Book Three

“Oh mother of Hind, do not tarry for me.”        Written: 2007/6/25. 
 
Beats / Lines: 8-line verses, (about) 20-syllable lines.  Rhyme Scheme: None. 
Plan: (1) Introduction.  (2) Maid #1 [ZN].  (3) Maid #2 [MY].  (4) Maid #3 [ALM]. 
(5) Maid #4 [CHY].  (6) Conclusion. 
 
Verse 1: 
 
Oh mother of Hind, do not tarry for me, for I love a fair maid from Cathay. 
I have sate at your table and eaten your curds, your cashews, and fruits without number. 
In a season of raining, you never complaining, I have sheltered from life’s ugly storm. 
I have entered your courtyards and left them at will, your son loving me as a brother. 
Yet mother!  My heart!  It is restless as chaff, driven by threshing-day wind. 
For another, much younger, has captured my mind, and she certainly won’t let me go. 
You may feed me to bloating, and let me assay Bengalia’s wonderful bounty. 
But alas, all is lost, for I think on another, by day, and in life’s lonely watches. 
 
Verse 2: 
 
Oh mother of Hind, the cloth loves you so–silk saris and calico shawls. 
Your tables are dressed in spreading wide hues, that charm my two eyes with their beauty. 
The carpets, curtains, tapestries all, soft waving in wind’s gentle stroking. 
Adorn this fair home, its walls and your heart, fit tokens of your gentle nature. 
Yet mother!  I run to the market to buy silk scarves and outfits aplenty. 
To a fair maid of Cathay who was made to be draped with fashion’s ultimate emblems. 
Not even Calypso was fairer than her, for never had she a bright scarf. 
That lightens her face with a “je ne sais quoi”, and lightens her soul to my eyes. 
 
Verse 3: 
 
Oh mother of Hind, you need not wear jewelry, as you have sublime inner beauty. 
The others, mere pigeons, are covered in gold, in stones, and other attractions. 
Your beauty, like rubies, but not of them coming, glows, as if from in clay. 
Only the prudent, those close, and you loving have eyes to see who you are. 
Yet mother!  A stick of tarnished old copper, rescued from out of the scrap. 
I gave to the workmen, who did roll, twist and polish, a hair-pin of epic decree. 
To a fair maid of Cathay, with hair like the wind, with a face, and a heart, that I love. 
Who waits for my tribute, from travels afar, with patience yet quick hand receiving. 
 
Verse 4: 
 
Oh mother of Hind, not once would the roses declare you a passionate soul. 
Your adornment is modest, your life without stint, your converse is calm, without fright. 
However, I’ve seen, from inside your heart, the transport of heavenly love. 
That flashes like lightening in a storm without heat, on a faraway hilltop of bliss. 
Yet mother!  I tell you, that maid that I know, who is common, yet complex and strong. 
Whose home is in Cathay, has eyes like the fire, has hands and a voice like the hail. 
That strips me, like corn-stalks bereft of their leaves, torn and dismembered in parts. 
To her I have promised all passion, all frenzy, like dancers by Pan-pipes transfixed. 
 
Verse 5: 
 
Oh mother of Hind, you have traveled afar, but only from home to new home. 
For you love to stay close to those whom you love, to watch them with your loving heart. 
As they go forth and back, to faraway mounts, your heart is always there too. 
For you rise up in flames, with celestial eye, going behind and before. 
Yet mother!  A maid, from Cathay’s far wastes–of deserts, and mountains remote. 
She lives in my heart, and travels there too, although she is far from my eyes. 
For like me she roams, her feet on the sands, and like me a child of the road. 
I wish I could wander the dry earth’s vast spaces, our shadows as one on the ground! 
 
Verse 6: 
 
Oh mother of Hind, I have traveled all over this great and mysterious land. 
I have found no mercy, no peace, no repose, until I came under your roof. 
The world is so vain, society cruel, earth’s cosmos chaotic and void. 
I have felt your soft calling, in a voiceless discourse, a smile, and a cup of warm tea. 
Yet mother!  I tell you, I left your fair beauty, for a maid from far-off Cathay. 
I go, I must go, for her beauty it calls me–her dear face, hair, voice and feet. 
Oh alas!  I am ruined, for the maid I have drawn, is not one fair girl, but four. 
The dream has exploded, I stand in the desert, alone, and surrounded by sand! 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“Elegy for Maria.”                Written: 2007/3/7 to 2007/8/2. 
 
Rhyme Scheme: None.  Beats / Syllables: 10 per line (5 + 5). 
Plan: (1) Introduction.  (2) Her origins.  (3) Life at school.  (4) Teaching practice.  (5) In love.  (6) Entering life.  (7) Love’s future.  (8) Dreams torn down.  (9) The return home.  (10) The new abode.  (11) Grief.  (12) In Antigone’s tomb. 
 
 
I mourn for one who, full of life’s prospects, 
Set out on life’s road, but never saw end, 
Ambition and dreams, life’s initiative, 
Were taken away, as unwanted babes, 
And then disposed of, on custom’s ash heap. 
 
It wasn’t this way, a few years before: 
I remember her, entering youth’s bloom, 
A child in her heart, features innocent; 
Black and common hair, streams wandering down, 
Down to her shoulders, arches of resolve. 
Her eyes gazed steady, friendly and peaceful; 
Like music her voice, as breezes her song. 
She came from the earth, broken fertile land, 
Of family the same, migrant farmer’s child. 
One small fragment of, a pinch of fine dust,
That blew over the land, settled here and there, 
To start life anew, far from native soil, 
In new desert land, field of banishment, 
Place of fulfillment, land of pilgrimage, 
The end of the road, life’s new beginning: 
Of these was she part, as hair to the head. 
Who knows her childhood, crescent oasis, 
Nestled among dunes, reaching out like vines? 
 
Perhaps past is moot, whether good or bad; 
When first I saw her, in dreary city, 
Rimmed metropolis, smoke-scourged dwelling place, 
Among her own peers, all freshly launched out, 
On destiny’s road, horizons unformed, 
Diligent study, open heart and mind. 
Her peers liked to play, frolic in life’s sun, 
Run the race their way, gloss over the clouds; 
Not so Maria, in quest of knowledge, 
Small seed in sawdust, ice-chip on hot stones; 
She sought where she would, listed where she would, 
A friend to her peers, but set on her path. 
Her quest took her far, far from inertia, 
Pleasure’s lotus-fields, “puppy-love’s” deceit, 
Numbing pleasure-pens, peer’s conformity: 
Instead she went out, over winding roads, 
Out of the city, into the desert, 
Over horizons, beyond other’s gaze, 
To far-away town, a place all her own. 
Here now she sojourned, still a young student, 
Almost an adult, as weekend teacher. 
Her home was a room, cold dormitory, 
A place of retreat, not of privation, 
Where she thought and read, rested and prepared; 
Her field of glory, her new-found domain, 
Was with the children, in a dusty room. 
O privation see, observe you right well! 
The challenge of life, weight of oppression, 
That quails other hearts, dismays lesser souls, 
Did not upset her, but rather raised her, 
From youth’s innocence, into a new path. 
Meeting the children, destiny’s seedlings; 
Sharing what she knew, small but resourceful, 
Learning a new trade, she now developed. 
On weekdays she read; on weekends she taught. 
Thus it continued, for about six months; 
As the days lengthened, became weeks and months, 
So too she grew up, girl to young woman. 
Not quite forester, more a gardener, 
With watering-can, I observed her grow; 
Teaching her classes, mixed experience, 
I sprinkled water, yet in heaven’s wake. 
 
