The Cinnamon Gardens Commute

I remembered, this morning,
the early morning walk
from six upon three (6/3) Wijerama Mawatha
to number six Gregory’s Road.

I smelt again the texture
of the Sri Lankan dust
stimulating my nose;
the pungency of rotting vegetation
piled by storm drains
that awaited the next
monsoonal overflow;
and the eye-watering sharpness of a length
of burning coir rope
hanging outside a small roadside lean-to
so that customers could light
their purchased beedis,
made from the sweepings
of the nationalised Benson Hedges factory,
catering to the addictive needs
of the working class.

This, and the deep brown sweet aroma
of stacked pieces of jaggery fudge,
home-made from coconut sugar,
blending in exotic melange
with the spicy call of
devilled cashew nuts:
all proffered by a smiling proprietor
with a name as exotic
as his varied wares.

I pass Horton Place,
and stare in envious wonder
at Professor Arthur C. Clarke’s
satellite dish,
as the kerosene man passes me,
his bullock cart lending
strange contrast in a land
where paradox is commonplace.

Turning onto Gregory’s Road,
I am flanked by a phalanx
of pink cassia, breadfruit,
frangipani, teak, various mimosa,
and the towering cinnamon trees
that give the area its name.
The distinctive call of the knife-sharpener,
brings cooks running from their busy kitchens
to take advantage of his curb-side trade.

The fecund olive trees in the garden
of the High Commission
are dropping their abundant fruit:
a neon flash of parakeets bursts
from laden branches,
as I start another
long day at the office.

Anger In The Street

Anger in the Street

An anthology of black and white poetic snapshots of societal mores and priorities in a changing urban environment

Against the Wall

The crypt coldness
were a hentai fantasy;
short, with slits
and scoop;
and a mile of leg
disappearing
into leather micro.
Her eyes held that look
of reflective knowledge
found only in the better work
of a few Dutch Masters.

The mind-place
she visited while working
was an old friend
from a lost childhood,
a place to which
she continued to be drawn,
even after learning
her test was positive.


Shelter

She
sits quietly,
near the window,
eyes nervously
tracking
remembered pain.

She
does not know
where
she will go
when
frugal municipal funds
force closure
on her shelter.

She
still believes
if she had tried
harder,
if she were
a better person,
he would never
have hurt her.


The Swarming

The Library was her refuge:
through her thick lenses
she travelled far beyond
these sordid streets.
She lunched
with Byron and Yeats;
held off dervishes
with Gordon.
She was a true Bene Gesserit;
a Reverend Mother
of some note.

In the litter-planted park
the Ten cursed and fought,
discussing,
monosyllabic,
the direction the evening
should take.
Their oversized clothing,
with uniform drabness,
prompted visions
of children
playing dress-up
in the rainy-day attic of a kinder world.

They surrounded
and devoured her
in their contrived anger.
Broken glasses,
scattered books,
ripped pages, lay mute
in the mud.

Her broken body
was serene and regal:
somewhen
the Sisterhood
mourned the passing
of a respected colleague,
and, at the siege of Khartoum,
Gordon fought on,
alone.


“Body and Soul”*

The mellow sound
of his alto sax
suffuses
the pedestrian mall
with the echo
of a gentler
time.

Several older listeners
think of Charlie Parker,
of Stan Getz,
and of the magical freedom
jazz bestows
on the human
soul.

His worn Stetson
accepted the tribute
of coins
that could not begin
to feed the hunger
behind
his scarred arms.

He plays
as though his spirit
was aflame,
the difficulty of his
methadone treatment
and his worsening Hep C
forgotten.

He smiles
as several of his listeners
break into applause,
just before
tone-deaf Mall Security
roughly tells him
to move along.

* “Body and Soul” is the title of a recording made in 1939 by Coleman Hawkins that became THE model for later jazz solos on all instruments.


Reuse-Return-Recycle

The rusted wreck
of the broken shopping cart
serendipitously proceeded
from one green plastic
mother lode
to the next.

Its guide,
hidden beneath layers
that could have inspired
Escher’s genius at morphing,
was, however, more evocative
of Hieronymus Bosch.

He mined
each green trove assiduously,
adding nuggets of refundable treasure
carefully
to his creaking, wobbling chariot.
His acute accountant’s mind
kept a running total
in crisp, clean ledgers that,
alone, survived
the culture shock,
the corporate downsizing,
of the Nineteen Eighties.

Fog People

You often
almost see them
from the corner
of your eye.
You sense
a wisp of grey,
a floating,
ethereal
movement
that suddenly
d i s s o l v e s.

