Of New Guinea & Nostalgia
“They Call Me White Man”
Written to Papua New Guinea
By Larry Blowers
My parents gave you as my
Birthday present and I loved you.
I guess I knew no better than
To fall in love with you.
I don’t remember when I fell for you
Nor do I know what from
Except maybe the big white throne
That I never liked using but is always there.
My white parents came to
Free you from the black in your hearts
And to show the way to the great white spirit.
In the process many black turned to white
And that was good until you started thinking
What was white, turned to black.
Sometimes I love you for what you are not,
Not for what you are.
I learned to love through my liver just like you do.
My heart is white but my liver has turned black.
They didn’t have to tell me
That black was beautiful.
I know I’m black because I was born in it,
Breathed it, ate it, I lived black.
Black spells freedom, simplicity, nature, reality.
I know I’m white I guess because it covers me,
I wear it like a mask
Because it often spells
Artificial, synthetic, facade.
White is a mental state.
They try to paint me white.
You learned to cover up your natural black.
They look at me and see star-n-stripes
Red, white and blue – but I’m not.
I’m yellow, red, black and white,
Bird of Paradise and Southern Cross.
I’m black, because you painted me black.
Oceans of time and space lay between us
And get painfully wider.
And yet we’re together in this pain.
I live off these time worn snapshots.
There are cobwebs in my dreams,
But you are no longer here to brush them away.
I’m living in a land of make believe,
And trying not to let it show.
Here, I’m just another singer
In a white rock-n-roll band.
I run to hide behind your war shield,
My bow string stays drawn tight,
Rarely letting go these poisoned arrows,
Except just now.
I keep my quiver full of your arrows.
I don’t know when I’m up for parole,
But I must serve this time
And pay my dues
For being white.
“Dear Mr. White-Black Man”
Written to me in reply to “They Call Me White Man”
By June Grochowski 12/8/1980
You came to me…
Looking like a white man
Dressed like a white man…
But you said you were black.
I believed you,
You unveiled your heart to me
And I expected to find black,
Expected perhaps to find an alien soul
In a white man’s body.
I heard what you said,
Began to breathe with you the
Longings in your heart
To find kindred spirits with the black man
Yet I looked in vain for a black man,
Nor could I find a white…
Disappointed?... No!
I found something in you far more
Exciting than a black man
In white skin.
I found your soul was neither
White or black
But a reflection of the one
Who made them both.
There in the middle of your
Pain and struggle
To find yourself,
Caught between the outward world of white
And the inner sanctuary
Where black is proud
I saw Jesus who made them one
White or black
Jew or Greek
Bond or free…
It matters not to him.
His love embraces all
And calls them human
Made in his image
Given clean hearts…
A new creation.
Yes, dear Mr. White-Black man…
You are truly white
Yet truly black…
You do not have to deny either
For He dwells in you,
And He is yours and you are his.
It is not in black or white
Where you will find yourself,
But I the Father
Who unites us all in Him
And calls you son…
Calls us one.
# # #
“Forever New Guinea, Forever My Heart”
Written to me about shared PNG memories.
By June Grochowski to Me” 12/8/1980
Larry,
You took my hand,
And led me down nostalgic paths,
You opened doors on long forgotten memories
That re-awoke a longing for other days,
For years when life was simple,
When grass-roots living meant
Nights around the dying embers of a native fire,
Once I thought I would trade…
A shilling - for a dime,
A walk – for a taxi ride,
A black friend – for a white friend,
A tropical rain – for some winter snow,
A freshly roasted sweet potato – for a Dairy Queen,
But then, I thought again!
“Home”
2/21/1978
Where oh where has my cozy home gone,
Oh where oh where can it be,
With it’s big water tanks and it’s brown wood floors,
With it’s warm wood fire and it’s shiny tin roof,
Oh where oh where can it be?