In due time she came, with fellow student, 
To help me some days, at one local school. 
Even though naive, she listened and tried, 
Making new errors, gaining more knowledge, 
Nurturing chances, developing style. 
First disappointed, later accepting, 
I watched her progress, hard-forge her own skills. 
How easy it is, with her and her peers, 
To see them as poised, masters of beauty, 
Fully competent, in all of youth’s arts, 
Fully eloquent, in all life’s affairs, 
Fully conversant, no problem too great! 
The facts were not so, at least a few times: 
They rose and they fell, made silly mistakes, 
Shared “big-plate chicken”, legendary meal; 
They cried and they laughed, shared comfort and strife, 
Ripened inwardly, and ripened in face. 
As did her classmates, waiting potential, 
She met one she loved, and followed him straight. 
 
Then the problems came, not one but many. 
To be sure they loved, drew close in their hearts, 
Shared passage in street, the same bowl of soup; 
They fitted as one, linked in hands and thoughts, 
Breathed in the same steam, from life and dishes. 
There is nothing strange, or unusual, 
In the sight of two, facing each other, 
Over the table, in some restaurant, 
An outpost of rest, far from the bustle, 
The chaos and strife, of their restless school. 
True lovers sit down, common occurrence, 
To mix their feelings, their dreams and their views, 
Over chequered cloth, or zinc-topped counter; 
Sometimes their talking, it isn’t the point, 
As much as repose, being together, 
Munching on dumplings, eyes firmly fastened, 
Into other’s soul, living through a gaze. 
Impervious now, unseeing each day, 
Not ever feeling, anything around, 
Save for each other, in both eyes and hearts. 
 
Student life went on, and with it the round, 
The duties of life, endless procession. 
Maria ripened, prepared to leave school, 
Launch out into life, society’s vale, 
The place of testing, opportunity, 
Urgent advancement, annihilation. 
She folded her wings, and like a sea-bird, 
First coaxed and now flung, she shot off the cliff, 
Her last safe haven, university. 
Fast far she fell down, wrapped as in feathers, 
Gathering wind-speed, until her wings filled, 
And she was flying, figuratively, 
Over the sea’s waves, life’s dispensation. 
She floated away, over banks of sea-fog, 
Demands of new job, shared boarding-house room, 
Less contacts with friends, all dispersed sea-birds, 
Surveying the world, held up by her wings. 
 
Her lover went east, to his own home-town, 
To pursue his goals, destiny rising, 
And from there he called, bidding her join him, 
So that they might live, prosper together. 
What might have happened, had she then gone east, 
Into their life’s field, unfolding future, 
Many shared hardships, rising ambition, 
Tender caresses, true encouragement, 
The ups and the downs, two woven as one? 
“Poverty no block, shortage no scandal”, 
She would have told him, “can ever stop us; 
Even the coldness, the dimness of home, 
Our small apartment, would reflect our love.” 
She was full noble, in her character, 
Her feelings were pure, her heart would reach out; 
Her hair ran downwards, over her shoulders, 
Darkly cascading, fragrant waterfall. 
Even more noble, would you have become,
Had you followed heart, gone east and joined him, 
Melted and woven, emerging as new, 
Two pinches of dust, of lowly land’s earth, 
Now something better, the fruit-yielding home. 
Instead of all this, when her parents called, 
Bade her to come home, she packed up and went. 
The voice from the south, parental mandate, 
Went not unheeded, since these words were armed, 
Backed up by the force, of love unanswered. 
Cathay’s love-landscape, hearts of young lovers, 
Is cracked and riven, like pounded limestone, 
Then blown quite away, to world’s far corners, 
Fused into new soil, and not seen again. 
Just as the sea-birds, all nature’s nomads, 
Pluck out their soft down, gather weed and twigs, 
And form a small nest, on a thin rock shelf, 
Over the chasm, eternity’s verge, 
Spurning risk of loss, so too these lovers, 
With naive spirits, but gannet’s courage, 
Try to make a life, where two forge one world. 
Parental mandate, so many miles off, 
Yet in moments near, does not rest aloof, 
But like ocean gale, striking the sea-cliff, 
Hurls eggs and nests down, down to the abyss, 
Reality’s home, charnel house of dreams. 
The young may love well, but their homes and roots, 
From which they issued, are adamantine; 
Breasts of mother’s milk, a father’s strong arms, 
Now become one face, sheathed in plates of bronze. 
 
Maria went home, on a nameless train, 
Left all she had grown, in that smog-flecked town. 
See how the city, shrouded by the night, 
Sparking with street lights, yet muted by dust, 
By swirling eddies, currents of soft smoke, 
Appears impassive, or indifferent! 
From the passing train, see that lonely street, 
That man and his cart, fading in shadows, 
Flitting through brief light, as he goes back home, 
Through the silent streets, to an unknown house. 
One moment again, he is seen no more. 
Was this the city, the place you found love? 
Did love once grow here, in these shadowed streets, 
Under a dull fog, mingled with the sound, 
The songs of children, now diminishing? 
Most certainly so, for as tears graze cheeks, 
So too things of love, of holy beauty, 
Blossom and come forth, in ways of their own, 
From a dull landscape, coated in old dust. 
Her face against glass, she flicks back her hair, 
Over bent shoulders, and stares out again; 
Her own reflection, it comes into view, 
Falls out of focus, in tune with her thoughts. 
Farewell the city, where she learned to love! 
Every step removed, each minute away, 
The new miles apart, of separation, 
Do not diminish, but rather enhance, 
Indeed magnify, precious memories, 
As reality, quickly approaching, 
Thrusts the past away, under bronze carpets. 
 
It is a new dawn, a new oasis, 
Lined with poplar trees, although no willows, 
Where floats the music, desert serenade, 
Of struck dulcimers, but not of plucked harps. 
The air is clean here, and the sky shows blue; 
Leaves here remain green, in between rainstorms. 
The city’s demands, endless energy,
Are now far away, unseen and unheard. 
Only faint voices, faint inspirations, 
As links to the past, come to mind at times. 
These never die out, but are guarded well, 
Deep inside the heart, secret flower pot. 
The children are new, and yet like others, 
Asking attention, seeking for knowledge. 
With hair pulled tight back, exposing shoulders, 
Maria serves them, reaching out always, 
To every student, a sea of faces, 
Pacing concrete floor, under eyes of bronze. 
Life here is simple, although the work hard, 
As students listen, vie for attention; 
It is easy here, to love every day, 
And without counting, the days of service. 
The nights are so calm, and evening walks, 
Moments of repose, give time for thinking. 
Over paved footpaths, under the poplars, 
Erect green dancers, with leaves shimmering, 
Maria goes home, to her parents’ house. 
Thus all is now set, all is determined: 
From school back to work, for class after class, 
Under southern skies, among poplar trees, 
Signs immutable, now prescribing life. 
The only way out is through the forest, 
To the other side, somewhere far ahead. 
 
Sometimes after lunch, when the children sleep, 
Maria alone, in a quiet room, 
Bent over a chair, hair falling forward, 
Sighs out bitter sobs, her shoulders shaking. 
 
Oh dear Maria, you have changed places, 
With the poplar trees, desert sentinels, 
Desert pool’s dancers, field’s stability. 
Their tall stateliness, welcoming embrace, 
Leaves as tambourines, appear now in you. 
To them you now give, tokens of bruised heart, 
Silence at even, immobility, 
Roots buried in soil, completely still leaves. 
Under scalding sun, beneath the moon’s light, 
You and they stand still, breathless and waiting, 
Fast clinging the soil, shedding autumn leaves. 
Only the children, future’s faint promise, 
Dance gladly around, on leaves strewn with hair. 
 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
“I am happier, to tramp exile’s path.”        Written: 2007/9/8. 
Beats / syllables per line: 10 (5 + 5), in 3-line groups. 
 
 
I am happier, to tramp exile’s path, 
Where mewing seagulls, ancient reminders, 
Fly low over waves, churned habitation. 
 