They drift
quietly,
gently,
on the edge
of our consciousness:
these pale,
these grey,
these haunting
people,
whom all,
but Time,
have forgotten.

If we chance
to pause,
to peer beyond
the drifting veil,
we see,
within the shroud,
a preview of ourselves
tomorrow.



Injection

The television
and the cell phone
from the break-in
purchased
a plastic packet
of peace.

The needle
was new:
clean and free.
Soon
the magical tsunami
would sweep away
his soul.

The powder,
pure and deadly,
should have been
adulterated
to slow the rush
of fragile heart.
The young man,
releasing the dam,
felt, for an instant,
the cool brick wall
of his derelict mausoleum,
then was gone.

Air Vent Requiem

His muttered dialogue with Jesus
was apologetic and respectful,
politely drawing that Deity’s attention
to cosmic oversights.

The supermarket cart,
full of strange lumps and extrusions,
seemed a natural extension of self.
His eyes never viewed
a potential acquisition directly:
they fluttered, like children’s wishes,
skirting the object of desire,
until, overcome by belief,
he would pounce.

The temperature drop,
that negated the meagre warmth
of the hot air vent that was his home,
temporarily interrupted
his celestial conversation.

In the thin morning light,
the cart stands guard
over the still and huddled body,
like some alien monument
commemorating a battle
few have known.




Under the Bridge

Fog from the river
gathers under the bridge,
dampening cardboard,
chilling marrow
and shrouding soul.

Moans rise
to a waning moon:
nightmare screams
shatter
an uncaring stillness.

Bundles of rags,
drawn to the dying fire,
mutter
querulous monologues
in alien tongues.

Bent figure,
urinating in icy water,
stumbles, splashes,
and is gone
without a ripple.

Testimony

He easily ignored
the stares,
the crude comments,
the threatening gestures,
engendered
by his street-corner ministry:
his testament of Faith.

He overcame his fear
with his Belief
that, even in these squalid
ghetto streets,
the Word
should enlighten.

While he sang
“What a Friend we have
in Jesus,”
a hulk in gangsta garb
spat on him,
and he worried that
his Testimony
only made
his God
sad.


Third World Stigmata

The depth of sadness
in the girl's eyes
held the attention of all
on the air-conditioned
tourist bus.
No older
than eight or nine,
she wove her way deftly
through dense Delhi traffic,
propelling her steel-castered,
wooden platform
with sure strokes of her hands.

Last year
her impoverished parents had
sold her,
the youngest,
so that the family could live.
Her new owner,
realising the value
of his investment,
ensured that the operation,
removing both legs,
was sterile:
she was on the street
within two months.

Pausing at the corner lights,
the bus disgorged
several tourists,
who pressed rupee notes
upon the small amputee.
They had no way of knowing
their gift
perpetuated
slavery and mutilation.

Bus Station Encounter

The stench
of excrement-stained clothing,
of body long unwashed,
almost obscured
the rich vocabulary,
the cultural cadence
of the derelict’s voice.

The young woman
did not hear
his compliments;
did not recognise
his astute and
favourable analysis
of her fashion statement.
She merely said,
“Piss off,
or I’ll scream.”


Diamonds in the Gutter

Smiles flashing,
like memories
of some distant sun,
they pursue
the soccer ball
with feral glee.

Their communication
is joyous,
a staccato burst,
an ethnic melange
born of the urgency
of the streets.

They are aware,
but do not see
the syringes, condoms,
empty bottles;
an alternate reality
from another world.

Dealers, junkies,
pros, and winos:
all known and greeted equally
by these small,
energetic
dreams of tomorrow.


Sound Bite

The motorcade,
stopping before cameras
and microphones,
was as incongruous
as a guffaw at a funeral.
The surrounding buildings,
derelict and time-worn
as the few faces peering,
confused, from the mouldy doorways
and flaking windowsills,
were stark:
tones of black, white, and grey:
a dismal dream of some forgotten disaster.

The mayor,
cloaked with a bonhomie
born of a profound sense of self-worth,
smiled, facing the cameras:
yes, the city had concluded
a mutually satisfying agreement
with the developer.
The area would be
reclaimed,
revitalised,
refurbished,
and released from the state of decay
into which it had fallen.

The one radical reporter
who wished to question
relocation of the low rental units,
the rehab centre, the soup kitchens,
was swept aside
by smiling, applauding businessmen,
anxious to escape
such unsavoury environs.

Curbside Retrospective

His thin shoulders
hunched
against the chill
evening mist,
he surveyed
the oncoming cars
with a weary look
of superior
disdain.

