Journey to a Far Land

 

Leaving North America for Asia

 

Before going to the airport

to fly to Asia

I stop at a beach

 

in blouse and skirt for traveling

I am overdressed

everyone else in shorts and bikinis

with roller skates and skate boards

swooping down a street

to the beach

 

I walk down concrete steps

shed my shoes and stockings

go to stand

at the edge of the ocean

 

fishing lines  hang from the pier

waves crash broken water up my legs

then retreat

splashing my skin

slipping sand from under my feet

 

surf boards arch over waves

beyond them

evening silhouettes Catalina Island

 

I gaze beyond the island

watch boats heading west

towards the horizon

sun sinking

into a darkening ocean

planes rising into sunset

as I will do within hours

venturing off the edge

of my known world

 

 

At the Airport

 

Rain on tarmac

makes giant pools

reflecting illuminated signs

 

dark windows

mirror departure screens

 

outside

no stars in the sky

but airplanes flash lights

creep along runways

roar acceleration

climb into night

 

waiting for another voyage

always leaving a known place

for an unknown

I wonder if I will ever come through the darkness

and take the risk to land

 

 

From the Plane Window

 

Looking down

to the cloudscape

above the ocean

that extends

as far as my eyes can see

I feel I am looking

through a glass-bottomed vessel

on cotton-batten

extending to the horizon

 

looking

at the intensity of sky

all around me

I feel there cannot be

any blue more vivid

any clouds more seductive

solid enough to walk on

 

 

First Glimpse of Japan

 

Fishing boats

look alive

bobbing on the waves

 

but on islands

half obscured by clouds

fields

roads

towns

are too distant

to show a human face

 

bombers during the Pacific War

brought death

over these green

alien

beautiful

mountains

 

I begin to encounter

islands of the “Divine Wind”

kamikaze

where my experiences are

yet to be

 

unpredictable

 

sacred

 

 

At the Kwan Yin Temple

 

I climb the rock-studded mountain

past squatters' shacks

to a temple

where Chinese women fervently address

the Kwan Yin goddess

 

a temple attendant

gives me a cluster of incense

 

lighting the sticks at a candle

I put one in the mouth of each lion

guarding the entrance

and one on the altar

facing out over the city

 

the burning incense

mists the city below

skyscrapers

housing estates

and harbor

 

my requests of the many-layered goddess

come forward one by one

prayers gathered around each flame

 

 

January ferry from the Island

 

Alone, I shiver from the cold

on the ferry's open deck

returning to Hong Kong

from an outer island

 

through overturned deck chairs

the mountains of the island

are silhouettes

against a red sunset

 

in summer I sat indoors

reading of places to go

while other people crowded this ferry

after relaxing on warm beaches             now crowd city buses after work

 

in winter I search the beaches

getting my shoes full of sand

and my pockets heavy with weathered rocks

choosing to be  out of step

out in the cold

 

 

In Ritan Park

 

Trees stand here for decades

ceramic figures parade like lemmings

endlessly off the pavilion's roof

but this child

held in his father's arms

churning his feet and laughing

is present only now

 

 

Antique Store, Beijing

 

The room is rich with scrolls

tasseled lanterns glow

cascading from the ceiling

 

tall vases

painted with silk-gowned figures

reach upward elegantly

 

if I sat at that table

where dragon breathes fire at dragon

carved in high relief

 

watched the world through the glass

of these ornate windows

 

ground ink on ancient ink stones

lifted from silk boxes

 

I could write something lasting

with strokes from an Emperor's pen

 

 

Antique Ink Stone

 

In a Chinese antique shop

I am drawn

to a beautiful box

covered with embroidered brocade

closed by ivory tabs

 

I open the treasure

its hinges are red ribbon

stretched diagonally

to hold the lid open and vertical

over the white silk interior

 

red sealing wax

marks as antique

the enclosed

green-black

ink stone

 

even the price is reverent

 

 

