A days walk up the street in Penang

In this part of Malaysia

on the verdant island

of Penang

Live hundreds of Tamil

Indians

With their cultures

Lilting cadences

Their saris and brilliant

Satins

Hindu and Catholic shrines

 

Here you can eat on banana leaves

With your hands

Or at elegant north Indian

Kashmir restaurants

but the streets are

peppered with kiosks

or tiled floored

little restaurants

 and my

favorite is at

a corner

the

Open Cafe'

where i order

my morning lassie

Delicately flavored

with rose water

and I sit and talk with

a Catholic Tamil owner

and watch as his squeaky clean

Image remains unruffled as the

Riff raff fills his store

He smiles and beams

I sit and talk with him and

he offers me a rich

cardamom

spiced tea

He calls a woman out from

Behind the curtain

where she has

been watching

and introduces me

to his beautiful

young wife

whose arms are

 covered with bracelets

and an amazing

 amount of hair

She smiles she

only knows a few words

In English but manages

 to say

I cook for you

The merchant laughs and says

Yes another day

Then whispers that she is

a wonderful cook

and arrange a time when I

Will eat with them

 

I leave the shop and walk along

The cement streets colored with

Chalk good luck mandalas

that Hindus have done

in an early morning

Propitiating the gods

The music saturating

the street is

From harmoniums\and sitars

and as i

I pass near a Chinese

temple where

Girls in short skirts

Eye the handsome

huge eyes

of the

Black skinned

Tamil boys

I smell the fragrance

 of India mixed

with the heady

aromas south Asia

I watch as a frail

Indian beggar child

cleans out

The votive sands at

The Chinese

Temple

where

 precious

Firecrackers

are set off

and

the Indian

child is thrilled

and admires him

I watch him as

glee covers

his face as

they explode into

The air

Oh the joy in the

child's eye fills me

up to as i slip

some coins into

his shirt and he looks up

and

radiantly smiles

surprised

and i smile back

 

Satisfied I walk

towards Chula Street

Then on to the market

to buy food

and

to watch

the never ending

circus of

Foreigners getting

drunk or stoned

at the local

reggae club

I watch while the

Indian guys hit on the

Swedish girls

Hoping for some

lessons in sexual aerobics

or maybe just a chance

to stroke

all  that golden hair

The Swedish girls sit

smiling in tight

tank tops considering

the possibility

I watch the Chinese boys grow

Red in the face

as they drink more beer

Than they can manage

This at the same time

the call to

Prayer resounds

from the mosque

And Faisel  and Chmed

Answer the calls to prayer

From the minaret

right next to the bar

And I am filled with joy

Yet again at all the

cacophony

And I celebrate

My self a Brooklyn

 Jewess poet

Enjoying the nuances of

The salty hot

delicious flavors

of this days

simple journey

up the street

felucca's slice through  the Nile

the same boats that

the  Egyptian Gods

took  to their afterlife

but

not far away

 

 Shisha Water pipes

 

blaze

the exhale a cinnamon  haze

curls and   fills the air

The water is clear

 and bubbles

The mona lisa smiles

 are on wrinkled faces

Enjoying a quiet moment

Away from husband and relative

Prying eyes

 their abas

Like a black pool of water at their feet

Their almond eyes sing stories

 that wish to be told

 

Far away on the red china sea

The women in their sanpans

Change flags as they float into different boundary waters

they change their attire putting on the simple blue

everyone wears

they rub off the color they are one of the

thousand drops in the ocean

 

that remembers their

eye

 

Still further away

Half naked old women of Varanasi

Bathe themselves in the Ganges The Holy River

Next to a bloated dead cow

Yet they live

Eek out a living with a few paisa

that they offer to the white pasted sadhus

 

with gnarled hands

 that have turned into claws

 

 

In London  Other

Arab women shift

themselves like their sisters

in their home country

 they smoke shisha as well

Their faces uncovered

they are young

and under their aba a satin

dress and heels ignite

 their spirit

and some day they

will vote and drive

 

 

jump backward

 

 

I fall in line with the female Israeli soldiers

I am invisible they laugh and play

paint toes talk fast

so I do not understand everything

but we all know

going into battle they could die.

