elsewhere

REVERSAL OF FORTUNE

IN EVERY WAVE

30 September, 2008—Petulu, Bali—

In every wave an image of a world

that never was much more than wind can hold.

HOLY WORK

Easter, 2012—Massapequa, Long Island—

BEFORE I SLICE INTO IT

5 April, 2001—Petulu, Bali—

The steam rising off a newly peeled hardboiled egg before I slice into it. 

Someone sneezing in the distance.

The desire to write something down.

THE TILTED PICNIC AREA

21 March, 2012—Jones Beach, Long Island, New York—

PATERNITY

13 March, 2000—Petulu—

He was trying to describe to me how he’d fainted in the maternity ward—not during his wife’s labor, but afterwards when he’d entered her room and seen the nurse stick a needle into her arm.  The language barrier between us called for a touch of drama.  He rose from his seat on the porch, pausing for a moment.  Then, whistling an over-the-precipice-in-a-cartoon tune, he did a little dance of descent, slowly, like a leaf falling in spirals. When I laughed, he protested that it was only because he hadn’t eaten anything all that day—that he’d been there, since dawn, near his wife’s bedside.  But he was laughing now as well. What a charming falling leaf of a father you will make, I thought—so strong, yet so sensitive to gravity.

THE POSITION OF MY PILLOW

9 April, 2001—Petulu, Bali—

My pillow must have been gray at 5AM this morning when I left it lying unnoticed on the edge of my rumpled bed. Everything else was gray—the bed itself, the porch tiles, the palms in the garden, even the tea I poured was gray, even the chipped cup that I poured my gray tea into.

Yet returning to the bedroom an hour after sunrise, I spy a patch of brilliant yellow light hollowed out near one corner of my abandoned pillow. I’m convinced, absolutely, that nothing but my own head could have left it there. What dreams I must have had last night—to leave such a glowing impression on sleep! I ease myself into bed, careful not to disturb the position of my pillow, lowering my head gently back into that pocket of light. It’s a perfect fit, and I feel its warmth, but the magic is already gone.

TURNING AWAY

3 April, 2004—Mandalay, Myanmar—

BUDDHA

30 March, 2004—Mandalay, Myanmar—

JACARANDA

25 March, 2003—Pyin Oo Lwin, Myanmar—

(Listen)

I’d been here once before: on this dry red road
dividing bustling town from fallow field—
a mute frontier beyond which overflowed
the contours of the yet-to-be revealed.
A sign, hand-lettered, stopped me in my tracks
(its language one I could not understand).
I stood and stared with longing. Then turned back,
and thought—I’m still a stranger in this land—.
But now I have returned. Three years have flown
yet little’s changed—.  Still walking, still alone.
The dust raised by my feet is still deep red.
The warning sign still stands. The road’s deserted.
And magnetized by distance, I still clearly see
that long twin row of purple flowering trees. 

This time I do not hesitate. I stride
across that threshold, down that narrow lane,
past trunks lined up like sentries on each side.
Above—below—the same pale purple stain:
a froth of blossom hanging like bruised cloud
from branches interlocking overhead
reflects the fallen petals that enshroud
the ground beneath my feet.  Straight up ahead,
one low red hill—. Beyond, a patch of pine—.
The trees have thinned, and as the purple tide
recedes, I turn just once—fanned out behind
like peacock’s tail or like ship’s wake I find
my path comes to a point, sharp as a knife. 
I climb the hill, convinced I’ve changed my life.

 (published in THINK JOURNAL)