The weariness within
belied
his sixteen years.
He longed for
the peace
of his shabby room,
the distracting noise
and diversion
of his Game Cube.

The Audi slowed...
stopped.
Power window lowered,
terms and conditions
discussed.
The boy noted the tie,
the service club
lapel pin,
and hated the man
nearly as much
as the abusive father,
now
far
away.

Squeegee Kids

Some commuters
drive for
m i l e s
out of their way,
wasting
time and money,
to avoid
Squeegee corners:
the penalty of guilt.

Others pay,
avoiding eye contact,
looking.......straight.......ahead,
afraid
the gunge
of the Squeegee’s rag
may damage Audi shine.
They reinforce
the efficacy of intimidation
as a social grace.

The global village
has come of age,
as this phenomena,
indigenous once
solely to third world cities,
has arrived on
Main Street,
and urban crowding,
with youth unemployment,
makes
the sale of fear
a career of necessity
to those
we continue to
ignore.


Diminished Responsibility

Her pregnancy, only minutes from term,
gave her the look of a tumbleweed
as she stumbled
through killing December cold.
Sally Ann band on windswept corner
marked the passage of one whose experience
was the cosmic opposite of their celestial joy:
"...crib for His bed, the little Lord..."

With labour pains almost constant
she turned into the alley,
sheltering in the shadow of
a green dumpster, which exhorted
a more affluent society to
"Keep our City Clean."
She squatted as her water broke,
and cursed her most recent companion
for throwing her out
when her condition
invalidated her use to him.
She blasted her last two rocks
in the lifeline of her pipe,
and suddenly, “God!”
It was done.

The investigative team
discovered the icy creche
near the area where
the Paras had found her,
collapsed, in the street.
The rookie swore
when he opened the dumpster,
quick tears freezing on his cheeks,
while in the distance,
the Army concluded their ministry
with "O Holy Night."

Sanctuary

The lone priest
fussed over his nightly chores:
fresh coffee made,
fresh styrofoam cups,
bulk cookies,
clean bathroom.
The month old magazines
lay scattered
like the broken promises
of yesterday.

He dreaded
the ritual that was about
to occur:
nightly flow
of addicts,
teenaged prostitutes
of both genders,
older hookers,
and many others
who accepted,
for a brief time,
sanctuary.

He hated
how his body,
kindled
by the presence
of his younger
visitors,
betrayed his faith,
as he fought
a lonely battle,
already lost.



Yesterday’s Children

The stiffness of the morning
will s l o w l y
work its way
out of tired joints.
Bland breakfasts
ensure
regularity,
a welcomed monotony.
Well-planned days
permit
no dismal contemplation
of tomorrow.

We are Yesterday’s children,
remembering too well,
the heat and the passion,
the beauty that was ours.
Hearing echoes
of past glories,
we sojourn here today,
until,
like dreams
and memories,
we gently
fade
away.

The Teacher

Another when,
and he ruled his Eng Lit classes
from the comforts
of tweeds well worn.

Today, though,
stumps of pencils, flags of paper,
were secreted willy-nilly
deep in the rags
that called him home.

Teaching when and where he could,
urchin and ancient alike
found benefit
from his memory of a life
before his Fall.
A name spelled here,
welfare application there,
laboured reading
of gutter-trapped headlines;
the street seemed less ugly
for his students.

Shorn heads and hard booted,
the Furies fell upon him
one cold night
for possession of his half bottle
of fortified wine.

Surrounded by his small blank bits of paper,
and short, sharpened stubs of pencils,
he resembled nothing so much
as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle,
its meaning not quite clear.

Waiting for the Night

His reinforced aluminum
sturdy-grip cane
timidly precedes him,
its three legs
reminiscent
of a baby Triffid,
uncertain
in an alien
environment.

The twice-weekly visit
of a harried
social worker
barely scratches
the surface
of his age-imposed
needs:
his clothes are dirtier,
diet less varied,
body weaker,
sight dimmer,
brain more forgetful
than a few short
months ago.

Puzzled,
at the foot of the steps,
he has already
forgotten
his destination:
his Triffid
slowly
leads him
into city traffic.

The Choice

The magnitude
of his fear
dwarfed
his thirteen years.

While crushing
his spirit,
the streets also
extinguished hope.

Perhaps home,
with continuing abuse,
would remove
the terror
of the alleys.


Nemesis

She was proud of her skill
with her three-toed cane.
Her walk
from the Home
to Thrift Store
took just twenty minutes:
then fifteen minutes
to the donut shop
where she’d meet
some of the Girls.