First it was Tambul, then it was Kudjip,
From Kudjip to Tun,
From Tun to Ningei,
From Ningei to Kudjip again, then
From Kudjip to Mt Hagen,
Now where will it be?
Please can you tell me?
--
Those memories of bye-gone times,
Those pictures painted on brain cells,
Those brother-sister wedding bells,
Those carefree years across the seas,
Those tropical rain storms, bugs and bees,
Those, I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Now, nothing seems to be the same,
Now bills take bucks that were so dear,
And people die, or live in fear.
These billboards offer peace from stress,
And worry, fears, and taxes less.
The news, my eyes, tell otherwise.
Is that you I see in the miles of
Soft dense jungle, flowing ridges,
And sharp jagged peaks?
Is that you I see in the black savage
Rain clouds, tropical torrents, and
Flooding rivers carrying tons of earth with it?
Is that you I hear in the sharp triumphant
Call of the bird of paradise, the incessant
Chirping of the willie-wag, the loud screech
Of the parakeet as it soars by?
Is that you I hear in the continuous beating
Of drums, the unique clatter of kina shells,
The primitive buzz of the Jews harp?
Is that you I feel in the damp morning fog
As it rushes up the ridge to meet the sky?
Is that you, sweet peace calmly flowing
To meet countless needs amidst war,
Sin, turmoil and the darkness of the soul?
###
Tiny taste buds tell tall tales
that grown ones never hear.
Dairy Queen was the best
when put to tiny taste buds test.
No one made them like Dairy Queen.
Well, there just was no other ice cream.
It was soft, soothing, creamy and cold,
the cone was always crisp and good as gold.
The service was quick,
the product always did the trick.
Those were times of long ago,
that only tiny taste buds know.
For now its nothing near the same,
Big taste buds play a different game.
The service is bad, the price is high,
The cones are stale, don’t ask me why.
Tiny taste buds tell of many trills,
While grown ones talk in dollar bill$.
###
“Willie’s Wag Tales”
(A collection of poems about Papua New Guinea)
By Larry Blowers (and friends)
“They Call Me White Man”
Written to Papua New Guinea
By Larry Blowers
My parents gave you as my
Birthday present and I loved you.
I guess I knew no better than
To fall in love with you.
I don’t remember when I fell for you
Nor do I know what from
Except maybe the big white throne
That I never liked using but is always there.
My white parents came to
Free you from the black in your hearts
And to show the way to the great white spirit.
In the process many black turned to white
And that was good until you started thinking
Like the white on my parents
And I like the black on you.What was white, turned to black.
Sometimes I love you for what you are not,
Not for what you are.
I learned to love through my liver just like you do.
My heart is white but my liver has turned black.
They didn’t have to tell me
That black was beautiful.
I know I’m black because I was born in it,
Breathed it, ate it, I lived black.
Black spells freedom, simplicity, nature, reality.
I know I’m white I guess because it covers me,
I wear it like a mask
Because it often spells
Artificial, synthetic, facade.
White is a mental state.
They try to paint me white.
You learned to cover up your natural black.
They look at me and see star-n-stripes
Red, white and blue – but I’m not.
I’m yellow, red, black and white,
Bird of Paradise and Southern Cross.
I’m black, because you painted me black.
Oceans of time and space lay between us
And get painfully wider.
And yet we’re together in this pain.
I live off these time worn snapshots.
There are cobwebs in my dreams,
But you are no longer here to brush them away.
I’m living in a land of make believe,
And trying not to let it show.
Here, I’m just another singer
In a white rock-n-roll band.
I run to hide behind your war shield,
My bow string stays drawn tight,
Rarely letting go these poisoned arrows,
Except just now.
I keep my quiver full of your arrows.
I don’t know when I’m up for parole,
But I must serve this time
And pay my dues
For being white.
# # #
“Dear Mr. White-Black Man”
Written to me in reply to “They Call Me White Man”
By June Grochowski 12/8/1980
You came to me…
Looking like a white man
Dressed like a white man…
But you said you were black.