Although a mirror, from high summer skies, 
On winter mornings, mere feet from the swells, 
No face can be seen, soul’s fleeting mirror. 
 
It is better so, when far from others, 
Not to see one’s form, one’s eyes in blurred face, 
But the spray flung forth, salt-stinging rebukes. 
 
The deep is restless, eternally churned, 
And on arctic morns, time’s desolation, 
Refusing access, a cold and veiled form. 
Flung up and around, through torrents of wind, 
Under the low clouds, the gannet-like soul, 
Follows its own path, far from shore and kin. 
The community, oft a place of strife, 
Desires conflict’s norms, dominance or loss, 
In order to run, engender itself. 
 
To the one who sees, dreams another life, 
Seeks variant paths, there is no real place, 
But slow exclusion, regardless of birth. 
 
For such the wide sea, spume-crested domain, 
Where even bird’s cry, piercing exile’s shriek, 
Is rare and cherished, as fate’s reminder. 
 
Let a man think hard, who would go this way, 
Traveling alone, on the gannet’s road, 
Bereft of solace, far from fellowship. 
 
Far from the land’s bounds, over turmoiled sea, 
Head crusted in salt, midst clouded vastness, 
Will the soul roam free, apart from all strife. 
 
It is not sorrow, or aching remorse, 
That accompanies, follows such a one, 
Searching horizon, endless grey ocean. 
 
Now friends are all gone, removed to conform, 
And they seldom speak, from over the void, 
Of births and marriage, of flower-decked fields. 
 
There is now no word, telling of their life, 
But instead the sigh, low and eternal, 
Of wind scouring sea, flinging forth chill spray. 
 
Here flies a cold peace, both harsh and serene, 
Of tears and spray mixed, wide skies and still depths, 
Restless flight and quest, the heart never calm. 
 
Distant memories, of distant wine feasts, 
When shouts of past mirth, ephemeral joys, 
Steal forth in the ears, at once blown away. 
 
How transitory, vapid as sea-fog, 
Are people’s crowned joys, springing up like waves, 
And then blown away, forgotten and lost. 
 
The pleasure of warmth, as one darts through life, 
As through banquet hall, is no sooner felt, 
Then blown quite away, replaced by new cold. 
 
The new morn is come, and with it new skies, 
Harsh anvils of grey, bounding endless sea, 
That rolls against cliffs, sea-gannet’s refuge. 
 
The unceasing wind, wringing out salt tears, 
And casting the form, exile’s messenger, 
Over endless wastes, is briefly gentle. 
 
On high cliff outcrops, far from other’s gaze, 
The primroses bend, tickled as in play, 
Secure in the clefts, under mild sun warmed. 
 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“Tea-gardens in the land of Lekin.”    Written: 2007/10/21 to 2007/10/23. 
Rhyme Scheme: None.    Beats / Syllables: About 20 per line (irregular). 
Plan: 1) Introduction.  2) Sent off.  3) The drive out.  4) The tea-gardens. 
5) Evening falls in the village.  6) Conclusion. 
 
Note: The word “lekin”, which is common to many Asian languages, means “but”.  This word is used in this poem, to highlight life’s ambiguities.  Here, “Lekin” is the make-believe name given to this part of India, which is near Darjeeling. 
 
Verse 1. 
 
When out from the folds of Darjeeling’s wet hills, the mist rises up and blows off, 
It is time to look down at the plains far below, in indolent heat-haze obscured. 
When viewed from afar, one’s fingers relaxed, around a large mug of strong tea,
One forgets one was there for a year less a month, unable to go anywhere. 
Within a few days, from the porch in the clouds, one’s dreams also swirling about, 
It is hard to remember that life on the plain, where everything seems to stand still. 
Perhaps it is futile to eke out one’s life, as lice in the billiard-felt, 
Yet I’d rather work there than dream in the hills, surrounded by cold veil of clouds! 
 
Verse 2. 
 
She tended her home in Shilly-goo-ree, surrounded by life’s flowing throngs, 
Immured with her children, who throughout the day, would laugh or complain as they wished, 
Her husband and others, pursuing their work, would leave and come back as the wisp, 
Leaving her silent, surveying the kitchen, the dishes, and flotsam of life. 
Time after time, and silent in heart, she bade us farewell once again, 
As we left for the tea-fields, to “somewhere out there”, to fields of perdition and glory. 
I see her so clear, in my dreams on the porch, as if she were parting a year, 
Bidding us forth, as wives to the wars, her food and her love in our souls! 
 
Verse 3. 
 
The road out of town is sprinkled with faces, with shop-fronts of every description, 
With cows on the crossings, avoided by traffic, and cur-dogs asleep in the dust. 
There is no escape from confusion and noise, from the throng and the dust and the heat, 
An endless procession of miniature buns, on invisible rivers of cream. 
In an instant, a moment without definition, the veil of confusion is rent, 
As the wind in our faces blows away all our thoughts, as we finally break free from the town. 
Meandering through the gardens of tea, an endless flat sea of low bush, 
We gaze as plantations come fast and go past, a landscape of time discontinued! 
 
 
Verse 4. 
 
The plantation lanes are nothing but ribbons, wandering throughout the land, 
It’s a land that continues without interruption, a full thousand miles to the east. 
Yet from this flat land, forgotten by time, with its fields of rice-paddy and jute, 
With its endless succession of hamlets and shacks, comes tea for the rest of the world. 
The world and its problems, they fall out of sight, along with the waning sun, 
As the people walk home, from their toil in the fields, leading their ox on a rope. 
Instead of a bell, or something like that, disturbing the end of a day, 
Comes the splash of a bucket, of children at play, or the hiss of food in the pan! 
 
Verse 5. 
 
Rise up, gaze up, look into the night, at the stars as they really are, 
A countless host in a deep black sky, rimming the hamlet’s palms. 
The fires burn low, the smoke is abroad, scenting the groves and fields, 
As a family or two, with their children in hand, sit on an open-air mat. 
How often it seems, wherever one goes, that the bright gleaming words of a tale,
Should fall on still faces, in hushed rural homes, remote as the uttermost skies. 
How sudden the moment, more the effect, as of wavelets consumed by the pond, 
The words are all ended, the families dispersed, and the silence of tea-fields resumed! 
Verse 6. 
 
I sit in a porch, many years hence, gazing at Shilly-goo-ree, 
I see with my heart, if not with my eyes, while the milk in my cup goes cold. 
It’s winter outside, and the snow is chest-high, hindering those who would come, 
To tell me it was a sad waste of time, a mere cup of tea on the sands. 
I stare at the birches, shaken by snow, dreaming of green-tinted bushes, 
Of the thick sticky noons and the shocking clear nights, where the stars all cry out for a name. 
It seems time has stopped, all days are alike, away from the clamor and strife, 
Where we sit on a mat, surrounded by tea-fields, faintly lit up by a lamp! 
 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“The Copper Kettle.”          Written: 2007/11/18. 
 
You once gave me a kettle, made of copper, 
Forged somewhere in Samarkand, 
And taken on the train to this lonely outpost. 
Dull and unpolished, it nonetheless has 
A radiancy that the mass-produced 
Wares of the hinterland cannot rival. 
So too, no one pays any attention to you, 
Locked away in an open-front shop, 
Selling baby-clothes to faceless strangers. 
However, I have found you, and seen you. 
 
A kettle is so common–all it does is 
Boil water, again and again for an 
Unseen cup of tea, holding foreign leaves. 
It is dented, dropped, sometimes punctured 
By an over-zealous boy 
With a nail and a stone, 
Bored with the passage of another cold 
Winter afternoon, 
Then “fixed” with hot lead and a rapping hammer. 
Its faithfulness we take for granted. 
 