Concentrating
on her next step,
she was shocked,
surprised,
as her faithful shoulder bag
was wrenched
from her grip.

Baggy trousers
slowed his sprint;
dragging cuffs
impeded his balance
as fate,
gravity,
and forward motion
conspired,
then placed him in the path
of the accelerating Transit bus.

She recovered her handbag,
and left the scene
without
a backward
glance.

The Guardian

As an active father, long ago,
he had worn parental responsibility
as a proud and brilliant banner.
His children, now grown,
banner-draped themselves,
frequently implored
he join them in their far-off lives.
He would not, however,
leave her grave untended;
could not abandon shared dreams
that wisped, like Atlantic fog,
through city streets
where they had strolled,
in kinder years, together.

Now, from the window
of his third-floor walk-up,
he surveyed the children of strangers.
Neighbourhood Watch
provided name and number
of an interested, responsive officer,
who valued civic responsibility.

Drug dealers avoided
his visual charges:
bullies and punks sought distant,
more fertile ground.
In the street, children skipped,
tossed balls, laughed and played
under his watchful eye.

Behind him, sometimes,
in the twilight,
he imagined her presence,
and felt the warmth
of her vanished smile.

Urban Diorama

The park,
an oasis of green calm
threatened by a desert
of office towers,
was the place,
favoured by the avatars
of the fiscal god Chaos,
for a quick lunch
and smoke.

Precisely at one-o-five
he would shamble
to his special bench,
across from the pigeon toilet
that resembled
Robbie Burns,
and sort contents
of the green bin
into three piles:
lunch, refund cans and bottles,
and unusables.

He shared his recycled,
second-hand lunch
with pigeons, sparrows, squirrels,
and the odd curious seagull.
His guests were
frequently frightened away
by the strength and violence
of his repeated cough,
as his tuberculosis
brought this urban
Saint Francis of Assisi
daily closer
to his lonely martyrdom.

Bridge Epiphany

The bridge tower
beckoned to him,
like some strange
and shining fortress
from the fantasy books
of his youth;
that distant time
before his parents divorced,
and his world died.

The view,
from his perch
on the pylon,
seemed
to be of twinkling faerie lights,
viewed through the shimmer
of Avalon’s mist.
He forgot, momentarily,
the sadness
of running away,
and the cruel reality
of the streets.

In a moment of crystalline clarity,
he saw that
the meaning of his life,
of his pain,
of his very being,
was only a prelude
to the finality of now,
as the wind
of his swift passage
parted the fog
to reveal a glad smile
that would see
no tomorrows.

The Visitors

There once existed, on a far-off planet, a civilisation of beings that was founded on love, trust, and mutual respect. The concept of a police force or an army would not have been understood here, as crime and war were not words in the language of this people.


The highest accomplishment in this society was to add to the collective aesthetic. Architects built high, airy, soaring buildings in consultation with musicians, so that when the buildings were erected and caressed by the soft prevailing winds, a gentle tone poem was produced that added to the enjoyment of the environment visually and aurally. One city to the south was inhabited entirely by poets, and had been so inhabited for thousands of years. Each poet was expected to contribute one line to a poem that told the entire history of these gentle people. It was a work in progress that was monumental in both concept and scope. We must understand that these poets had evolved over long millennia to the point that, when they wrote, the words they used were toned to evoke emotive responses in the listener through subtle frequency changes. It is interesting to note that this world had no written language: there was no requirement for it, as anything worth saying could be said, and anything worth remembering would be remembered.


One artist had given himself the task of composing a picture symbolising the essence of his world. He thought long on this project, anxious that it should be perfect. Rather than making a hasty decision to start the project, he continued his contemplation without putting paint to canvas. He died peacefully after his four-thousand-year life, but passed his life task on to his warnegs (a word in his language that indicates non-gender-specific spiritual offspring, but also described immortality). Thirty-seven generations later, the present warnegs realised that by virtue of the progression of lives devoted to this project, the picture was presented on the medium of each of their lives, and, as an ongoing work of art, must be continued to be preserved.


Scientists, over the ages, had eliminated sickness, lengthened the lifespan to four thousand years, and perhaps most important, had removed the drudgery from everyday work and housekeeping tasks. Holistic wellness had been enhanced through the medium of specific ganglionic manipulation, achieved through daily humming of a mantric frequency sequence. Each being was free to develop to his best advantage to pursue the common good. If one could survey all of the known universes, both parallel and tangential, one could not find a society that had achieved such a zenith of aesthetic perfection.