I believed you,
You unveiled your heart to me
And I expected to find black,
Expected perhaps to find an alien soul
In a white man’s body.
I heard what you said,
Began to breathe with you the
Longings in your heart
To find kindred spirits with the black man
Yet I looked in vain for a black man,
Nor could I find a white…
Disappointed?... No!
I found something in you far more
Exciting than a black man
In white skin.
I found your soul was neither
White or black
But a reflection of the one
Who made them both.
There in the middle of your
Pain and struggle
To find yourself,
Caught between the outward world of white
And the inner sanctuary
Where black is proud
I saw Jesus who made them one
White or black
Jew or Greek
Bond or free…
It matters not to him.
His love embraces all
And calls them human
Made in his image
Given clean hearts…
A new creation.
Yes, dear Mr. White-Black man…
You are truly white
Yet truly black…
You do not have to deny either
For He dwells in you,
And He is yours and you are his.
It is not in black or white
Where you will find yourself,
But I the Father
Who unites us all in Him
And calls you son…
Calls us one.
# # #
“Forever New Guinea, Forever My Heart”
Written to me about shared PNG memories.
By June Grochowski to Me” 12/8/1980
Larry,
You took my hand,
And led me down nostalgic paths,
You opened doors on long forgotten memories
That re-awoke a longing for other days,
For years when life was simple,
When grass-roots living meant
Nights around the dying embers of a native fire,
Smoke lazily spiraling upwards
Like some magic gene
Summoned by the intonations
Of a hundred guttural voices
Murmuring mysteries in the night.
You took my arm
And pointed me to a tropic sky…
The low-hanging Southern Cross
Blazing among a million stars…
The tropic moon
So bright you could read by it,
It’s brilliance lighting the dark earth
Etch the mountain shapes
Eternally in my mind.
Ah… those were the days…
Of night songs
And drums,
And mysteries of men’s minds
Revealed in the night.
You put your arm around me
And guided me back…
(Although there is no real going back)
Only in my heart I hear the wild call
Of the mountains…
The pulsing throbbing sounds of village life
Of ancient rites and rituals,
Of life where days are endless struggles
Through pain and fear
Through dark hopes of appeasing ancestral spirits
Who flit like some benevolent friend
Or threaten destruction if not pleased
By the sacrifice of the living…
They never know for sure!
You turned my head
And my white eyes
See only the romance
The paint and feathers
Beads and shells laced into string bags
Color and exuberance of glistening bodies
Pig fat and sweat
Psyched out from some wild tribal dance.
But my heart tells me
That here is life
Lived on the edge of death
Where betel nut numbs pain
In many a heart.
My own heart tells me that
Beneath those strong little bodies
Beat hearts
Where fear is king.
I see once more the agony
In a young girls eyes
Sold off to marry a man
Old enough to be her grandfather,
No love… just convenience.
My heart reminds me of a mother’s pain
As she watches her child cry out
In malaria fever,
Tossing in uncontrollable spasms
Helpless… (Where now are her gods?)
She bitterly stirs her taro soup.
Long forgotten memories in my heart
Let me remember
The man, a friend of mine,
A healthy man, dying, wasting away
Because a curse was laid on him
And he believed
And died.
Ah, too, I remember
The light in the eyes
Of those who streamed into
The village church…
Such a thing they’d never heard
That they could be free.
Black brothers and sisters from stone-age life
Rubbing shoulders,
Touching hands,
Joining hearts, with me,
A women of civilization.
And I remember their love,
The gentleness of their ways,
When warfare was exchanged for prayer.
Their hearts reached out and took me in,
Overwhelmed me with their kindness…
They wanted me,
Said I was a Niugini meri tru…
My own heart responded,
YES… I belong here too.
I hated white man’s exploitation
And I used to wonder
Which of us were really civilized!