How long will bad things continue to 
Happen to you? 
You, whose life has been tarnished 
By life’s tramplings? 
In spite of all these things, one after another, 
You move forward carefully, day by day, 
Translating the common drudgery of life 
Into something made beautiful by patience. 
You polish your life as you would the kettle, 
Soot-scorched after each tea-making. 
 
Why is it that your hands are weather-worn, 
The glimmer in your eyes sometimes on 
The verge of being extinguished, and yet 
Every day sees a new and bright scarf on your head, 
As if spring had no ending? 
 
It is a paradox: At times, when I come 
Into your shop unannounced and quietly, 
You do not see me, and between us is cast 
A heavy pane of window glass, 
Making us strangers, even though we are close. 
Later, when talking, we become fused,  
As boiled water and essence of tea become one. 
 
I do not use the copper kettle you gave me. 
Instead, it sits on a shelf in my study, 
Adorned in cobwebs, utterly motionless. 
Yet each time I look at it, the room is no longer cold. 
I wish that this feeling of warmth, 
From being with you, doing commonplace things, 
Could become life-long reality! 
There is no shame in an old copper tea-kettle, 
When it brews not just tea, but life’s love. 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“To S. S., #2.”  (From “An Anthology of Sweet Words”.)   
Written: 2007/12/11 to 2007/12/25. 
Beats / Syllables: Irregular.    Rhyme Scheme: None. 
 
 
Oft have I considered what is our station,
‘Midst the storms of men’s designs. 
Our union, like two corks blown apart on stormy sea, 
Has become a thing of the past, 
And we sit alone, 
Barely lapped by the vast waters around us. 
Only now do I think of you,
Now that all has become quiet. 
The occasional rain on the roof,
It is the only sound I can take comfort in, 
For it is quietly constant. 
The storms of doubt and resignation have left, 
And I feel I am left to wander 
The desolate beach of solitude once again. 
 
I look for wavelets,
Tokens of some pebble that fell into a bowl of water, 
But instead, 
I see that the ocean around me lies 
As flat and thick as honey. 
Sometimes, I float over an eternal abyss 
Of meaninglessness and despair, 
So deep that I am afraid to look down into the water, 
to see if I can see my toes. 
I do not have the comfort of seeing 
The minnows nibbling my ankles, 
As I used to, 
When I waded among the bull-rushes of earlier contentment. 
 
Not knowing how to wait, I forsook you, 
Preferring to stare at the sand at my feet, 
Rather than gaze out to sea, 
Hoping for a breeze, a cloud, a sail. 
What has become of you, 
And what has become of me? 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“In Memoriam : D. K. – December, 2007.”  Written: 2007/12/24 to 2007/12/27. 
Beats / Syllables: Irregular.    Rhyme Scheme: None. 
Plan: 1) Introduction.  2) Inner reflection.  3) Interlude.  4) about him.  5) More inner
reflection.  6) The apostles.  7) Before the end.  8) The quiet room.  9) Conclusion. 
 
 
Every week, another of the giants dies, 
Leaving us another fraction more destitute. 
Some leave, and their world, their friends know it well. 
Others have gone away, and been mourned by all, 
All, save the returning soldier, the wanderer, 
Who hears of his passing, and how it happened, 
As a mere side-remark over cocktails, 
While outside, the rampant wind hurls itself, 
Frantically beats against the windows, 
Shakes the very essence of the house, 
And tugs the “aeolian bell” hanging by the front door, 
Again and again, incessantly pleading, 
Begging, as it were, those nearby to take notice. 
Only in death, after the fact, does this life, 
This life of one of the “quiet giants”, stand up, 
Assailing our memories, and our sentiments, with regret. 
 
Why is it that we beat our breasts, iron-ribbed, 
After the fact, and not on the highway, 
As he discoursed with us, patiently and without hurry? 
He too was a “soldier of conscience”, walking his beliefs, 
Standing with the oppressed, mourning their fallen. 
Among those who actually took part in the struggles, 
Who stood in the barricades against injustice, 
(While we heard about it and discussed it), 
Was he numbered.  Yes, he was at Selma, 
To be with the fallen, as Saul’s kinsfolk, 
Who traveled through the dark and hostile night, 
Against hostile walls, to rescue his body. 
Only those who were there, and who saw, 
Only they have the right to tell their story, 
Even if it is “once again”, at desultory cocktail parties! 
 
It is a winter morning, the day after the storm, 
One of those mornings when the clime is milder, 
And the land washed somewhat by the fury, 
The drenching of rain that refused to become snow. 
An ugly, fat fly awakes from temporary sleep, 
Finds its way out from behind the curtain, 
Flies briefly around the bedroom, bouncing the walls, 
And disappears into a pile of bags and boxes, 
Going from brief resurrection, on a winter’s morn, 
Straight into the crevices of another oblivion. 
Outside, a penned-up dog barks, challenging unknown shadows. 
 
His clothing was always shabby and worn, 
And he often appeared in the company of the great, 
Who gathered oft, to remember the great. 
It was pleasant, and reassuring, to see him there, 
His usual self, willing to talk and be a friend, 
Among the pompous, on creaking floor-boards, 
Inside dark and paneled rooms with big windows, 
That overlooked the streets of power and pretense. 
His mind was truly universal in its reach, 
And his heart roamed the universe, the range of life, 
With the scope and freedom of comets.  
Did he quarrel?  He must have, somewhere, 
But that was not his typical nature, his aim. 
His was the voice of one who knew his mind, 
Knew his heart, and above all, who knew his purpose, 
His direction, but who refused to attack others with it. 
He came in fragments, like unannounced swallows, 
At unexpected seasons, and you had to catch sight of him, 
Or else be left alone in that night’s cosmic silence, 
Wondering what it was that you had heard that day, 
Who had spoken, or if anyone had spoken. 
As for his life, to what river-course shall I liken it? 
Like so many others, he met his share of trouble, 
Of problems, disasters, setbacks, and tragedy. 
He met them, as one of “the shabby ones”, 
Eking out an existence among the proud, 
An apostle of social consciousness in this city, 
This arrogant city that would be “New Athens”, 
But whose raiment is that of an increasingly decrepit dowager. 
He advised and counseled a throng of students, 
Young ones looking for some beacon, some direction, 
In a city whose light-houses had long since been snuffed out. 
He taught classes, and ceaselessly gave out, 
Shared, expounded, advocated what he believed in, 
His code of justice, which to some was heresy, 
To others, “good, but...”, yet to many, a help! 
He was not afraid to say what he believed in, 
Walking through the forum of indifference, 
On cold winter day; or crowded cocktail room, 
On blossom-scented spring evening; by day; 
By night; whenever the opportunity required it. 
In fact, he was another “man for all seasons”. 
 
Too long have I kept silent, sitting in the shadows, 
The shadows of the pronouncements of elders, 
The cold, empty valley of silent public opinion, 
The walled-in oasis of shy, indifferent neglect. 
Too long, the years have gone by, spindled out, 
Taking me too, away to innumerable sights. 
He existed as a distant memory, a living one, 
But one existing far away, over many horizons. 
Oft have I traveled, while memories of him faded, 
Like cuttlefish beaks under layers of ambergris. 
Slowly, as the years move on, the voice stills, 
And the quiet witness to humanity is stilled, 
No longer tugging at the inner “aeolian bells” of the heart, 
That exist in most of us, if not all people. 
He was silenced by time’s passing, busy schedules (of course), 
The grand passage of continents, of loves seen and lost, 
Of family obligations, of books, and land, and wit, 
Of the encroaching cobwebs of mortality, covering all. 
Many people just moved on, as the milkweed seeds, 
Which leave their pod, the field of their creation, 
And blow out over the meadows to a land not far, 
Yet effectively removed from those they nestled with. 
 