These gentle people had no religion, as they had achieved immortality. After living their four thousand lives, they sensed when their physical end was approaching. With a feeling of consuming joy, they would approach another of their kind, touch their heads together in an act called zarlem, and in an instant, the elder would have transferred the core of his being to the other. The body would then disappear, but the essence would continue on in the body of the host. The new arrival would not be alone, as this form of immortality had been going on for more than five million years, and each member of this wondrous society shared her physical being with the essence of millions who had gone before.


One day the scientists on this Utopian planet made a discovery, quite by accident, concerning their friendly, smiling sun, that had shone on them since the dawn of their creation. All of the available facts indicated that, within one half year, this benign star would go nova, destroying its only satellite, their home.

* * * * *

The preparations were at last complete. The shining, egg-shaped ship floated inches above the common, near the centre of the major city of the planet. It would carry 500 physical beings within its silver core. Of cardinal importance though, was the cargo that the five hundred would carry. The voyagers were presently in the process of zarlem with all of the inhabitants of the planet. As each individual touched the head of a voyager, the individual would disappear, but the voyager would have gained yet another personality and the millions of essences contained therein, each as real and vital as the voyager's own character.


Strangely, this process was not a sad one, but was a festive and joyous occasion. The long, intricately formed queues were pleasing to the eye, and the songs and poems, chanted in counterpoint, made the heart vibrate in peaceful exhilaration.

* * * * *

The ship lifted from a planet that was devoid of life. The buildings sang tone poems to no one. The perfect flower designs on swards of the most vivid emerald pleased the eye of none. The perfect sun, that had shone so long on perfection, flickered, then turned an angry orange and exploded in a display of stellar fireworks that soon left that quadrant of the universe empty except for a vast swirling shroud of gas. The silver egg, containing both the past and future of an entire race, sped on, ...and ages passed.

* * * * *

It was a typical afternoon in Central Park: parents walking with their children, office workers relaxing with coffee and sandwich, lovers gazing into each others eyes, and holding hands, three different purse snatchers, one flasher in a London Mist coat ... and Jonathan O'Shea was walking home from his violin lesson.


Jonathan was fourteen years old, an idealist, and a genius. Yale had asked him (much to Harvard's chagrin) if he could join them on a scholarship next term. Jonathan's parents thought that Yale would be good for him, and he was tempted to agree, primarily because of the Medieval Studies program at that university. Jonathan's intellect told him that the Middle Ages were anything but romantic, but his fourteen year old soul longed after a chivalrous age, where knights slew dragons that threatened fair damsels, and virtue was its' own reward.

* * * * *

The five hundred descended in their silver egg, past the ugly towers towards the unruly green park. The ship hovered ten feet above the grass while the passengers looked through the walls and saw the crowds gathering below. They paid no attention to the crowds, as they were enthralled with the large numbers of birds flying about the park. The gentle creatures collectively agreed that, although they did not comprehend all of what they saw, there were as least many present who were not unlike them. The decision was made to go out into the air of their new home and communicate with those who looked almost like them. The ship's wall opaqued, then opened for them, and the travellers went forth into their new home.


The crowds around the silver ship watched in astonishment as five hundred beautiful, bronze-plumed birds flew like a flame through the wall of the ship. When these birds started a strange high singing, the quiet astonishment of the crowd turned to action. A few of the crowd threw frisbees, others threw stones, and baseballs. Most of the phoenix-like creatures were knocked from the skies and torn apart by the grabbing of many hands anxious to salvage one of the burnished feathers.


Jonathan, standing back from the mob, was dismayed by the carnage. When one of the birds dropped, wounded, at his feet, he picked it up and hid it under his jacket. He wasted no time in finding a quiet place where he could examine his patient for wounds. The two stared at each other, each recognising in the other a kindred spirit. The bird keened a mournful, quiet sound that Jonathan could almost understand. He held the bird closer to his ear so he could hear all the subtle nuances of the song. The bird leaned forward and touched Jonathan's forehead with its beak. In the brief intense burst of emotion that flooded throughout every fibre of his body, Jonathan O'Shea received zarlem, with the understanding of what had been done, and was not surprised that the visitor had disappeared.

* * * * *

The last of the visitors, the glowing plumage dulled and drab, died in captivity twenty-seven days after the landing. Jonathan went on to Yale, where his field of studies changed to demographics, sociology, philosophy, and religion.


Ten years after the Landing, Jonathan O'Shea, scholar and warneg, used the accumulated knowledge, culture, and science of another species, and changed the world for the better.

