Teesta Review:
A Journal of Poetry, Volume 2, Number 1. May 2019. ISSN: 2581-7094
In Karen State, Myanmar
‘So often like this, in lonely places in the forest,
he would come upon something — bird, flower, tree — beautiful beyond all words,
if there had been a soul with whom to share it. Beauty is meaningless until it
is shared.’ George Orwell, Burmese Days
In storm front skins the clouded leopard
shimmies down teak trees to be caught
for a moment on film as cameras surveil
the magnificence of tigers striped
in jungle shadows
the Salween
river
fights its way down from China to sweep
in slow gorged curves among rainforest
draped mountainsides where hill-fall ends
in Thailand & the shrouded world seems
more than a world
away – the moon
bears take shape & form in the darkness
of civil war that has in its paradox left
tigers to dwell in spirit with the forest
& hornbill pairs to reincarnate in colour
lost villager souls
tugging at beards
& horns of serow the goat-antelope
or avoiding the feet of preternatural
elephants that trample the hidden
paths & places of the Karen State
which in progress
promises influx
so as they are found they are lost
& damned in river-flooded valleys
where in cease-fire liberation wild
life protection units drill like soldiers
to make war
in a land of flowers.
案山子 Kakashi (scarecrow)*
"I
shall ask for brains instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do
with a heart if he had one."
L. Frank Baum
I fade the earth with a ghost of your smile. Our
lives filled with memory. But these memories
are voiceless. Silent in spring sunshine. Caught
in action of movement, they never move
but we (we are not unmoved). Cannot be
in the face of these stitched faces, these discarded
clothes, this rebuilding of community, society.
One by one, visages of neighbours, of children
that have gone, left for city (or left this life).
They people the
village now, scaring crows
and startling
passers-by. With their almost
but not quite,
humanity. The living outnumbered
by scarecrows
that keep this village alive –
a quiet
remembering for an unquiet passing.
* inspired by
reading of Ayano Tsukimi, who makes scarecrows on the island of Shikoku, Japan
Pharaoh Psamtek I
long dead
stonemasons
chiseled
(in probable
divine awe)
your image
or at least a
regal
godlike
approximation:
a colossus
hieroglyphs
scattered
cryptically
as you were
still
vibrant with
life
but sun has
cycled
through skies
& skies
& skies
while you have
slept
in dark soils
as one
unaccustomed
to such things
to be dredged up
unrecognised
from mud
of a Cairo slum
& yet
after all this
you’re still
unseeing
as if even now
your very eyes
& heart
are made of
stone.
Stolen Childhood
“It was unearthly, and the men were—No, they were not inhuman. Well, you
know, that was the worst of it—the suspicion of their not being inhuman.”
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
Here,
I shudder
at plastic guns
hefted by children
aimed into the crowd
recollect
hefted by children
aimed into the crowd
recollect
the plastic guns
of my own childhood
when I knew no better
There, in the Congo
the guns were real
handed to real children
who lost their childhood
of my own childhood
when I knew no better
There, in the Congo
the guns were real
handed to real children
who lost their childhood
in the transaction
in the killing:
in the killing:
of
them/
by them
of
others/
by others
warlord
may reach
into
long pockets
but there’s no
recompense
for stolen childhood.
for stolen childhood.
storm god rains fire
& tears
upon ramparts of the city
& it’s not so long
that in my
ignorance
I'd never even heard
of Aleppo
ancient city cursed
by modern machinery
of death
& war
but now I’ve heard of children
moving from bombed house
to bombed house
of rebels & Syrian forces
& of a man who dressed
as a clown
to make the children laugh
but Anas al-Basha died
among rubble & air-strikes
maybe one day
there’ll be statues
to the last clown of Aleppo
but not today –
the city walls have fallen.