jefebi whispers

Bokis blo diriman

2012-04-09T22:37:00.000-07:00

Dispela bokis blo diriman
I round olsem kokonas
Stail steret wantem ol tail
We save danis hamamas
Taim wind i bolow wail

Wailo! yellow, ret na pink
Ol danis igo ikam yet
Eye mambol i laik sink
Tsol lon nau ba ol wet
Igat taim blo danis i stap

Dispela kokonas yeh!
Box blo diriman
Bilas blo em stail moa
Em yet em stail wan
Tsol ol painim lon stoa
~~

Jeff Febi

Composed this while in the bus to Lufa.

He out did them all

2012-04-09T22:35:00.000-07:00

In the confusion
On the mount of our fathers,
All, they tried to be the baddest

When the night's eye watched
When the day's star gazed
Even when night's chorus was silent

Out they parade those things,
Things that make them bad
And onward they mightily marched

Amongst them, stood one,
With a high head, he was stronger
And he out did them all

His name, heard they in the south.
In the north, he flew with a blaze
But into heaven, he couldn't make it

And so the story was told
To them that will hear
And be wary of the one

He out did them all
........................................................

With rather strong political connotations

Who is in our house?

2012-04-09T22:32:00.001-07:00

Of late, PNG's government has abused our parliament to satisfy their crave for power. I hope this poem reminds us of the imminent danger we face in continuing to allow this government rule.
...............

Who is in the house,
Built by our fathers;
Did I see many a mouse;
Where are our mothers?
Their songs I hear not!

Where are they sheltering,
From stormy knights;
Aren't the wrinkles of love,
Already in sight;
O' don't they need a dove?

Who is in the house,
On the mount of our fathers;
Who, our mothers did arouse,
From their slumbers;
Did the children hear them wake?

And the children;
Where are they playing;
Did I hear them say;
We are still sleeping,
Into the youth of of day?
----

Jeffrey Mane Febi.

Dreams of a place

2011-12-09T11:02:00.001-08:00

Our political leaders fight for power while the little people continue to suffer. Our suffering seem endless but certainly our dreams have not expired and will give us the strength to walk on. How we get to where we want to go and what kind of PNG we want to see then is in our dreams and no one can steal it. So don't give up! Tireless hand (Time) continues and it is up to us to become agents for change, even if it means to suffer as we make our way slowly to that destination/PNG we would like to have.
-------------------

Did the play of mighty tongues,
Harass your wretched heart once,
Twice, then more than many times;
Then your dream haunts,
While, away tireless hand chimes?

Did the play of mighty tongues,
Your dream on a journey forces,
When the storms were unkind;
Then send it on unplanned courses,
On many a different wind?

I too have a heart broken,
With a dream restless and old;
That yearns to journey to a place,
Gentle whispers, us have told
Is full of wondrous grace.

Will you join me on a journey to this
Noble place without a name;
A name you and I would give,
While we play our own game
And live and let live?

But I can't promise a smooth trip;
Our dreams, our wrath will keep,
And our hearts will find a way.
We may all the way creep,
But surely we will not stray.

Let the rhythm of our hearts,
And song of a place without name,
Deliver us strength to sweat.
Getting there is our noble aim
And this we will not regret.

Hey, did I see a flicker in your heart,
Through holes in the wretched one?
The flicker in my heart dance,
And though there’ll be no sun,
We surely will make our advance.

A place without name we seek;
We must not be meek;
A place without name we seek;
We must no be weak?
A place without name we seek.

A poet's quest

2011-11-28T11:18:00.001-08:00

If humans were formed from dust, & poetry is human's meager attempt to reveal the beautiful or sublime; the beauty of this dust from which we originated from is unsurpassed -jmf 28 Nov 2011

--------------------------

Once a man in his quest to be poetic,

Twisted and mingled words to find

Subtle beauty in meager arrangements.

At birth of day;

When the day was ripe;

At death of day;

Even when the night’s eye

Was sleeping, he searched

His dreams. Reaped them apart;

Turned them upside down and

Scribbled their charms on memory.

Only to find hosts of

Re-arranged clichés.

Exhausted, out loud he cried.