Forever New Guinea,
My heart will beat in tune with your throbbing soul
Expressed in the endless nights
Of beating drums and low strung voices
Telling the stories of a million years.
Forever my heart will reach out to you,
Longing to walk your green
Rain-soaked earth
Longing to tell you,
Don’t grasp for the white man’s ways,
But find yourself in the God
Who made you so beautiful!
My lovely land New Guinea,
I have a brother,
A son of yours,
A white man who loves you
As his own.
He touched my life
In exile from your shores,
And took me down the hallways
Of my mind,
Crowded now by noisy gong
And tinkling cymbals of American life.
He found the key,
His own love for you…
And we slipped inside
The sacred rooms
Where memories lay like treasures
Of the ages.
You came alive,
Once more you threw yourself
At my heart,
And together this son of yours and I
Held memories in our hands,
Turning them over,
Dusting them off,
Letting them catch the light,
And I forget I’m in America
As dreams ignite.
For a brief moment I forget
The noonday glare of reality outside…
We see another land,
Another place,
You beckon us
But we cannot come…
Oh, New Guinea
Wait for us,
Your memories stir the passions of our souls.
I ache for what I cannot have…
But we are here, your son and I,
Joining our hearts,
Fingering our memories,
Knowing that among all the treasures
We hold dear…
Those that glisten brightest
Are our thoughts and dreams
Of you!
# # #
“Trade”
2/10/1978Once I thought I would trade…
A shilling - for a dime,
A walk – for a taxi ride,
A black friend – for a white friend,
A tropical rain – for some winter snow,
A freshly roasted sweet potato – for a Dairy Queen,
But then, I thought again!
# # #
“Home”
2/21/1978
Where oh where has my cozy home gone,
Oh where oh where can it be,
With it’s big water tanks and it’s brown wood floors,
With it’s warm wood fire and it’s shiny tin roof,
Oh where oh where can it be?
First it was Tambul, then it was Kudjip,
From Kudjip to Tun,
From Tun to Ningei,
From Ningei to Kudjip again, then
From Kudjip to Mt Hagen,
Now where will it be?
Please can you tell me?
# # #
--
“Then and Now”
written 1979Those memories of bye-gone times,
Those pictures painted on brain cells,
Those brother-sister wedding bells,
Those carefree years across the seas,
Those tropical rain storms, bugs and bees,
Those, I wouldn’t trade for anything.
Now, nothing seems to be the same,
Now bills take bucks that were so dear,
And people die, or live in fear.
These billboards offer peace from stress,
And worry, fears, and taxes less.
The news, my eyes, tell otherwise.
###
“Is That You?”
written 22/9/76Is that you I see in the miles of
Soft dense jungle, flowing ridges,
And sharp jagged peaks?
Is that you I see in the black savage
Rain clouds, tropical torrents, and
Flooding rivers carrying tons of earth with it?
Is that you I hear in the sharp triumphant
Call of the bird of paradise, the incessant
Chirping of the willie-wag, the loud screech
Of the parakeet as it soars by?
Is that you I hear in the continuous beating
Of drums, the unique clatter of kina shells,
The primitive buzz of the Jews harp?
Is that you I feel in the damp morning fog
As it rushes up the ridge to meet the sky?
Is that you, sweet peace calmly flowing
To meet countless needs amidst war,
Sin, turmoil and the darkness of the soul?
###
“Tiny Taste Buds”
Tiny taste buds tell tall tales
that grown ones never hear.
Dairy Queen was the best
when put to tiny taste buds test.
No one made them like Dairy Queen.
Well, there just was no other ice cream.
It was soft, soothing, creamy and cold,
the cone was always crisp and good as gold.
The service was quick,
the product always did the trick.
Those were times of long ago,
that only tiny taste buds know.
For now its nothing near the same,
Big taste buds play a different game.
The service is bad, the price is high,
The cones are stale, don’t ask me why.
Tiny taste buds tell of many trills,
While grown ones talk in dollar bill$.
###
