles.
In heaps, he packs and barrow far… into the streets.
Through the street of the whitefella fella he goes,
Singing: “twenty cents.”

O evil axis,
Luckiest one sitting in the air of Panguna
And chases with the rod
Leaching the sanity of the Blackman,
Off this land of his birth…
By the roar of the bulldozers and dynamite,
Mountains of water fade… the Blackman is sick…
O inspirational chats of gods, gone
Gone to land beyond the horizon.

Behind the wheel of cruelty, they cry, as
This beast, in pride, laughs and laughs…
In ties and socks, he gestures love
So sour than lemon, though, to the Blackman,
He dances,
As he sings the sweetest songs
To his new found land
Knocking beside the weeping of the land
To purest servitude

The Blackman heart
Down, from much hopelessness
For waters of living,
Dashes street to streets—
Doors ajar but riggid—
For thorning,
Til he hits cliffs of no perfections

Standing erect by the outskirts, are his nightmares…
Those slums of dirt and death
To the striving local brew: the cry
Of my black ogoi

O beggar,
You black heart
With god’s creature pain
And gloomy insanity.
No penny. Leached!
Swaying by the harsh shores and thorny paths
You cry
As the infiltrator crooks
Nest millions in flooding banks
Upon honey of crows that fly south; as you, the
Humbled, teary eyes
die labouring…
O black slaves
Of my beloved Bougainville

• Erereng—redskin in the Nasioi language
• Ogoi— a woman in Buin language