'Give me a drink of thesaurus, and

Cigars rolled in pages of a dictionary.

I'd be drunk with beautiful metaphors,

And be high with unusual rhymes that

Sing and dance. I’d sing along and

Sprightly dance that our voices may

Reach over vales and hills

Till my mind’s ink is drawn.

Yes! O yes, an echo on shelf

Lonely and dusty continues to sing.

On platforms or from behind silent corners,

I'd care not because, time …;

Would’ve dealt with me”.

Take away! This plateful! Cupful!

2011-11-23T08:25:00.001-08:00

O fearless and ageless Prince

Conqueror of times; destroyer of many a kingdom

Absence of light is your majestic abode

Giver you are, to many a man such freedom!

And balance! To a crazy world is bestowed

Count the times upon you, I’ve called

For favours that emerged from my heart

Bare! I’d say, is your memory of my voice

And have I always in fear from you, part;

And tremble in reminiscence, then rejoice?

Do not with joy and a smirk, overlook;

O Prince of Sleep; my burdened heart!

Of your good nature, must I beg, although,

From this turmoil, certainly you’ll depart

This plateful! Cupful! This must go!

Seek! Wherever my heart rests, there

This plateful! Cupful! A rose without petals!

By my side, with a loud tongue; it’ll ever lay

Do not, of you I beg, hereby with it settle

Grab it! With a grip cold and be on your way

This plateful! Cupful! A rose without petals!

It I offer! Prince of Silence, you must know

Away from me! … In you arms must it crush

Crush it! Its odour, hide in your shadow

Then its remnants, into a wind must they rush

Or, This plateful! Cupful! A rose without petals!

Rusty sailless boat, on it, must it voyage south

Its journey; this journey! when and how it’ll end,

With a crimson eye, don’t inform, o shaky mouth;

Tired ears! Wailing! If they hear, will pretend

By: Jeffrey Febi 8th Tues Nov 2011

2011-08-31T19:43:00.000-07:00

Look into those eyes!

Hi Jeffry, I only recently stumbled upon your FB page. I confess I was lost for words...you're truly gifted. After viewing all, I was touched by the current wall photo and felt the eyes were communicating with me. I thought I could hear her and what she wants to convey. I felt compelled that I wrote a poetry piece which I will post here. Though you painted for Bougainville, I think this wonderful painting can also represents the youthful PNG nation and all the dreams and hopes we have. See poem below!

-------------------------------------------------------------

Painting and picture by Jeffry Feeger

Look into those eyes

See those eyes; wide open staring at you;

They hold secrets, a thousand secrets

Lying bare on a vast ocean

Look into the gleaming eyes,

Do you see a thousand tales that beckon you?

O go ye, they are fair and life abound

Now do you see a thousand dancers,

Gaily dance in soothing breezes?

Do you hear a thousand songs from

Mountains misty to valleys beautiful,

And over dreaming seas?

Look again; deeply! into those eyes;

Do you see a thousand flames reaching out,

While dancing haphazardly?

And, do you hear a thousand cries, from

Mountains misty to valleys beautiful,

While the winds sweep the shores?

Do you see idle rocks sitting on shores,

And watch as waves in loud collisions crash,

Then echo across valleys until mountains,

And disappear into rain clouds?

Look into those eyes; do you see everything?

Poem by Jeffrey Febi and Picture by Jeffry Feeger

Wings of hope

2011-07-20T18:08:00.000-07:00

A dedication to third level airlines in PNG.

Wings of hope

On their gentle wings,
Women and children fly.
And sickman eventually finds
Peace, healing and more.

O how they grace the skies,
And hope they bring to many
A forgotten soul who, under
Cloud cover and thick jungles
Speak of dreams of hope.

And gather in enthusiastic crowds,
With smiles the sun and the moon,
Can only hope for in their brightest.

Then their dreams fly,
Into clouds to sing to others who
Can hear and let their hearts beat.

To a disharmony that pervades
Many a fine land on cruel ridges,
In deep valleys and on lonely islands,
Where the sun and the moon
Mock day and night.

O these birds, sounds of technology
That grace our skies thru thick and thin;
Aren’t they our wings of hope?

