Details |
Blank verse
|
Flying foxes hang replete from the rain trees
dripping in the morning sun.
They have sucked the flesh
of mamey sapote,
of rambutan and mangosteen.
Their dog-like pelts are copper pendants
that dribble a dawn dew onto our heads.
Jia Liu has an Uncle
that is not related to her.
When he is away
she takes me as a tennis partner,
and sometimes lover.
Her uncle owns
the villa.
After the game
we stroll under the large bats.
“It’s good for your hair,” she says laughing,
running ahead.
I call
“Where do they go in the heat of the day?”
“To the fruit markets in George Town,
“they hang from the rafters.”
Last night I was with her again.
A dream.
We were drinking amrita of guava,
our lips smeared
with a sweet red thirst.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like nestling birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
|
Details |
Free verse
|
Flying foxes hang replete from the tall trees
dripping in the morning sun.
They have sucked the flesh
of mamey sapote,
of rambutan and mangosteens.
Their dog-like pelts are copper pendants
that seep a dawn drenched dew onto our heads.
The summit of Penang Hill
is reserved for the rich
who live above the heat and hustle.
Cool nights favor a fragrant adulatory.
Jia Liu has an 'Uncle'
that is not related to her.
When he is away
she takes me to the villa
as a tennis partner,
and sometimes lover.
After the game
we stroll under the bat dribble.
“It’s good for your hair,” she says laughing,
running ahead.
I call after her:
“Where do they go in the heat of the day?”
“To the fruit markets in George Town,
“they hang from the rafters.”
Last night I was with her again-
a dream.
We were drinking amrita of guava,
our lips smeared
with a sweet red thirst
that felt no shame.
|