 

I have gone far from Brooklyn

And found myself

 

Cooking over Chula stoves in south India

Grinding peppers in a mortar in Goa

 

Looking for herbs in the Himalayas

Finding blue mushrooms

That turn yellow from the forests

Outside Chamba Valley

Eating Mo Mo ‘s from the ladies

With aprons

In the Tibetan tent

 

in Bodh Gaya

 

Listening to their gossip

 while

Walking around

saying prayers and moving

the prayer wheel

 

i have learned to dry pumpkin seeds

and slit their thin skin

with my fingernail

by an old Iraqi woman

i have roasted an eggplant over

 an open fireon Bezalel street

carefully peeling away its

burnt skin

from a survivor

of the concentration camps

who had hollow eyes but

knew how to cook

 

i have held the other side of the pot

and emptied a huge soup

with a Brahmin cook

 

and learned to stir galangal

into a broth by

a fat ibu in Indonesia

 

laid frangapani on doorsteps in bali

and wore an invisible head dress

 

that was taller then any door

for Tibetan teachings

 

unlatching the doors

of mysteries when i found them

 

i learned to rest

and be nourished

by the smallest of things

and the most wonderful stories

that went beyond any traces of time.

 

i am aware now of my

own mortality

and i rush to write everything down

while i still remember

so i can enjoy them

yet again.

The Widows of Varanasi

Remembered only in the retelling

 

 

They sit huddled in long rows

Like birds on a wire

White shredded saris

Bones jutting out from their

Dark sun stained skins

They live in a world

Oblivious to the omnipresent

Dangers

Consecrating moments

That are dimmed by time

 

 

Little or no food, they are exploited

By the parasites that comb the steps

With no communication they sit silent

They sit waiting

for the next round

Of life while this one is finished

 

 

They eat a few grains of rice

Wash themselves in the holy waters

Their voices quivering and cracked

They sound like the birds circling

Above who wish to pick clean

Their bones

 

 

The widows sit full of a life time

Of Stories now abandoned

Alone and sometimes reaching

Into forgetfulness for the jewels

They once wore and

For the children they patted and

Nursed

All long gone before them and now

They sit with the scraps of their life

Gathered up and stitched together

In their minds

 

 

It is the only warmth they have

On a cold Varanasi river night

Where they burned their husband

And they were forbidden to jump

On the pyre the old way

Now they sit waiting suffocating

With lives not lived.

 

Geetu had married at twelve

Born two sons and a daughter

The girl they had sacrificed

To the bridge that bound

The two villages

She had watched as her

Husband had taken the

Bright eyed one that she

Has secretly named kamala

To the villagers and her

Heart screamed out but

Life flowed quietly on

 

 

She had born two sons

Her husband had glowed

as they followed him

Into the fields

Grown strong they worked

And daily she made their

Chapattis and cooked their rice

Walked long distances to the

Well

Chatted with friends

Swept the dung floor

Made the fire

In their mud and thatch hut

And remembered

The daughter each

Time she crossed over

The bridge

 

 

 

Now they were all gone

Layers of grief and indifference

Crossed he face

As she peeled back her loneliness

She had paid tribute

To the deities that her

Family would be spared

The horrific violence

That passed between them

And their Muslim neighbors

Women she had helped pump

Water for

 had husbands

That were sworn to kill

 

 

She prayed, she adorned

The statues but

The gods had not answered

They were all dead

 

Some fragile momentary balance

Crossed her face

And shunted between her eyes

Her hand reached out for mine

A bony claw with paper skin

It held the grains of rice

she managed to save as a an

Offering that her long

Wait will be over

And her death come quickly

 

She asks me to put

her few rice grains

into

The bowl of the white ashen

Sadhus or the orange monks

That pass by her on their

Way to the river to pray

They pass her but do not see

her

She has already turned to

Stone

 

I return to my houseboat

And wonder how this culture

Manages to organize its rage, its

Chaos, its elegance, its religiosity,

Its pirouetting of castes and

Its ornate philosophy without

Hearing the echoing

beat of this one

Single heart of

A widow

That lies at the very

Foundation

The stone on which

The cultures

dreams

Are chiseled.

