PNG: Is the future capitalism or nothing?
Out of the terror & death, it’s time for peace

By our values, the portions are not equal

The political economy of a pig farmer’s life


Dom -pigs

1,  28 December 2012

Until you have seen your hands blistering
Until you have felt sweat break like fever
Before another new gardens planting

Until you have cleaned the piss and manure
Cut, carried and replaced sodden bedding
Until you have closed the sow with the boar

Until then you only have an inkling
Of what a pig farmer does every day
For the fat pig meat that you are eating

You will never know what it means to say
To us, “agriculture is our back bone”
Until you know the sweat and costs we pay

For a simple meal, in our simple home
Sweet potatoes baked around the fire place
Cups of tea with sugar, lucky for some

And every day we hear about your race
To bring development to your people
But we know that your heart has no more space

If you will not share the gris pik with all
One day your house built from our bones will fall.

Dom - Marape campaigns in Goroka

2,  23 August 2022

You come with your wisdom and your glory
From Pom-Pom City, where the pipelines lead
And you tell us your wonderful story

It’s on Facebook too, for the few who read
We will soon be the richest black nation
We must stand as one country, with one creed,

While our kids roam in the desolation
Brought on us by your insatiable greed
And our subsistence justification

We have our land, kept without title deeds,
And our kids have had free education,
Survived poor health to die on your command

We slew many pigs for your election
And our slain will be likewise rewarded
With money for meat, our life equation

For those who die in battle are lauded
By big-men who own the lands where they fell.
Gas flows, gold rolls, our riches are hoarded

As those who have shared the gris pik know well,
By our values, the portions are not equal.


Feed You can follow this conversation by subscribing to the comment feed for this post.

Philip Fitzpatrick

Revisiting some of the poetry from the Crocodile Prize is an interesting endeavour.

Just recently someone in the USA bought three copies of Diddie Kinamun Jackson's book of poetry, 'Daddy Two Shoes', which prompted me to go back and re-read her 2014 winning poem 'As a Writer'.

It's still an impressive piece of work.


i sat and wrote and wrote
into the moonlight
upon the cold hard rock
writing stories of the dream time
stories passed down
and so old like time itself
pondering hard into the dim firelight
straining my mind
just to write down everything
to preserve the story
as best i could
chipping the cold hard rocks
sweating into the cold chilly night
i gaze upon my scripts
hands bleeding
from chipping too hard
marvelling at the masterpiece created
i may be gone
but my story lives
upon this beautiful rock
that bore my hand
now i sit and write
translating the beautiful scripts
on the ever now famous cave
pen onto paper
i promise to write it down
as it is written
on the cold hard rock
i write into the night
under the low
electric light bulb
the passion builds stronger
as each drop of ink
touches paper
and the same old story
becomes anew
in each breaking dawn
i write and write
like my forefathers before me
my blood is the ink on my paper
it relates to my soul
and there is no end
to the words within
wanting to be heard
i write and write
hands getting tired
mind growing weary
not from exhaustion
but from every door
that closes in my face
i will not back down
it will not break my spirit
nor weary my soul
i will write and write
like those before me
write as much as i can
preserve as much as possible
someday when I’m gone
the world will come to realise
we deserve to be heard
for there is no country
without an identity
written in a very beautiful story
of how it is and
how it came to be
we deserve your attention.

Lindsay F Bond

Of 2022, comes out-tipping deeds

Time immemorial holds lands by seeing
Tho’ less memorable binds lands by seizing
then as deplorable grasps lands besieging
trust of exorable grants plans not easing
truth incorporable of clans lands releasing
their longed adorable land "wands" blessing
through favourable owned lands unceasing.

Verify your Comment

Previewing your Comment

This is only a preview. Your comment has not yet been posted.

Your comment could not be posted. Error type:
Your comment has been saved. Comments are moderated and will not appear until approved by the author. Post another comment

The letters and numbers you entered did not match the image. Please try again.

As a final step before posting your comment, enter the letters and numbers you see in the image below. This prevents automated programs from posting comments.

Having trouble reading this image? View an alternate.


Post a comment

Comments are moderated, and will not appear until the author has approved them.

Your Information

(Name and email address are required. Email address will not be displayed with the comment.)