It is not so with the apostles and the prophets, 
Who refuse to, indeed, cannot leave their words, 
The fire that smoulders inside them constantly, 
Yearning to come out and be flames again. 
I knew two such apostles in my wanderings. 
One loved nature’s original condition of purity, 
And she manned the barricades of her calling,  
Far, far past the times of her peers’ campaigns, 
When all others had compromised their views of youth, 
For the security and servitude of the board-room. 
The other was this man, the “shabby” servant of God. 
As we went upward and outward, over the years, 
So he remained, “doing his thing”, and went downwards. 
 
Thus, there are two symbols of people in this land: 
Milkweed pods and their seeds, which take flight, 
Floating far away, and spawning new fields of green; 
Silent granite stones, encompassing lost fields, 
Marking out the old ideas, now overgrown by forest. 
It was, in a way, fitting that I heard of his end, 
At a cocktail party in winter, with the talk, 
The banter of old friends opposed, but not quite suppressed, 
By the furious wind, by the incessant pleading of the wind, 
Long silent, and refusing to be consoled. 
 
Somewhere, in some forgotten chapel, perhaps by the sea, 
Perhaps in the forest, in a place fit for nature’s art, 
Gathered two families for a wedding. 
The people were waiting for him, (since it was task, 
His job to marry the couple), surprised at him, 
That he tarried so long in his hotel room. 
When they sent, they found him where he lay, 
Alone in a hotel room, and not a living soul around him. 
The cobwebs in the window panes hung motionless, 
While the few particles of dust, stuck to each thread, 
Sparkled dully in mid-air, vaguely recalling, 
Bringing to mind a forgotten dream of a field, 
Way out in the scrub-land, scattered with diamonds. 
Here, the “aeolian bells” are silent, and the wind still. 
 
On a forgotten winter morning, not long after, 
I put away a silver cup, setting it high on a shelf. 
Bumping against the plates, it rings, as only silver can, 
Awakening my mind to things past, and to him. 
Outside, the garden is lost under snow, deep drifts, 
Yet even there, part of a purple cabbage can be seen, 
Poking through the hard white covering, laughing at winter. 
Yes, another such spring, I should like to see again. 
 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“Going home to Kuqe : a dream-conversation between two souls.” 
Written: 2008/1/2 to 2008/1/13.               Format: “Dream-dialog”. 
Beats / Syllables: None                             Rhyme Scheme: None. 
(c.f., Song of Solomon, 1:6;  2:10 – 12;  8:7;  also Matthew 7:6.) 
 
 
Plan: 1) Introduction (Lover).  2) Complaint about work (Beloved).  3) A call (Lover).  4) The night walk home (Beloved).  5) A call (Lover).  6) Complaint about reality (Beloved).  7) A call to go home (Lover).  8) Questions about home (Beloved).  9) Questions (Lover).  10) Arrival home, new emotions (Beloved).  11) A reminder (Lover).  12) Before entering, a dance (Beloved).  13) A question (Lover).  14) Answer, the grandmother, new emotions, a warning (Beloved). 
 
1)   S: 
If I dream of you, 
On a cold winter’s day, 
With the ground snow-free, 
But the earth hard, resisting the shovel, 
I shall do so while your voice, 
Your distant voice, 
Is still warm in my memory. 
2)   Z: 
Why should I think of winter’s business, 
Of sorrows and cold hearts, 
Of dark and slippery streets, 
Barely perceived at some late hour, 
Coming home from yet another meeting, 
The pointless gathering-time of leaders, 
Who survey and address one another, 
In the presence of their workers? 
For two hours, even for three, 
I sat in a chair that betrayed me, 
Squeaking each time I shifted, 
Whenever I moved my pinched legs. 
The room is lit, but dimly: 
Dim enough to fall asleep under, 
But bright enough to be seen by. 
In a corner, on a stove, the bright red teapot stirs, 
As the leader’s water awakens from its sleep, 
Sending out tantalizing scents of Yunnan– 
Or is it Guizhou?–all over the room. 
The tea-scent awakens in us a sorrow, 
A corporately lonely desire for dreams missed, 
As of a child left at home, 
Looking out through the windows, 
Edged in slowly melting icicles, 
At his friends, who are walking away, 
Over the brittle-popping snowfall, 
To another child’s birthday party. 
Every fifteen minutes, the leader drinks, 
Holding the tea-scent throughout his mouth, 
Ravishing essence of Yunnan before our very eyes, 
Before the tired eyes of thirty-seven teachers! 
 
3)   S: 
Then come away. 
 
4)   Z: 
I do.  At late hours, when the night fog, 
Mixed with cinders and desert dust, 
Falls down softly, with a repulsive beauty, 
All of its own, over the streets, 
Into my breath, around my teeth, 
Then I am free.  We all are free. 
There are forty-seven lamp posts, 
Some glowing, and some extinguished, 
Between my school and my home. 
I am released, as there was nothing more, 
Not one thing more, for them to say to us.  
Let me tell you, to walk home then, 
Hidden in the fog, is to travel alone, 
One’s footsteps muffled, 
Along a footpath that crosses the very breadth, 
The far-stretching expanse of a dead galaxy. 
I pass each lamp post, drenched in sooty fog, 
As a lonely fen-dweller, 
That stops and stares out of her soul, 
Across the bog land, at distant village lights. 
For every teacup my leader drinks, 
I pass five lamp posts; 
In a silent evening, on a lonely way, 
I see the rising and fall of stars, 
Of whole worlds, of dreams too. 
Sometimes, I feel I am walking on a rope-bridge, 
Strung out across the heavens, 
Passing through the clouds, 
Alone, alone, alone... quite alone. 
 
5)   S: 
Come away, I say. 
 
6)   Z: 
Come away?  Where to?  How? 
The fog of reality is light as air, 
But heavy as concrete, and it covers all, 
All without exception. 
Only the dreamers fly into the upper light, 
The outer peace, the room’s inner sanctuary. 
Why, here, we have no field-searching call, 
No reminders of living by the turtle doves, 
That call to each other when they feel like it. 
By day we, the restless crowds, are beaten, 
Barraged by the electric false-voices, 
And by the words of our commanders. 
I long for my deliverance, my walk home, 
From one muffled lamp light to another, 
With the gritty soot swirling and dully sparkling, 
Surrounding me as if I were a whale, 
Deep within immense clouds of crackling plankton! 
7)   S: 
Go to your grandmother’s village. 
Far it is, and the road long, I know, 
But there you will find another joy, 
Another release, 
A different sense of time and space. 
Leave your sorrowful abode, your fen, 
Imposed on you by the selfish and indifferent! 
For two days, you must sit alone in spirit, 
Surrounded by three thousand others, 
All staring ahead through fumes of tobacco, 
Their feet scratching over the broken shells, 
The shells of sunflower seeds, 
Trying to ignore, each in his own way, 
The pain of existence, the sun by day, 
The complete blackness of night’s long tunnel, 
And the probing stares of others. 
At the least suspicion of a crack, 
Of the possibility of weakness, 
Or even of humility, in you, 
Then they will tear you open, look at you, 
And, their curiosity sated, 
Will cast you onto the carriage floor, 
Onto the ground, with the sunflower hulls. 
Therefore, hold your sentiments, like pearls, 
To yourself, and share them with no one. 
 
8)   Z: 
Where do I go?  Who will meet me, 
And what will I find there? 
I knew my grandmother when I was a little girl, 
But that was so long ago. 
There were eight of us, cousins and others,  
Brothers and sisters, on a huge, triple-bed. 
We roamed over the quilts like curious mice, 
With dried fruit in our hands, 
And the elixir of sweet, warm milk in our mouth. 
That room was our world, and we eight, 
The world’s entire population, dwelt there. 
As we came of age, we scattered; 
Most I have not seen in over twenty years! 
 
