Bucharest Spring: 1982

Strains of gypsy violins
floated, in aural rhapsody,
on the sumac scented air
of Floreasca Park.
Other lovers
also strolled,
but we were elsewhere-
a place out of time,
where we existed
     only in our eyes.

Cherry blossoms burst
in vernal excitement
in the gardens
of the old Bucur Restaurant.
The open window
by our mezzanine table
with its guttering candle,
admitted a subtle miasma
that focussed our world
     to this eternal moment.

The rain-washed cobbles
of Calea Victoriei
echoed reflected fairy lights,
illuminating the enchanted night.
The Arcul de Triomphe
loomed from the mist,
a monumental signpost
on the magical journey
that would lead us, spell-bound,
     into our shared future.

Beijing Morning

                 

The dragon awakes. Stretching,
with a rattle of scales, he yawns.
The sun, rising
in the east, is red.*

At seven in the morning
the Imperial City is alive
beneath the lifting night shroud
of coal smoke
Japanese cars have replaced
ten million bicycles.

The stone lions keep watch
over Tien-an-min;
in their snarls, surprise
at Chang’An traffic.
The masses sport Gucci,
Dior, where once blue ruled.
Hot breads, tea, and tai chi
still prevail.

In the Western Hills
the Buddhas watch, bells tinkling,
a delayed Industrial Revolution
struggling, growing.

In the compounds and factories
where once loudspeakers preached
Party lines, headlines in low fidelity,
CD stereos play.
MTV replaces the Red Book.
Children march in day care centres:
sailing the educational seas
no longer depends on the Helmsman.*

The dragon,
eyes weak with sleep,
cannot yet see beyond his lair.
Hunger rumbles in his vitals,
and soon he must roam
beyond his hills.

—James D. Fanning
* In the 1960s and early 70s, two of the songs heard most frequently over public loudspeakers throughout China were The East Is Red, and, Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman (a reference, of course, to Chairman Mao). jdf

Abu Dhabi Mosaic

The Corniche skirts
the bath-warm waters of the Gulf,
jewelled with elegant,
pristine office towers
that caress
a sere and scorching sky.
Mercedes and Lexus,
adorned with gold-plate trim,
sedately chauffeur
the descendants of the Bani Yas
through what, only a few decades past,
was a collection of tents
and mud huts
sprinkled across
the unforgiving sand.

At the Gold Souk
black-garbed women seek
golden adornment
that will remain hidden
beneath voluminous abbaya,
while their dark and canny eyes
flash through gold-threaded
full facial masks.

At the Sheridan,
a doorman folds back massive doors
that permit access
to yet another gold-plated Merc.
The occupant joins colleague
on an arrangement of embroidered cushions
on the marble floor
of the air-conditioned lobby.
A brazier of coals heats coffee
offered in traditional and ancient
desert hospitality.

Sparkling new pickup trucks
transport contemptuous dromedaries
whose racing skills will be tested
at the evening camel races.
To the south the hypnotic dunes
march relentlessly towards
the Rub al-Khali, the Empty Quarter,
where hides Uban,
the fabled lost city of Arabia,
beneath its timeless sands.

A Drive to Tangalle Bay

The road from Colombo,
an olfactory hallucination,
ambles south
in a cloud of curry spice,
the saline scent of breaking surf,
and the humble miasma
of coir,
drying in the sun.

Past the neo-hippie haven
of Hikkaduwa,
jewelled with topless bathers,
glass-bottomed boats,
and the elusive, sweet,
suggestion of cannabis
on the warm breeze.

Through the old Dutch fort
of Galle,
roadside vendors
offer drinking coconuts,
hot samosas,
and tasty, dark
jaggery fudge,
made with palm sugar.

Buddhist temples
and images
sprinkle villages
with sanctuaries of calm
and contemplation:
respite from the wave
of tourists
who somehow impart
a garish patina of crassness
upon this gentle land.

At night,
from Tangalle Bay,
stars cascade
into a southern sea,
and are answered
by the bobbing lanterns
of night fishermen
in outrigger dugouts.
Mature waves break
on sandy shingle,
while their kindred march,
unimpeded,
to Antarctica,
eight thousand miles away.