January 1, 2012
even before your tea
tastes of incense
magenta flower petals
float on mud the grass
is too green
gripping his head and whispering
something whispering what telling
him to hold on this
is almost over telling him
whatever he sees
this isn’t real
the horses’ eyes are oval
and unseeing
but you’re watching
them and they’re
watching you
if their hands are forced
together if you think
hard enough
mud in the air mud
splashes and he falls
but doesn’t notice
fingers pointing they know
what they want and you
look away
ankle-deep in rain
and mud it’s pointless
to keep hunting for glass
and why is it your hand
he shakes brings
it to his forehead
as if he knows
you as if you’re important
blow in her ears to break
the trance but she screams
and screams
red makeup running
in the sweat and rain
that little boy
in the white mask
twisted fingers
huge eyes
her back
arches off the ground
he sits on a white
horse breathing while all around
him bodies pulse and limbs
pulse and jerk and the rain
falls harder
the animal’s jaw
clacks
eating flowers eating
rice eating glass eating
the smoke from incense
you can count
all his ribs could reach
out and wipe
at his makeup
and come away
with a thumb smeared
red and white
rain water on the back
of your neck mud water
on the front of your skirt
she has a tattoo on her
ankle and a silver star
in her nose
flower petals sprinkled
over their circle
lay the horses
on the ground and he’ll
fall on top of them
the girls wear white
shirts and red pants
and it starts to rain
what’s left
of a glass bottle clasped
in her hand wrapped
around her finger
bright green
and that purple
in the fading
light
they somersault
and go rigid
his teeth
against the clay pot
tea and water
and flowers poured
into their mouths
clacking of teeth and their jewelry
has to come off
remove the kris
do you fall
into the mouth
her body jerks and there’s someone
at her head someone at her feet
someone holding
her hands
siji
loro
telu
papat
she falls
out of the circle
his cross has slipped
up over his shoulder
forgotten and he doesn’t
stop dancing
little spots
of mud across her chest
half-eaten glass drops
to the ground red
and white flowers
still trapped inside
incense in her mouth
what happens
when it burns down
his feet fall
right in front of you
open mouths and flowers
falling out like bits
of things that you almost said
the gamelan stops
and all you hear
is rain
Zoë, this poem is pretty inscrutable! Do you always write in free verse?
Zoe, I have gotten behind in reading your blogs but just did so. Your various talents never cease to amaze. Your description of the ballet was so understandable – better than most that you find in programs.
You have more patience that I would have had with sewing . Enjoyed the Christmas and following day – you are a talented writer- able to convey atmosphere.
I, too, miss hearing your violin.
My Christmas was good – the choir was at my house for for practice and fun, family was here Christmas eve and Christmas day and next night I was at Betsy’s(daughter) & family.
Happy New Year a month late. Thanks for the postcard.
Peggy
I wouldn’t say always. Mainly, it’s a coping mechanism for when things get so crazy the only way to write about them is like this.