Cultures of Non-violence, and Blackflies

I have been enthralled by those Hindi and Buddhist adherents who would be aghast at killing even a cockroach. 

When I was on posting in Delhi, whenever the High Commission got too crazy with multitudinous political problems, I would take a three-wheeler down to the old city. I would wander the back streets of Chandni Chowk, and the alleyways that encircle the Red Fort. Early in my posting, during one of these rambles, I looked into a small Hindu temple, nestled in the very shadow of the Red Fort. 

In the main sanctum, before a small alter composed of images of gods and avatars (Hanuman, Shiva, Khrishna, Deva, and others I did not recognise) stood a beautiful bull, quietly chewing his cud. The Sishya (resident disciple of a Guru) greeted me in Hindi, and I responded in English. Through gestures, he invited me into his quarters, a single room behind the sanctum proper. 

The furniture consisted of a small cot, hot plate, and fan. Several pictures of his Guru adorned the sand-coloured walls. An older woman appeared to make strong milky coffee for us. This she served with powdered cardamom sprinkled on top. About a dozen men were seated on the floor, smoking pungent Indian cigarettes, and occasionally passing around a chillum (funnel-shaped clay pipe) filled with a mixture of tobacco and charas, a form of hashish (which I later learned came from the mountainous area around Hrishikesh). 

A sidenote at this point: it appears that the temple was dedicated to, and the Sishya an adherent of,  Shaivism (in which, simple put, Shiva (Siva) is the main deity). Many devotees of Shaivism use hashish to enhance their religious experience, and, supposedly, to see more clearly their path through this incarnation. This was the heyday of the American War on Drugs, but I refused to take the view that these gentlemen were drug addicts, intent on getting stoned and dangerous. 

Some of the Sishya's backroom guests fortunately spoke English, and I was able, over the next three years, to learn much about their religion, and practices. Crossing the floor was a column of large black ants, with massive mandibles. They were about 3 cm long, and looked extremely aggressive. I asked a man next to me why they didn't get rid of the ants. He laughed, and spoke at length to the Sishya, who also laughed. The man then explained to me, as to a child, that the ants, as well as Sahib, our Canadian guest, has reason to seek the refuge of Shiva's temple, and may well be atoning for evils accumulated in a previous existence. Hence, he continued, we do not kill our brothers. 

Works for me, although mosquitoes and blackflies have sinned far too much in previous lives, so I hurry them on to their next incarnation with much glee. 


Peace, and namaste

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.

Gaia's Dream

The Goddess dreams:
     they swirl like clouds
     of dark matter
     filling cosmic emptiness
     with something unknown,
     but profound.

Her children have long deserted her
     to create new,
     invisible gods
     with commandments
     more lenient,
     less stringent,
     absolute and terrifying,
     than hers.

We poison her seas,
     foul her air,
     soil her earth.
     We strip her foliage,
     kill her beasts,
     plunder her resources
     with no thought,
          no thanks,
          no care.

The Goddess dreams;
     a violent dream
     of punishment,
     of decimation,
     in which she waits
     in barren, airless splendour
     until her time is,
     again.

Shiva's Essence

Shiva’s Essence

The early-morning train, scudding across the flat dawn landscape, was something out of a latter-day Raj. Patches of green, fields of cane and rice in all stages of growth, alternating with the drab dun and ochre colours of the huts and shacks, combined in a complex and exotic mosaic. The train containing the time-travellers passed through an alien landscape for which no travel yet experienced had prepared us. The sight of multitudes of individuals squatting beside the tracks voiding their bowels made one query whether the country had been given a collective purgative. Our family group was en route to three days and two nights at a whitewater rafting camp on the upper Ganga (Ganges) River. I was a officer of the Canadian Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade, working as Senior Systems Administrator at the Canadian High Commission in New Delhi. My wife, Terry, was Personal Assistant to the Economics Counsellor. Our son, Geoffrey, was seven and our daughter, Siobhan, was three. Our friend and ayah, Venus, whom we brought from Guyana for our tour in India, was with us to keep an eye on Geoff and Siobhan, while mummy and daddy do crazy things in a rubber raft.