Businessmen Doing Tai-chi in a Park

 

Separated by spaces of park

their business jackets

blown by the wind

hang on branches

 

the men turn and lean in slow motion

among trees frozen in postures

of the same timeless dance

 

in a slow sweep

a man arcs his sword

through the air

lifts his foot,

points his toe

steps carefully

over an invisible obstacle

parries an unseen foe

 

 

Buddhist Monastery

 

At the entrance

fierce warriors glare

 

on the ceiling

dragons fly

each in pursuit

of another's tail

 

Quan Yin goddesses

twenty feet high

reside on lotus petals

 

I yearn for the Nirvana

of the smooth-faced Bodhisattvas

stringed lutes in their curving hands

making silent, eternal music

 

Nirvana

of the gold-skinned Buddha

on marble clouds

gazing inward

from half-closed eyes

 

 

Tibetan Temple near the Embassy, Beijing

 

In the central courtyard

a sculpture of bronze terraces

formed from a caster's mold

represents the entire world

all its continents

 

the center

rises to the apex

“Most Lofty Peak”

 

guarding the four directions

are blue-skinned Tibetan gods

wolf-headed

with ferocious faces

on their belts

trampling demons underfoot

ruling with the tiger

in a world beyond

the embassy's dispatches

 

 

Noisy Market/ Quiet Temple

 

In a market street

of southwest Beijing

a man pedals a bicycle

with a pig flopping loose-jointed

across the back carrier

 

at a bump in the road

the carcass bounces upwards

as if coming back to life

 

an escaped chicken

runs between cars and bicycles

beating its wings and cawing

until a woman blocks its flight

kicks it back to the vendor

 

few people enter the temple

in the back street

where gray pavement

meets bare trees

and monks in brown robes stroll in silence

 

but within the temple walls

buildings were pillaged

soldiers billeted

an emperor imprisoned

grieving over his fallen empire

 

 

The Temple of the White Dagoba, Beijing

 

In market lanes piled with charcoal

outside the temple courtyard

chickens scurry

small boys clash with sticks

old men smack down chess pieces

 

fruit tumbles multicolored

from vendors' scales,

fish glimmer in pans

crickets sing

from clusters of wicker balls

as buyers bend close to listen

 

 

beyond the market's fleeting images

and transient lives

a white dome of eternal marble

inside the temple courtyard

floats towards the clouds

 

under massive eaves,

wind moves tiny bells

that hang along the roof

 

I bend close

to listen

 

 

Temple of Heaven, Beijing

 

Long ago the Son of Heaven climbed

the deep-carved ramp

to the marble terrace

and under the red green blue gilt dome

fasted a night in prayer

for good harvests

 

priests by the stone altar

chanted the ritual music

to be heard only by the Emperor

and the elite

 

now outside the temple

children ride on handlebars

of bicycles pedaled by factory workers

on their day off

 

old men carry birds

in tiny temples

draped with cloth

 

a peasant holds his daughter

close to the circular wall

and whispers

to let her hear his words

travel around the wall

and back to them

as did the privileged eons ago

 

loud speakers expand the music

to be heard by everyone

 

the emperor's prayer

bears a bountiful

populist harvest

 

 

Evening in the old Quarter of Beijing

 

The pale gold sun

goes down through telephone wires

stretched across the western sky

 

near the ancient gate

children at play

twist their legs around cords

made of elastics tied together

 

yi er san shi

 

one two three four

 

they count a rhythm

back to my own childhood

far from these streets

far from the old woman

with crooked cane

and bound feet

 

 

In the Playground of the International School, Beijing

 

In the school courtyard

an African boy

comes over to stare

at the child

blond, blue-eyed,

no older than himself

carried by a Chinese servant

 

each is uncertain of the other

yet soon they swoop down the slide

knees around each other

children converging

peoples split for eons

 

 

On a Yangtze Riverboat

 