9)   S: 
What do you see now, as you leave the others, 
As they disperse into eddies of humanity, 
Then into solitary home-comers, or else walking hand-in-hand,  
Together with kin, dearest in heart? 
 
10) Z: 
I am in Kuqe.  The station platform is empty, 
And nothing moves, not even a fly. 
The last remaining donkey-cart driver, 
He sits patiently behind his donkey, 
For he knows where I must go, and who I will see. 
The road up, out of the town, up the long valley, 
And up to the mountains, is slow and peaceful. 
There are over five thousand poplar trees, 
All of them incandescent in bright green, 
And as I pass each one, my heart rises, 
Takes too the long ascent out of the valley of concrete. 
Passing small groves of apricot trees, 
I see the smiling harvesters, who pick a few, 
And place them into their children’s hands, 
Saying, “Go, run, give these to her, 
The one on the donkey cart, 
With the long, graceful fingers, and sorrowful eyes, 
For she is one of us, come home.” 
Oh, Kuqe the beautiful, Kuqe my home! 
My eyes laugh for joy now, because I am with you. 
The long-dry land is caressed by rivulets, 
Small streams feeding the fields, 
While all around, the windbreaks of poplar trees, 
Standing in state around field after field, 
Ask no questions, and are silent in acceptance. 
Oh Kuqe!  Your earth is as my mother, 
Sustaining me with grain, fruit, and beans, 
And like my mother, receiving me to herself, 
Asking no questions, but remaining simple and honest. 
I ask for no breeze, gift of mid-afternoon, 
To fling out my hair and charm my face. 
As I ascend the valley, watching the trees, 
Seeing the orchards grow smaller and smaller, 
Feeling the valley walls coming in closer, 
I realize that I never forgot this abode, 
Never really left this place. 
It is as if there were sweet, warm milk in my mouth again. 
Look!  Up, out of the earth, in long lines, 
Stand tall, sharp-edged plates of stone, 
Like the protruding, pointed vertebrae, 
The back-armor of colossal dinosaurs. 
They follow the small road for twenty minutes, 
That is, by donkey cart. 
Everything is humbled by their grand antiquity. 
In my heart, I have been purged of despair, 
And my mind, as my garments, 
Has been changed into the clothing of the countryside. 
Why have I come here? 
 
11) S: 
To be with your grandmother. 
She has waited long to see you again. 
 
12) Z: 
I stand before the gates of my grandmother’s home, 
Looking down the long, double avenue of poplar trees, 
And between them, growing smaller and smaller, 
The donkey and cart. 
Silent he met me, and silent he left– 
My last contact with the outside world. 
All is still, and after a quick, backward glance, 
At the still unopened gate, 
I wander down the line of poplars, 
My head scarf of “atlas” cloth the only color, 
The only outside shade in oceans of earthy colors. 
The poplars appear as candle-wicks, 
The wax all gone, 
Yet consumed by silent flames of green. 
I take off my shoes and socks, and gently step, 
Reverently walk in the loose dust of late summer. 
I am afraid to gaze up at, and into, the brilliant sky, 
Afraid lest it should be a dream. 
It is not a dream, and I walk slowly, 
Threading my way around and between trees, 
Remembering them as before, still large, 
Touching their bark lightly, 
And watching the insects crawling up and down. 
Under the hushed and watchful poplars, 
I dance carefully, in step with the memories, 
The faint but visible forms of my youth, 
The fancies of my former imagination, 
Come here, now, to join me briefly, 
On a late-summer’s afternoon. 
We dance, our hands are filled with dried fruit, 
And our voices overflow with untarnished happiness. 
 
13) S: 
How long did you dance? 
 
14) Z: 
As the sun set, I looked up at the trees, 
Silent, understanding (it seemed), and uncritical. 
They gave me a certain dignity, and let me keep it, 
As I walked slowly back to the waiting door, 
With the memories of youth taking leave, 
One by one, and returning to their sleeping places. 
Inside, in the kitchen, I found my grandmother, 
Carefully peeing a few soup-onions. 
She looked up, smiling, but said nothing, 
For she knew where I had been–
From the dust on my feet, and the rest in my face. 
Oh, Kuqe the beautiful, Kuqe my home! 
As the evening shadows hide the landscape, 
A land of melon and cotton fields, 
Walled in by lines of poplar trees, 
Under heaven’s most charming face, 
My heart aches with joy, for I am with her,
My mother’s mother, a root in my soul. 
The once-barren landscape overflows– 
With stories, laughter, recipes, and chatter– 
A flood of words, feeding the soul. 
Around us, the walls and roof-hooks are hung, 
Are loaded with braided garlic and onions, 
With hard, round gourds in nets, and drying leeks, 
Waiting to be used in some soup or stew, 
Time and again, throughout the long winter, 
To feed us, and remind us, once again, 
Of the kindness of summer. 
They ask no questions, and are silent in acceptance. 
Do not look down on me, because I live here, 
Because a hidden valley, remote and elusive, 
Is my home, and the home of my family! 
Through me, your words reach out everywhere, 
Touching many people’s hearts, and with me, 
You may see the high and distant places, 
Hidden to all others. 
My eyes are no longer sorrowful, 
But never forget, my feet grew up in the dust, 
The clean dust of Kuqe, and I danced with my friends, 
With dried fruit in our hands, 
And the elixir of sweet, warm milk in our mouth. 
If a man would give anything else for my love, 
He would be utterly condemned. 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
 
“By the slopes of Badger Mountain.”          Written: 2008/3/19. 
 
Rhyme Scheme: None.  Beats / Syllables: Not fixed (approx. 6 or 7) 
Plan: 1) Introduction.  2) The valley.  3) About Badger Mountain.  4) The river.  5) The village. 6) Conclusion. 
 
 
Verse 1: 
By the slopes of Badger Mountain, 
Where we walked amongst the fields, 
I dared not say I missed you, 
I held my words and mused. 
We walked along the footpaths, 
The mud against our boots, 
In silence save for sighing, 
Or swishing of the grass. 
 
Verse 2: 
The sun would shine in glory, 
Revealing every tree, 
The hedges and the orchards, 
The blossoms and the rye. 
Yet under cloak of day-mist, 
The world became grey-white, 
The valley now imagined, 
Its glory now confused. 
 
 
Verse 3: 
 
It isn’t a true mountain, 
But only like two mounds, 
Covered with cold grasses, 
Like a rug flung on a post. 
Yet on this pile I’m thinking, 
It makes me dream of you, 
For from this very platform, 
The world will rise for you. 
 
 
Verse 4: 
 
We stand beside the river, 
Fast-flowing, sullen, dark, 
Before the wattle-bushes, 
Your father’s work and art. 
The wind is cold and biting, 
It urges us to leave, 
The land with its seclusion, 
For a place we do not know. 
 
Verse 5: 
 
Silent is the village, 
And crumpling are the walls,  
The customs they are fading, 
The leaves fall cold and hard. 
The road for you is simple, 
So pack your bag and go, 
To where your dreams will take you, 
To somewhere far beyond. 
 
Verse 6: 
 
By the slopes of Badger Mountain, 
Where we gazed across the years, 
I dared not show my feelings, 
I stood in silence draped. 
I’ll walk along life’s byways, 
The snow against my feet, 
In silence save for weeping, 
Or wind on mountain pass. 
 
 
*****************************************
 
 
“Requiem Written On A Park Bench, Ming De Road.”   Written: 2008/5/13 to 2008/5/19. 
 
Beats / Syllables: Irregular.    Rhyme Scheme: None. 
Plan: 1) Introduction.  2) A recollection.  3) On separation.  4) Early days together.  5) The Sabean city.  6) Love in the tinsel.  7) History of Ming De Road.  8) Days and nights together. 
9) Stars, and separation.  10) Last meeting, in spring.  11) Conclusion. 
 