I watched on the shore.

2011-07-13T21:22:00.000-07:00

I watched as waves rushed, one after
the other to the shore as if to
escape from a prison deep and vast.

Breaking their anger and emptying
their frustrations in loud confusions.

Their frustrations of continuous
imprisonment in this vicious
cycle day and night.

Those who journeyed before, encouraged
by new wind journey again and again
on tired crests and troughs.

To together break their anger and
empty their frustrations.

What manner of respite would redeem
them from this stranglehold of the
ocean so deep and vast.

Not even the calmest of breeze
caressing the ocean's surface nor a
beautiful clear blue sky is appeasing.

To escape from deep and vast ocean
will take forever which none have.

And they continue day and night to
break their anger and empty their
frustrations on the shores where
idle and hardened rocks watch.

Leeches

2011-05-31T20:16:00.000-07:00

This is a poem about those who steal from the public purse, go away and squander the money, then return to steal again; not even considering the impacts of their actions. Their are many out there.

Leeches! O leeches!
How they appear so placid;
Such smooth and idle things.

How they lay in wait, then
Spring upon them that wantonly walk,
Then coldly embrace.

Then suck! O they suck!
How they suck the life – the life!
And suck! And suck!

Full! they fade into seeming oblivion,
Then again how they appear innocent.
Such smooth and idle things.

They hear not cries, nor see tears,
But suck! O suck is all they know.

And when cries reach the sky above,
Would they hear and retreat?
These smooth and idles things!

Again they suck! such smooth
And idle things. How they
Appear so placid!

Go!

2011-04-27T18:56:00.000-07:00

O go! go! go!
Many Kumuls have gone with
A quiet song and now
Inhabit their solitary where
Silence is dead and
Darkness is imprisoned.

If ye should leave,

Would not the maggots,

Upon you joyously feast?

While twist in dance and
Turn to show their full bellies
Then excrete and piss
Thereupon and continue?

What path different and nobler
Would you take?

By: Jeffrey Febi 26th April, 2011

Guess where I come from

2011-04-12T22:58:00.000-07:00

She flirts with the sun
after the shadow.
And he only smirks,
she can't feel love,
so the clouds daily weep.

In her turbulent childhood,
Purari she raised
on a Crater of old, where
gems gleam at night.
And her beloved husband,
with one leg stands guard,
scanning over her curves
With an eye that never shuts.

And in his mighty one hand,
He embraces a daughter.
An evergreen green gold
Whose masses of berries
load grey branches heavy
and colour them optimistic
green, delightful yellow,
then rosy red.

But berries can't fly,
nor walk.
So they sleep,
for the sun's charm is meagre,
until they too
set with the sun.
Never to rise again!

By: Jeffrey Febi 12 Nov 2009

This poem was first published in the National Weekender, then on PNG Attitude (asopa.typepad.com)

What do we see in the faces of our babies?

2011-03-27T20:09:00.000-07:00

That which, alone in babies' eyes
Sparkle like the evening star in a
Vacant sky, and dance on lips
Smoother before naked gums.

That which, in their voices
Summon hearts to a sprightly
Dance in their bony graves.

That which, in subtle
Manifestations, our
Inheritances parade that on
High as long white clouds
We fly.

Wherever else would a thing
So pure but in faces of our
Babies be found?

Wonderful! is it not; that in their
Angelic lights selfishly we bask?
O! Heaven such grace bestowed
That we might a bit of it taste.

By: Jeffrey Febi Thursday, 10 2010

O grieve!

2011-03-23T17:40:00.000-07:00

And he who stands
by the pole on the mount
and laugh, the same
shall crawl under the pole
on the mount and grieve.

I was lowered into solitary

2011-03-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

I was lowered into solitary;

Perfumed and robed in fine linen

Though my journey has ended,

And the sun ran from me;

Still, who'd my perfume like

And my attire admire;

When only I would inhabit?

Darkness here would be imprisoned,

And silence would be without life!

Perhaps, to decay I'd plead

For time, that I may in my attire

Rest well before I yield my identity.

O maggots! Maggots! Must I,

Remind you all to spare my brain;

Even in this dark lonesome,

Beauty, I’d still want to perceive.