On the vast water

of the Yangtze River

beyond the dipping nets of fishermen

a necklace of beads

ivory, gold, ebony

is drawn through the water

 

as our boat approaches

they become a line of barges

and slip by

with loads of potash, grain and coal

 

at night the boat docks

and we foreigners watch

from the upper decks

a commotion of bicycles

wooden chests

baskets

on the crowded pier

below us

 

under shoulder poles

bending with weighted ends

human figures emerge

and one by one

step onto the gangway

to board the ship

 

the woman at the gate

takes tickets

pushes

pulls

grabs a man's shoulder

hurls loud blows

from her angry mouth

swiftly bends to catch a few coins dropped

she counts out with ferocious precision

money we would not think to measure

 

those of us on the upper deck

live even more sheltered

than does the Chinese child I watch

on the lower deck

held protected

in its parent's arms

 

 

A Night in a Yurt in Mongolia

 

We pull closed

the dwarf-sized door

against the storm's

cold wind and rain

 

inside

the crisscross frame encircles

a floor of quilted bedding

and small hot stove

where we warm our hands

pour steaming water from the kettle

 

sudden thunder

the lights flare out

a young Mongolian

bursts in with candles

they flicker through dust

blown in

under the horsehair felt tent

thick to the touch

protection

against the desert's gale

 

 

Mummies from Xinjiang

 

Chinese peasants

peer through plexiglass

at their ancient ancestors

 

the mummies

in fetus-curl

or stretched out to the sky

have skin like rusted iron

 

stark ribs plunge

to taut abdomen

 

hair sparse and faded

 

frayed cloth around the loins

 

feet arched like springs

kept under tension

for thousands of years

 

toenails yellow as lacquer

 

mouth a hollow oval

cut from tight-stretched skin

 

eye sockets webbed over

and opaque

 

nearby

a blue fire-glazed horse

with saddle of orange, red and yellow

its mouth stretching open

silently gallops

out of the past

its eyes ablaze

across the centuries

 

 

Taking Pigs to Market, Hong Kong

 

When the four pigs are let out

their noses sniff the dirt path

outside their pen

 

one puts its snout

into the wire cage

thrust in front of him

prodded, he enters

finds the far end tapers

to the shape of his snout

squeals in panic

 

each pig does the same

investigates

discovers for himself

his own panic

 

only the last pig

before half-way in

fights his way back out

turning despite blows

climbs half over the cage

turns and turns again

into the blows

rather than into the cage

 

it is his first and last battle

inevitably

his opponents

trick his head in

shove his body

 

the black-trousered woman grins

crinkling leathery skin

showing gold teeth

 

she and the old man

poke a carrying pole

through the space

between the pig's snout

and the end of the cage

 

they upend the animal

and set it on the scales

a sagging

pale

and squealing mass of flesh

jammed against the wire cage

by its own weight

trapped

doomed

and alone

 

the pig who fought

is first to be carried away

at least not left

propped against the wall

of its own shed

where young, pink-eared piglets

descendants of fierce wild boars

grow delicate swirls of hair

above their small eyes

 

 

Gravestones, Hong Kong - Five Fragments

 

Down from a heavily-trafficked road

the Chinese cemetery

is a silent hillside city

terraces of granite and marble

gravestones

with photographs hardly weathered

 

I climb down

as rows of faces

mounted on stone

watch me move

old man, young woman, child

all unmoving

open-eyed

a silent gallery

raising my fear

sending me fleeing

up the steep slope

 

          *****

 

In this city of dead

I imagine myself the only life

hunted by relentless ghosts

 

the harsh wasteland

offers no sanctuary

the tombstones

are obstacles to flight

opportunity for ambush

 

the uninvolved spectators

beyond caring

offer no aid

 

I entertain the bleakness

of death

 

          *****

 

Row on row of empty niches in the wall

only one is plastered over

and covered with a photograph

 

a woman tapes a plastic cup

filled with red flowers

to the plaque

over her husband's ashes

a glazed photograph of his face

looks out

on two people burning candles

and a silk flower left

in an empty niche

 