Part 1: 
 
Intertwined was the passage of our futile love, 
With the flow of life down Ming De Road. 
 
Part 2:  
 
A few days ago, we met in a café, 
That served not coffee, tea, or buns, 
But salted vegetables, chicken dinners, 
And oceans of soy-bean milk. 
This meeting-place (with hard tile floors, 
Where the working weary of this city 
Re-fuel their bodies, 
Or briefly deflate their minds, 
Before disappearing into the passively agitated crowds), 
Is our place, and our place alone. 
One other, will I meet under a beacon–
An enormous crossroads light– 
Another in the upper room of a tea-house, 
Or another at a certain junction, 
Thronged by anonymous evening silhouettes. 
You, however, I meet in a soy-bean milk café, 
Where I can raise the huge bowl to my lips, 
And never have to take my eyes from yours. 
One I can drain, and be filled for a while, 
But the other, it will never drain dry, 
Nor shall I ever be satisfied, 
To ask for no more.  No, not ever. 
 
Part 3: 
 
Ever since I first knew you, we walked, 
Trod the boards of love’s long stage, 
On Ming De Road, throughout all seasons, 
Of the year and of the soul. 
A mere eighteen years separate us, 
As effectively as an eternal void, 
Yet the stars themselves, so far away, 
Live happily in our poems, and on our pages. 
 
Part 4: 
 
In our early days together – as is said, 
The springtime of affection between two–
We met in the usual places, 
Suitable for shy people attracted to one another. 
We conversed in your mother’s home, 
Where you peeled water-chestnuts, 
One by one, with infinite patience. 
I watched each peeling fall into the steel bowl 
With intent devotion, 
Then devoured the proffered water-chestnut, 
In a flash, as a troll would a goat-kid. 
You scolded me for working too hard, 
As a workaholic bee among tubes of nectar, 
And called me “old machine”. 
Then we walked along Ming De Road. 
Part 5: 
In this city, there is no peace, 
But only the discreetly frantic movement, 
The pace of construction. 
This city of Sabeans, long isolated, 
Occasionally rent by agitation and turmoil, 
But again lapsing back into obscurity – 
A place-name on the map – 
Is now converted, as in a flash of time 
Lasting a mere decade, 
Into a vast growth of up-thrust buildings, 
Torn and re-torn roads, 
And merciless, incessant noise. 
Wider!  Bigger!  Cleaner!  Safer! 
More developed!  More modern! 
Iphigenia is here, again and again, 
And if you look for here, so is Cassandra. 
So too, is Clytemnestra.... 
Slowly, resolutely, the city of Sabeans, 
With its unique and timeless course, 
Is transformed into an auto-da-fé of steel, 
Of stone, of concrete, 
At once far-reaching and unsupportable. 
Mighty the tendrils, of plastic and copper, 
That rush water (clean and foul) everywhere, 
Or silent gas for the burning, 
Or pulsing light, white-hot with news, 
With the agitation of disparate generations, 
Converging as one on this valley, 
This peak-rimmed bowl of desert. 
They come, as wolves in the sheep-pen. 
In former months – not years or ages, 
For they are forgotten; here, days pass by, 
As impatiently-turned pages in a phone directory – 
In former months, hidden hands guided life’s helm. 
Now, there are few hands on the tiller, 
But these are elsewhere. 
The city of Sabeans heaves and is consumed, 
As a fallen animal in Africa, 
Under the mandibles of a million soldier ants. 
The land of gravel, sand, mountains, 
Deserts and rivers that vanish into the ground, 
This land fought for and tamed by heroes, 
Who heard the call and came, who worked, 
Pulling ploughs with their very bodies, 
Who lived on salty vegetables and rock-hard steamed buns, 
And who returned the salt in tears and sweat, 
And who raised up iron children, 
The finest in all Cathay – 
This land and its people (and those others, 
Who were here long ages before), 
Has been replaced by a mausoleum, 
Of shadow-less tinsel, 
Of inflated and unsupportable dreams of wealth, 
Of a new breed of carpet-baggers. 
This city exists, as a family of elephants, 
Having their picnic of dreams, 
On a carpet pf bubbles. 
 
Part 6: 
 
Somewhere, within this sea of tinsel, 
Of chaos lurking within the banners of progress, 
We lived out our ephemeral season of love, 
With our hearts entwined, 
Our hands embraced, 
And our roving feet on the paving-stones, 
Of Ming De Road. 
 
Part 7: 
 
 
On this road, not two generations earlier, 
A hero of the nation came, lived, and worked, 
Before he was taken away by his enemies. 
He never saw the dawn of the new society, 
Cathay’s second chance, the age of hope. 
His brother, and others too, enshrined his memory, 
The place he worked, and the road itself, 
Bestowing on the area a stillness, 
A sense of sanctuary, away from the crowd. 
Thus, Ming De Road took on the repose, 
The peaceful remove of ancient cathedrals, 
With roadside poplars for Gothic arches, 
Small shops for chapels and niches, 
And the anthem of school children at noon, 
Going home for lunch, for choristers. 
Meanwhile, the city, mere blocks away, 
Evolved into its present state. 
 
Part 8: 
How I loved to walk with you,  
At all seasons, by day or by night! 
Love, which makes us callous to shame, 
Of the criticisms of strangers passing by, 
Love bade us to sit on a park bench, 
Under the poplars, about halfway up the road. 
There we sat, sometimes barely talking, 
Staring ahead, across the street, 
Yet closely linked in our inside thoughts. 
Sometimes the street was still at noon, 
Under summer heat, when nothing moved, 
Nothing, save the “cottonwood fluff” at our feet, 
A few sparrows in the branches, 
And shadows of leaves, turned by the faintest of breezes. 
The faintest of whispers passed between us, 
Over the landscape of our imaginations. 
Here, age lost its significance, 
And seemed never to return. 
How peaceful the day, how silent the moments, 
When every fragment of our common existence, 
Our entwined thoughts and aspirations, 
Lay hushed on that bench at noon, 
As scattered slips of scorched papyrus, 
On the floor of some long-lost tomb or temple. 
At times I hardly dared to breathe, 
Lest something crumble, or blow away. 
How still we sat, our ears completely alert, 
As the street-pedlars, pulling their barrows, 
Chanting couplets and requests for business – 
Old iron and bottles, unwanted items; 
Household services, like knife-sharpening – 
Passed down Ming De Road. 
Through their words, half-sung and half-shouted, 
We left completely the present time, 
With its thoughts, concerns and abstractions, 
And entered the timeless world, the abode, 
Of the sunlight among the barely moving leaves. 
We also sat on that bench at night, 
In winter, as the restaurants shuttered up. 
Although we had an excuse to sit closer – 
And we did – the cold sought after us, 
Through every gap in our woolen armor. 
Instead of the ever-present sun at noon, 
Weaving an endless procession of visual tapestries, 
We would stare down at the puddle of lamplight, 
A lesser stage, marked out from the lamp above our heads. 
Different people passed through that light: 
An old man, walking slowly out of the darkness, 
From an unknown meeting with old friends, 
People only he knew about; 
Through a brief moment of incandescence, 
With every feature mercilessly revealed, 
And the moment, fully expressed, a symbol of life; 
Then, slowly receding into the night, 
To an unspoken lodging, house without name, 
And the company of shadows, living or imagined. 
We saw young couples, darting through the light, 
As if it would cause them to burst into flame. 
Did you sympathize?  I stared at them, 
As if they and I were strangers, 
Travelers from opposite planets. 
A cat passed through the strong, mercury-tinted light, 
And like a meteorite, leaving a diminishing wake, 
A fading trail of phosphorescence in my memory. 
For long moments, we did not talk to each other, 
Uniting to each other instead in the language of silence. 
 