Geoff’s questions punctuated the visual tapestry. My neck was sore from its’ constant bias toward the window, and I had discovered that I was keeping my breathing shallow in an unconscious tribute to the majesty and timelessness of the scenes outside. Dusty country roads are populated by water buffalo and Gandhi impersonators wearing longhis and riding ancient bicycles that seem as old as the time-worn landscape. Women, in colours as bright and surreal as a Ken Kesey acid flashback, spot the rice paddies and the cane fields, gathering an eternal harvest untouched by northern seasons. Small handmade clay smokestacks belch clouds of grey smoke, while within their warm wombs simple bricks bake and dream of reincarnation as yet another hovel. Trestles cross rivers whose banks are alive with yet more butterfly saris, their wearers pounding piles of laundry washed in mud-brown waters against the patient rocks. Scabrous stray dogs fight, forage, and procreate oblivious to their surroundings. Happy children play naked amongst the filth, with their future sex not yet determined: only later would they assume their preordained roles and take their places in the eternal struggle (or is it perhaps the eternal celebration?) that is India.

That afternoon we were introduced to the holy Ganga River where it flows through the sacred town of Haridwar. Hindu mythology has it that the Ganga springs from Shiva’s head while he sleeps in the Himalayas. Outside of the railway station at Haridwar, a fountain depicts this. Geoff wonders why Shiva is blue. Reflecting upon this variation on the Daddy-why-is-the-sky-blue? theme, I answer that it was to distinguish him from mortals. Shiva’s dreams would later transform, for us, into a nightmarish cascading maelstrom into which we would be voluntarily swept. Not just once, but many times!

The first day started with our young guide, Clayton, a 23-year-old New Zealander, giving us our briefing (caveat emptor!) And training us on survival techniques and what to do while IN the water! Our raft group is diverse, not to say eclectic, ranging from a British banker to an Indian university student. With the exception of the banker and his 14-year-old son, none of us had any rafting experience. At this point I had absolutely no intimation of what was to come. Sure, I reasoned, it’s whitewater rafting, but the “white” part surely must refer to several sets of rather small rapids picked out especially to give each raftload of novices a shiver of excitement and anticipation without any actual danger! So much for my flawed and naive reasoning.

The rapids over the first day’s thirteen kilometre stretch from our campsite to Rishikesh, were frightening, but we all managed to cling tenuously to our existence, personified by a 12-foot patch of feeble blue rubber. Joy at safely transiting one stretch of insane water quickly gave way to full realization that our collective folly was not yet complete. The soles of my feet developed a Crazy-Glue-like substance that kept me bonded with the bottom of the raft. My mind constantly reviewed my life, and I believe I entered a state of fear-induced Nirvana, becoming one mentally with the river with which I was certain of becoming one physically. Geoff joined us for the gentler bits, and I rejoiced at seeing my son again after our trial by water.

Rishikesh (Hrishikesh) is a holy town on the Ganga, populated by guesthouse owners, pilgrims, neo-hippies, and holy men (sadhus). It is perched upon the sides of Himalayan foothills, and is a cacophony of sight, sound, and scents. The sweet smell of hashish and incense hung over the town like a benediction. This was where the Beatles and Donovan came to study with the Maharishi. As is my custom, I perused the faces of those denizens of Rishikesh whom we passed in our diesel-fume-filled carriage, and tried to imagine what strange vistas their insane and staring eyes beheld! Were their mental universes populated by the gods on whom the garish temple images were modelled? If that were the case, little wonder that they dedicate their lives to serving these gods! As an aside, I do muse on the fact that, unlike Christian artists depicting the different and varied faces of Christ, ALL the millions of images and statues of Shiva, Krishna, Hanuman, Vishnu et al, are constant in their representations. Is this meant to divulge to us some universal truth? Who, in fact, are the pagans?

The second day on the river we started by busing twenty kilometres up the river. We had been told that we would be going through such ordeals as Daniel’s Dip, and the Wall. Oh good. What strange, wondrous and distant drums could prompt a man of 55 well-lived years to do this testosterone motivated, male-ego building, death-wish fulfilling river thing! Feeling that his crew was experienced enough, our guide decided to take us through each set of rapids the hard way. Although we appreciated his confidence in us, I suspected that his decision was based on wanting a bit of excitement himself, rather than feeling complete trust in the virtuosity of his crew. We paddled on.

The feeling of approaching a geographic feature that roars and leaps high into the air while passing in a dizzying foam-drenched rush through cliffs of granite, and is possessed of hidden eddies that can suck one down to the jagged rocks just beneath the surface, can only be described as a controlled terror. First the noise, then the increasing speed of the river, and then the rapids, hidden from view until it is too late to scream “noooo!,”suddenly are before and below us, tossing spumes of white water three metres into the air! When you are committed (a word I use advisedly) to the rapids, thought is suspended and placed into a wet, white, noisy place where the taste of fear is the taste of the Ganga. Paddling furiously in response to the fervent exhortations of our guide, we are tossed into a washing machine from hell. The stern of the raft goes down and suddenly is at a 45-degree angle behind and below me. The entire raft rushes toward a rock wall while we assume a tilt of 40 degrees on our axis: nothing exists but the mad, fear-induced digging of the paddles, while the psychotic river attempts to wrench them from our puny grasps.