 

          *****

 

Behind the row of monuments

the retaining wall crumbles

moss grows in the cracks

a vine creeps down over mortar

a black and white butterfly

hovers over orange blossoms

ants dragging the bodies of dead insects

make traffic patterns on the rock

 

          *****

 

Where gravestones

are blackened with age

the inscriptions faint

the portraits in weathered marble

made gentle and mysterious with time

bodies are planted in the earth

souls looking out

to the misty island mountains

 

 

Nepal Appoints Living Goddess

 

The child looks at me

from the newspaper page

 

she is a newly-appointed

living goddess

chosen for her perfect hair

eyes

teeth

skin

and horoscope

 

a three-year-old child

carried from her parents' home

to the ancient temple

she has proved herself

by spending the night alone

without showing fear

among the heads

of ritually slaughtered

goats and buffaloes

 

incarnation of a Hindu deity

she is wrapped in red silk

her hair tied up

adorned with red blossoms

a third eye painted on her forehead

 

priests chant sacred hymns

and cascade flowers over her

worshipers touch their foreheads to her feet

 

during festivals

she will be carried on a chariot

pulled by devotees

 

her eyes are dark pools

looking out from her perfect face

as if asking

silently

what in her horoscope

or beauty

condemns her to surrender childhood

and all its rainbow colors

for a prison of red

 

to become an icon

with worshipers and reverence replacing family

a mirror of the Divine

dressed in red

like the blood of the slaughtered

 

she will be returned

to her family

only when her body yields

the blood of puberty

and priests seek

the new perfection

 

 

We are Invited to your Successor's Apartment

 

We lived among

slender ceramic figures

ivory animals

silk fans

old books

porcelain vases

and red silk poppies

 

here

in the kitchen

we made coffee

our wok sizzled

we leaned against the counter

gesturing with chopsticks

our bodies came dripping from the bath

 

the bath is now empty porcelain

the apartment sparsely furnished

with Scandinavian pale wood

and earth-colored rug

 

this place was ours

for a moment in time

;kwe were guests then

as we are now

 

 

Taking and Leaving

 

We make plans

for the journey

 

get our visas

stroll through

the Embassy garden

to the gate

 

and the road

beyond

 

he reaches for my arm

hopeful

 

I slouch nonchalant

body and mind flaccid

I could take or leave

his reaching for my arm

 

 

Ankle Bracelet

 

On our vacation in India

I buy an ankle bracelet

in the market

 

the vendor uses pliers

to press the connecting rings

so the chain won't slip off

 

the amulet

encircles my leg

as if to ward off

our impending breakup

 

back from the market

I run to him

across the beach

like a child

eager to have him notice

the adornment

 

he smiles approval

but the bands

grate sand into my legs

 

when I swim

out into the ocean

silver spikes dig into my skin

 

I stop in deep water

to break the chain

 

 

Easy Choices

 

In the restaurant

amongst the balmy breezes

of a South Indian resort

he makes my choices easy

calls over the waiter

“Bring this woman the best”

 

after dinner

I kick off sandals

dance barefoot

in a silver dress

on the unblemished floor

my head on his shoulder

imagining romantic

ever-afters

 

but I exchange all that

for traveling alone

to northern India

 

for crowded buses

cheap food

and stark lodgings

my fingernails dirty

clothes worn for a week

heavy-booted as a peasant

feet cold from wet snow

 

I climb slowly

up the steep hillsides

of Himalayan mountains

unable to go through with

his decision to marry

 

 

Chinese Coolie

 

As if I were a Chinese coolie

making my way through narrow streets

I carried his love for me

like a burden

what he offered

what I wanted

were two packages

swinging from opposite ends

of a shoulder pole

 

I juggled my burden

until the passage became constricted

 

then I dropped it

 

 

A Westerner Reads Two Personal Ads in an Indian Newspaper

 