This poem was first published in the Writers Forum of The National Weekender and on PNG Attitude (asopa.typepad.com)

The risen dead shall die

2011-03-17T22:08:00.000-07:00

Died then by the house, about many moons back;
Then rose he, rejuvenated and ever stronger,
And death with his creepy claws fled yonder.
O a great man indeed, who by the pole now stands
Atop the hill near the house Tumbuna understands.

Then death returns with a vengeance;
Confronting many a wise men who'd flee.
And neither dread nor hope will surely be
There, when he who'd died & rose then created
This certain death, shall be resoundingly negated.

By: Jeffrey Febi 16 Mar 2011

Do you hold a dream?

2011-03-09T23:02:00.000-08:00

Do you hold a dream;

Which over mountains cold,

And valleys dark dreams;

Then how feeble it appears?

Many a pillow men make

From many a dream feeble;

That kindles, pauses, then

Re-kindles to hope anew.

Do you hold such dream still,

Which in oceans deep live

And on hurrying currents sail;

Thereupon weakly labours

To a glimmer flicker?

O feeble! feeble dream!

Graves are storehouses!

For feeble dreams

Endless rows await!

Do you hold a feeble dream?

By: Jeffrey Febi

This poem was published in the Writers Forum of The National then on PNG Attitude (asopa.typepad.com).

If you dream, don't just dream. Action your dream that you may be satisfied.

SONS OF PAPUA NEW GUINEA

2011-03-02T20:45:00.000-08:00

How they've increased who troubled her!
And gaily laughed and danced on despair!
Over mountains, vales & seas how they sing
Of menaces more together they will bring.
Many are her sons who’ve taken up arms
To fight & protect her worthy charms
In open & in secret. With willing blood!
Her worthy son in embrace will ever flood
Every portal of they who court doom.
O how they strategise from a prickly gloom!
For respite her worthy sons will ever seek.
Yes! No help may come; they're not meek.

This poem was first published in the Writers' Forum of the National Weekender then on asopa.typepad.com

Coffee

2011-03-01T20:26:00.000-08:00

In many a land well-favoured, crowds
They stand to proclaim their renewals.
And invite bees onto many a pearly stage,
Then yellow their limbs with their jewels
As bees in hype and gaily dances engage.

Some begin to bow under jovial loads,
As green gold replace many a pearly stage.
This transformation, bees send to hive
With gentle persuasion to kindly disengage.
Then days of colour prepare to revive.

O! masses upon masses, more beautiful,
Load grey brown branches. And between
Weary green leaves, paint them shiny red.
O red! pleasant red! a signal to convene;
Hurry! please hurry! or they will shed!

And men, women and children convene
With excitement and many a gaily song,
Under weary branches to lighten a load.
And then for many an happy hour long,
Bags after bags and more they overflowed.

By: Jeffrey Febi 18 Dec 2010

This poem was first published on dreamzmedia.wordpress.com, then on soabasstoryboard.blogspot.com. Edited versions were published in the Writers' Forum of The National Weekender and on asopa.typepad.com.

Inside the POM General Hospital

2011-02-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

O ye grey house! Inside this huge grey,
Doped by odours that baffled my nose,
Beheld I the consequences of sin.
At a glance gentle, determined I many
Rows of dilapidated hardware arranged
On steel platforms; painted in pain and
A host of pain and anxiety.
Discerned I at once as they turn and twist,
Beautiful wrecks like overripe tomatoes in
Gardens forsaken by water and light.
Next, idly watching fading glimmers,
Hardware remnants harassed my appetite.
Then the companions of birds at dawn!
Pale and inanimate as rocks, yet adorable;
Who’d dare watch emotions wet their cheeks?
Like endless tunnels of despair, their gazes,
Broke down the flood gates of my heart.
O what a waste of glorious work of art!
Dark and lonely cells of earth! ye are
Salivating over their anticipated arrivals.
Must I pray that in pensive mood, when
My own companion of birds watches I
Through a beautiful eye without a lens;
I shan’t with glimpses of this house wrestle,
Nor its olfactory scars once more breathe.