Daniel’s Dip claims two casualties. Terry gets hit in the nose by something unseen (a river sprite!), causing a brief nosebleed, while Clayton bashes himself in the mouth with his paddle, which does nothing to enhance our faith in him as the omnipotent guide: if this can happen to him, what, pray, might happen to lesser mortals?

A peaceful hiatus while our puerile comrades in the two other rafts enjoy themselves by splashing each other! A return to the safety of childhood prompted by the trauma of water psychoses. We feel smugly superior to them, as we took the more difficult routes through Daniel’s Dip and the preceding rapids, while they took the easy way. In our raft each of us is quiet and contemplative, reflecting on our feelings as we went through Daniel’s Dip. A certain inner peace descends upon each of us, perhaps as a result of the incredible adrenaline rush we had all experienced just minutes ago.

Like a visit from psychic forerunner, the Pink Floyd tune “The Wall” gives me mental goose bumps, and plays non-stop in my head. In the distance the sound of the Wall dominates all, reducing the mountains to insignificance, dulling the sunlight into insane rainbows, and forcing us all to see the river as though for the first time. Our senses focus, awareness is heightened, and our hearts provide the sluggish yet pervasive bass beat demanded by the Wall’s psychopathic symphony. We round a bend, and there, in front of us and dropping rapidly as it rushes by a solid rock face, is our Nemesis, the Wall.

The controlled terror that I feel shifts into high gear, and my entire existence to this point is focussed upon Clayton’s voice, screaming at us to “paddle, paddle, paddle!” Time stops. The feeling possesses me that an oar has broken the right lens from my sun glasses, will the river suck the moccasins from my feet as a token tithe demanded by the unforgiving river gods? I MUST start swimming to the shore, else be shredded against the cliff face. I am on my back looking UP at the surface of the water. My oar, still in my hand, is being buffeted by the angry river. Surfacing, I see an oar handle stretched toward me and I fight to reach it. Success! With no grace and a distinct lack of elegance, I am pulled aboard. Stunned and disoriented, I say to Terry, who was thrown across the raft into my seat, that I think I lost my sunglasses. They are still safe in my anorak pocket, and I have been through the Wall.

At night, the stars are only 10 feet overhead. The year is 1997, and the Hale-Bopp comet hovers slowly above the mountains, and all of us are affected by the cosmic majesty. Unseen trucks labour around the dark mountain roads high above our camp. The monkeys come down to explore the edges of the camp, while the children are afraid to pee in case they encounter a monkey while visiting the camp toilets. The campfire offers an ancient and symbolic protection against the forces of darkness, against the intrusion of the unknown, against the forces of Chaos. I feel strangely reborn, whether from surviving, or from drinking of Shiva’s essence from his holy river, I do not know. Yousef, the camp manager, plays an excellent guitar rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Shine on, You Crazy Diamond,” and Cat Steven’s “Moon Shadow”: he breaks into an old Robert Johnson-style blues number, and the spirit to the river moves me to sing my own ad hoc words for the riff, which the ranks of the river-initiated around the fire receive in kind approbation. I am alive. I am well. My long-quested state of peace and tranquillity is as near to me now as it will ever be.

Geoff talks to Venus all the way home. The excitement of living a childhood adventure drama has animated him as only video and computer games have done previously. From Haridwar to New Delhi railway station he stops only to swallow his train meals. Siobhan is tired, and is prevented from becoming cranky solely by the presence of her “blankie,” a faithful, if somewhat tattered blanket, and loyal companion and confidant since birth. Terry, Venus, and I continue to be impressed by the meals we receive on the train. It is fairly simple fare, but with exotic flavours and textures that enhance the experience for us. Excitement has found a fertile home in a young boy who has rafted on the holy Ganga. Exhaustion has wrapped in compelling arms a young girl who has played in sand ground by a sacred river from the Himalayas.

A midnight rain has polished the dusty streets of New Delhi as we drive home from the station. The children fall asleep quickly without the usual stories and songs. Terry saves her diary entry for the morrow. I do not sleep immediately, but savour an inner contentment that will stay with me as long as the memory of this experience lasts. I have drunk of Shiva’s essence. Part of the wonder and mystery that is India has become part of me, and I feel that I have gained something intangible that will enhance the remainder of my life.