Dew Drops: Four Poems

Good bye to
The 4 AM jolt
Watching you
Grind sandal wood

Good bye to
The bucket showers
Watching you
Put on thanaka

Like prawn salad
Like Zarni’s laughter
Our innocence
Was never born to last

Spoiled by whisky
Burnt by fire
There was nothing we could do

But watch its ashes
Drift and scatter

Like a cruel
And pointless donation

For the monks
For brother

For these echoes
From Botataung

Ring the Bell

“How those monks
Carry on about the mind!”

Says the red capped face
Newly returned
From a guided tour
Of stolen snow clad temples

“I mean, seriously
What kind of madness
Makes them toll that blasted bell
Morning, noon and night?
It’s madness, I tell you!
Pure madness!”

Shaking his head
The man looks out of
The window
As the people
Packed on to the platforms
Push and shove
One another

To get aboard fast and first
Before the whistle blows

Night after night
The fields
Flood with moonlight

Day after day
Sun light
Covers the ground

Try and find it now

Point to where it has been

Some Day or Other

A man got out of his car
And emptied his gun
Into the nearby buildings
Two children were killed
By a heavy goods truck
And somebody somewhere
Was awarded a medal for bravery

While I looked at
Black and white photos
Of war crimes and genocide
And listened to a belly dancer talking
About how she used to climb trees
In her village up north
Before she became a film star

Outside, by the river
The dealers didn’t stop
And the thieves didn’t notice
But the fried rice was good
And the beer was ice cold

It reminded me of France
Twenty years ago
A small crêperie, old friends
And more photos on the walls
Of bullet pocked statues
And ransacked temples

When she gave us the bill
The owner asked for a donation
To send to the cause
Yes, before the train tracks were laid
Their people moved in
And the maps were then changed

Not that the bar girls
Looked up from their phones

No
And the tuk tuk drivers
Didn’t put down
Their wrenches and chains
And stop mugging that guy
Outside the run-down pool hall
On Street Something-Or-Other

Not one person asked
Or said a thing to me

About
The gunman
The children
The medals or the wars

Like then
As like now
They stick to their drinks
And I stick to mine

There’s a fight on the TV
And a young girl with great legs
Stood by some fool at the bar

Yes, it’s all over in nine seconds
But I’m not surprised when they leave

Monday
Sunday
It doesn’t matter
Does it?

From London to Phnom Penh
It’s just the same old, same old
City stained rouge