By: Jeffrey Febi 29 Mar 2010

If graves are fine places

2011-02-20T20:02:00.000-08:00

If graves are fine and private places
Like some claim;
Then neither breaths of storm,
Nor wrinkles of love stir.
Then,
The warmth of heat
And
Serenity of silence,
Grace its solitary.
O sound of munching!
In secluded commotion,
Will a thing of past be.

2011-02-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

Singaut na tokaut

Singaut strong yet na tokaut!

Singaut wantem Kundu!

Singaut wantem Bigul!

Singaut wantem Garamut!

Sanap long het blong olgeta maunten

Na singaut strong moa.

Tokim wind bilong maunten i karim,

Tokim wind bilong nambis is karim tu.

I go long maunten i gat bikpela Laplap,

Sanap antap long wanpela liklik maunten

Klostu long Haus Tumbuna olsem;

Coffee i bilas nau!

Na ol bee i danis i no isi.

Klostu bai ol man bilas na singsing tu.

Toksave hariap! Plis harim toksave!

Husait ol man silip insait long Haus Tumbuna?

Kirap nau na kam! Kam lukim ol bee danis!

Coffee i bilas nau! Kam! Kam na lukim!

Lukaut! Taim yupela kam,

Bikpela wara ya i belhat yet,

Na i wokim matmat blong ol coffee stap.

Kisim kar na kam! Noken wokabaut!

By: Jeffrey Febi 17 Febi 2011

2011-02-16T20:46:00.000-08:00

Such is life

On a path of uncertainty I tread

Always dreaming

Always yearning to encounter my dreams

But I languished in the realm of my dreams

I tried the path of selflessness

Hoping to cloth myself in total altruism

While appreciating the sweetness of selfishness

I realized I can only live a life of both selflessness and selfishness

The path of humility I chose

While enjoying commendations from others

I secretly approved my pretence

I will be truly human when I concede to egotism’s enticements

With unabated determination I walked the path of honesty

Stormy days I frequently did encounter

So brief moments off track helped sustain my endurance

This path is a crooked one

I tried to dwell on the path of content

Though I struggled to find refuge in sufficiency

Subtly I sang inadequacy over and over

Who in this world can truly sing “I am contended”

The path to love I walked

Comprising many entwining paths of varying ideals

Yet none adequate enough to lead to perfect love

It remains a collection of theories

In my dreams

I heard whispers from the path to death

Many grumbles of unfulfilled dreams

I shall strive to postpone my time of departure

For my dreams have been elusive

Then I realized

Life thrives on a rollercoaster

And mystery adorns perfection

History attests to this mockery

So such is life

By: Jeffrey Febi

First published on Writers Forum in the Weekender of the National paper.

My Grandfather's Bilum

2011-02-13T21:41:00.000-08:00

How grandfather's bilum, which
Across my father's bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets' blest
How while so pregnant swung.

How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.

For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather's mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant

Till my sleep, I'll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather's treasures may be hidden;
Yet thru a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.

This poem was first published in the Writers' Forum of the National Weekender, then on PNG Attitude 's (http://asopa.typepad.com/asopa_people/the-crocodile-prize/) Crocodile Prize and on Dreamzmedia (http://dreamzmedia.wordpress.com/2011/01/15/poem-my-grandfathers-bilum/)

Do we have to sacrifice all our 'Tumbuna Pasin' to embrace modernity?

What happens to a lie spoken?

2011-02-09T16:34:00.000-08:00

Does its presence vanish,
Like dew drops in the morn sun;
Or linger on unashamed,
Like stench in still air?
Do its footprints hide,
Like a wave's on a sandy beach;
Or in remembrance persist,
Like a warrior's battle scars?
Does it a known destination reach,
Like rivers that heed the call of sea;
Or journeys to just about anywhere,
Like thin smoke from a dying fire?
Does it in death's rest pause,
Like a male honey bee;
Or continues uninterrupted,
Like the naked scorching sun?

Jeffrey Febi

This poem was first published in the Writers's Forum of The National. It is also an entry in the Crocodile Literary Prize; a competition by PNG Attitude (asopa.typepad.com) to encourage PNG writers, poets and journalists.