“Parents seek

doctor, engineer or lawyer

for fair-skinned

accomplished daughter

English-educated with

unblemished character

horoscope and full details necessary”

 

“Brother seeks for sister

divorced with one child

a suitable partner

caste and creed immaterial

substantial dowry

paddy field and

two acres of high land

plus jewelery”

 

fair-skinned

Western-educated

roaming daughter, sister

very accomplished

in escaping suitable partners

no encumbrance except herself

seeks

 

 

In the Himalayas

 

Running away

from marrying

the man who loves me

I travel

to lose my selfish ego

among the Himalayan mountains

 

in Kashmir

I encounter a medical missionary

dispensing medications

and Christianity

to sick Muslims

 

he invites me

to join his mission

 

sick of myself

I see an invitation to change

into a good person

caring about others

 

he sees

my acceptance

as his invitation

to save my soul

meaning

I must surrender my ego

be "One in the Spirit"

believe, think, feel

as he does

 

he sees Satan

in questions I ask him

in mail I receive

in my talking

with other travelers

 

he seeks to isolate

suppress my questioning

tame my idiosyncrasy

crush my ego

 

every skeptical synapse of my soul

looks askance

at the submergence

of being "One in the Spirit"

 

he threatens that

if I leave

his remote mountain hut

I will lose all awareness

of the Holy Spirit

 

I never liked the Holy Ghost

to me it is Hocus Pocus

but when I now sit alone

under a pine tree

in a valley of the Himalayas

on the far side of the world

from friends and family

Who gives me this certainty

that I am not lost?

 

with Whom do I walk out of his orbit

and down the mountain?

 

Who pours into me

the Grace I feel

streaming from the cathedral sky?

 

 

Bandaging a Wound

 

Another protege of the medical missionary

a born-again Christian

earnest young man

sets down his unsullied backpack

and takes out his first aid kit

pristine white and red

 

privileged to re-enact Jesus' healing

he kneels to tend the blistered foot

of the Himalayan innkeeper

who overcharged him

for a sagging bed

dim room

and faded quilt

 

the innkeeper

wears his weathered skin

and ragged cloak

like the mountains

wear their forests

earth and age

ground into the crevasses

 

torn from its sterile covering

the antiseptic bandage

makes a startling white cross

on the mountain man's

wounded and calloused feet

 

 

From the Same Pot

 

In a mountain hut

we eat rice

from a single pot

the born-again Christian

the old Kashmiri man

and myself, the doubting seeker

 

the young traveler

pulls off a knitted sweater

lifts his face

towards the mountains

thoughts on Jesus

 

the old man

spreads his woolen cloak

presses his forehead

to the ground

rising towards Mecca

 

all day missionary work

no time for lunch

I think only of food

 

 

 

 

The Japanese Bowl

 

I unwrap

your gift

a Japanese bowl

lacquered

multi-layered

intricate

 

the card says you

"have one just like it"

 

I see us as two beautiful bowls

on opposite sides

of the ocean

 

I regret leaving my bowl

too long encased in its wrapping

 

not knowing it was mine to use

I ate off old china

from other people's cellars

 

 

Perpetual Child

 

A larva

too much of my life

a polyp spinning through water

carried in a swift instant

on a myriad of dancing fins

hesitating over a patch of sand

and honeycombed coral

rippling waves

away from the forever future

when I will anchor

stop skimming lightly away

from the edges of islands

and learn to land bravely

on unknown shores?

 

 

The Intensity of Newness

 

Before I journeyed to a far land

April was the shortest month

the crocus bloomed briefly

and were gone

before I noticed

 

on my return this spring

the crocus bloom for weeks

I make repeated pilgrimages

to see them

mauve

yellow

purple

white

and striped

 

I want to rediscover tulips and trees

birds of my native land

autumn's fire

and when the first snow falls

I want to be

like children in Tokyo

running outside

with outstretched arms

and open mouths

as if greeting the only snowfall

of the year