The time of frolic now has flown,
and old with wisdom they have grown.
Their carefree laughter now is gone;
is gone, but not forgotten.
Decisions, worry, want and pain,
have bent their shoulders deep,
and hate and greed have dulled their eyes,
and fear, and lack of sleep.
Responsibility, that Master mean,
has piled too high his load:
many, the weight too great to bear,
have fallen by the road.
Deep sorrow, heavy and profound,
erases youth’s glad dimples;
yet they plod forward with their load:
a load that kills and cripples.
And still they trudge up Life’s steep hill,
and ponder Life’s great plan:
and behold! from that chaos,
from that chaos steps a man.
The rusted wreck
of the broken shopping cart
serendipitously proceeded
from one green plastic
motherlode
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.
Sometimes the time
seems right
for me to explain
my feelings.
Then you laugh, or say something inane,
or touch me, and the moment’s gone.
Sometimes the time
seems right,
but I become involved
in you.
Then I giggle, or quote Zarathustra,
or an ancient Celtic poem.
Sometimes the time
seems right
for me to divulge
the secrets of my heart:
you are almost asleep, but you convey,
monosyllabic, your prior knowledge.
In a younger day the horizon was near,
just over the next summer hill.
Then, with age to propel, it drifted away
as both dreams and horizons oft’ will.
Ideals, direction,
romance at times;
all these created the haze
that obscured the horizon,
creating the fog
behind which it hid from our gaze.
Now the day is much older, crisp and clear:-
for a moment you wonder whether
the horizon is near, as it once truly was:-
then you both walk towards it, together.
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.
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.
* 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
Southeast breeze carries
scent of jacaranda,
eucalyptus,
oleander, and bougainvillea.
Houses of pastels
that breathe in gentle sunlight:
perfection set in
manicured lawns.
Accents attenuated
from the harsher Caribbean,
friendly voices
greet, and smile.
From Gibb’s Hill,
a visual smorgasbord
tasting subtly, and sadly,
of Eden lost.
A cornucopia of scents assail:
puris frying in hot oil,
rotting garbage,
incense and flowers,
exhaust fumes and hot metal,
beedi smoke,
and the unmistakable presence
of a public convenience.
From the Jama Masjid, the mullah
reiterates, for the third time,
his summons to the faithful.
A legless beggar wheels by:
did the treasure he stole from angry gods
warrant this Promethean reward?
Temple bells ring,
and the crowds surge unceasingly.
Psychedelic visions appear:
Toby jugs that live;
saffron headware crowns,
shading eyes that view
far different horizons.
Ancient gods walk the land,
indifferent to the caste
of their weary avatars.
Pondering, in the shadow
of the Red Fort,
the hubris of those who sought
to civilize the land
where the Bo-shaded Gautama
attained Nirvana long ago:
where a lover's tribute became
a wonder of the world.
If there were ever a time
in the chaotic multiverse
in which we all exist,
a time to abandon
the joy and safety
of narcissistic introversion,
that time is now.
If we had ever been closer
to self-wrought extinction,
that time is lost
to the short-term memory
of history.
The village meeting-house
is locked in the garret
of each point of view.
If there were ever a time
when the final tenant
of Pandora’s box
must be released,
that time is now.
Chaotic negativity, tribalism,
manipulation, greed, and power,
lead us in a crazed final dance,
before the orchestra goes home.
Endless winter,
and the scudding grey clouds,
colour my thoughts.
Northwest winds blow
intermittent snow,
distorting my sight,
dulling the light.
Pale grey luminescence
infuses my days with drab,
and dampen creative spark.
Slowly stretching days
drag into winter night.
Hibernation envy,
and wishes of warm.
A change in the quality of light:
no longer a cold brassy glow,
a sparkle, a twinkle begins germination,
crocuses poke, as we perch,
in joyous expectation,
on the breaking crest,
the welcome verdant tide of spring.
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