Part 9: 
 
However, in spite of our various times of closeness, 
Our occasional moments of boldness in the park, 
When we would hold hands in silent defiance, 
In experimental resistance to the gazes of others, 
We found ways to keep each other at a distance. 
I became, as you declared, an “old machine”, 
Never really resting, but working, and growing weary. 
As for you, I made you into a star, 
Near at hand, but in reality, far away, 
Someone to look at and admire, 
But never to hold. 
Once I found an “origami” star, of many points, 
Made up of tightly-bound ribbon; 
Such stars probably took five or ten minutes to make, 
At least, in the hands of a child. 
You spurned it when offered, 
Bidding me make one hundred of my own. 
(How right!  What value has a second-hand star?) 
I looked at my clumsy fingers, and sighing, 
Put the star in a box for keep-sakes 
(Where it lies forgotten in my storage room); 
Then later, I found a glass jar of stars, 
Made by some true lover, 
Then put it on my desk, in my forest cabin 
(Where I look at it, and remember, 
Each time I sit down to write.) 
Ah yes, dear star!  I did not keep faith, 
Yet I did not, I did not forget. 
Only when the moonlight stops, 
And it ceases to illuminate the earth – 
The landscape of Xin Jiang, 
As well as the landscape of my soul – 
Will I forget you. 
When I look up at the stars, 
Your celestial cousins, thousands of them, 
I will think of you. 
My writing cabin, bound in steel plate, 
And cold as a coffin, has a window, 
Letting me see at least one star. 
 
 
Part 10: 
 
About one year later, we met once more, 
To drink soy-bean milk, and to walk once again, 
The familiar ways, along Ming De Road. 
It was early summer, and the bounty, 
The irrepressible bounty of Xin Jiang, 
The earthly paradise of fruits, 
Was calling out to all who loved living. 
Farmers from the countryside, hidden all year, 
Save for this time, the season of mulberries, 
Walked slowly along the streets, pushing hand-carts. 
Their mulberries – “off-cream”, light green, and purple – 
Were the first new fruits of the area. 
Once again, the “cottonwood fluff” was there, 
Filling densely the breezes of the city, 
As they passed over the houses and parks. 
The Muse was present then, as we walked together, 
Or swung on one of the roadside exercise machines. 
Just looking at you then brought forth words, 
Spontaneous poetry that could never be caught, 
Then written down before it “evaporated”. 
It was enough to see you, framed by the trees, 
Rejoicing among the sunlit branches, 
Happy, without having to ask why. 
Oh star!  Immortalized by Sidney long before, 
Why did you come down from Arcadia, 
To walk the honeycombed paving stones, 
This skein of beauty, on Ming De Road? 
 
Part 11: 
I sit at the corner table alone, 
In the soy-bean milk café, writing, 
Pulverized by cheap, shoddy music. 
Although you are not here, sitting across the table, 
I will nonetheless buy two glasses, 
Packed with dubious ice, of soy-bean milk. 
I shall drink yours for you. 
We have lost each other, but you will remain, 
Immortalized in the common items you touched; 
From them will flow such images and admonitions, 
That I shall hide myself deeper in the corners, 
So no one will see the stars on my cheeks. 
 
 
             
*****************************************
 
 
 
“Gol Furush, Gol Furush, Give Me, Pray, A Stem.”    
Written: 2008/6/13.    Beats / Syllables: Irregular.    Rhyme Scheme: None. 
Plan: 1) Introduction, early morning.  2) About Gol Furush.  3) Noon.  4) Throughout the
afternoon.  5) Evening.  6) Conclusion. 
 
Verse 1: 
Gol Furush, Gol Furush, give me, pray, a stem. 
I see you standing on the steps, 
Beside the swinging doors. 
The day has just arisen, 
The crowds they trudge to work, 
With burdens on their shoulders, 
With pain within their hearts. 
“Is it asking much” you think, 
“To buy from me one rose?” 
To everyone who passes by, 
You plead with silent face, 
Your feet transfixed upon the slabs, 
Your stool upon the rocks. 
Your eyes alone, they leap the crags, 
Of prospects here and there. 
Not finding rest, nor cool repose, 
You like the swallows fly, 
To another place, if there be shade, 
Where people may be found.
 
Verse 2: 
Gol Furush, Gol Furush, I love your purple blooms, 
Of irises and clemantines, 
And yes, a rose or two. 
They shimmer in the morning air, 
Those few remaining drops, 
Of dew that washed their faces pure, 
The hour that they were cut. 
“Oh!  Watch and learn, and love, and live, 
While you behold this dew!” 
As people pass, upon their rounds, 
The sun climbs higher still. 
Before their eyes, but not their thoughts, 
The drops take leave and go, 
And with them, thoughts of wooded glades, 
Of blue-bells never felt. 
Upon your face, the sweat appears, 
Running off your hair. 
There’s no one on the street right now, 
They went inside to hide. 
 
 
Verse 3: 
Gol Furush, Gol Furush, the marbled halls are still, 
I see you in the reading rooms, 
The station master’s porch. 
Among the people queuing there, 
With parcels in their hands, 
You wander softly, as a dream, 
In lands we wished were ours. 
When you calmly meet each prospect, 
(You face them one by one), 
You ask them, with your gaze uprising, 
“Who do you love, and always loved, 
And want to tell them so?” 
Those men, they turn away their face, 
Clutching what they hold. 
Look out!  The cat is coming now; 
The guard he sees you now. 
One moment you were here in peace, 
As fog around the reeds. 
A blast of air, an opened door, 
And then the silence of the streets. 
 
Verse 4: 
Gol Furush, Gol Furush, the noon has just begun! 
Even-tide is hours away, 
And all is bright and hot. 
Although we veil our faces, 
Our flowers must be displayed; 
They suffer and they slowly wilt, 
Although you tend them well. 
Along the open highways, 
Where drivers sometimes rest, 
You ask them, without flinching, 
The age-old question now. 
“What token of love will you carry, 
Over the barren, gravel roads?” 
A few sweep up a handful, 
And rip off half the stems, 
To place them on the dashboard, 
Among the driver’s shrines. 
Sometimes there’s a thoughtful pause, 
A gaze at distant lands, 
Before the rose is taken, 
And flower and heart fly off. 
 
 
Verse 5: 
Gol Furush, Gol Furush, the crowds are back again, 
The marketplace is bursting now, 
There’s barely room to turn. 
Another hour, another step, 
Another crowd to reach, 
But naught has changed, 
The flow of life, its burdens roll on still. 
The people run this way and that, 
Pursuing and pursued, 
Driven by they know not what, 
Or chasing dreams of ash. 
Your heart is strong and resolute, 
As you glide among the throngs; 
Less so your last remaining blooms, 
From sun, and dust, and scorn. 
“Buy this flower, even now, 
To know how short are days!” 
All at once the tray is clean, 
The last flower’s sold and gone. 
A few remaining coppers, 
A wife’s reminding prod, 
Are all it takes to end the day, 
And start the long walk home. 
 
 
Verse 6: 
Gol Furush, Gol Furush, I’ve seen you everywhere, 
At nameless country crossroads, 
In busy market squares. 
I’ve heard your voice oft calling, 
As one of Asia’s doves, 
For doves are found from coast to coast, 
No matter how they call. 
I’ve seen you standing quietly, 
Beside the roaring foam, 
Of people flowing here and there, 
Not knowing where they pass. 
“What is it that you want, 
Observer of the doves?” 
As I live, may you prosper; 
When I die, may you lay down a flower 
For me somewhere; 
Finally, may we meet in that land, 
Of which you spoke.