A restaurant in Hikkaduwa

 

The Cool Spot is a ramshackle

Building with a worn out porch

It is painted an odd color

And sags in the center

And is covered with a moth

Eaten screen

The flies are bored

And cling to the ceiling

Fan which doesn’t always

Make a full circle

And usually stutters

In place before pushing

Itself on

 

There are Two rooms

And for some unfathomable

Reason

The chairs and tables are

On a ledge

Precariously balanced

 until

A customer comes in

And stabilizes them with

Weight.

 

There is no menu

But the owner rattles

Off what food is available

Because he is also the

Supervising cook

And the owner of an

Almost white apron

covering his belly

that seems to move of

its own accord.

 

His sous chefs are two

Pretty Sri Lankan girls

With smiles that would

Make toothpaste

 advertisers

Sigh.

 

They cut, stir, chop,

Scrape and seed

The girls are the color

Of coffee with cream

With warm full lips

And their skirts are short

And faded flower

Cottons but best of all

They giggle

Mirth tumbles out of them

As they watch the foreigner

With their almond eyes.

 

Their legs are long and spindly

As all the other Ceylonese

But these are Indian Tamils

And if you look at them

You can almost hear the sound

Of South Indian bells on

Their feet

 

Here in this cool spot kitchen

The two cultures have

Come together

Here in this kitchen there is

No war

 

The lazy easy Sri Lankan

Character is bolstered by

The work ethic of the Tamils

 

And with a flurry of hands

The food is served a

Wonderful pumpkin curry

 

I tell the owner I am writing

A cookbook and he invites me

Into his kitchen

Where I make notes as

The girls laugh

 

Then slowly in faltering

English one dares to ask

About my eye lashes.

 

My eyelashes?

Yes, is it the fashion

To wear them short?

And do I pluck them?

Is it the modern way?

Because they could clip

Theirs too.

I almost faint with shock

roll my eyes

When I realize they are

Absolutely serious

 

I look at these two beautiful

Young women in this ramshackle

Restaurant serving magnificent

Food who want to be

 chic and modern

They stand waiting

 for my answer

Their long black hair

 adorned with jasmine

With the longest lashes

 I have ever seen

And say enthusiastic

 Should we cut?  Should we?

They are in fact the

Dream of every new york model

Who carefully pastes her lashes

One by one for

a photo shoots

I think of my sparse

 colorless lashes and

laugh and

Say no, you are beautiful

 just the way

 you

Are.

Just a quiet day

Sitting in the hot tub

Fed by a sulfur spring

Outside of Taipei

Looking out of the long open windows

The waves of grass

Covered the mountain

And moved like swells in the sea

There was no wind in our faces

Just the biting steam

Warming our bones

The wealthy house of a friend

Of a friend

Who included me

In this retreat

We sat

All women

Silent

Quiet but fully awake

Naked

Birds without feathers

Exercising their slim elegant legs

Beating them in the water

 

 

In the center of the main room

Stood a wooden gazebo

That was almost all bed

It was here

That the food

Brought from Taipei

Was unwrapped

Smelled and eaten

With laughter

We stretched our bodies

On the coolness of the floor

And took deep breaths

As if it were to be

Our Last

 

 

The women

Dressed with simple elegance

Had nothing much

To say

I watched and admired

Their middle-aged beauty

Serene and uncompromising

But their eyes

Revealed shadows

Of long past journeys

Through bleakness and squalor

Journeys only hinted at

In stories

Briefly shared

Of the sharp strangeness

Of another time

Stories they carried

As black haired women

Concubines

With tiny twisted feet

That could only sway and hobble

Exciting the men

To desire

Mothers betrayed daughters

With the bindings

That would cripple them for life

 

But that was long ago

Their mothers’ mother mother

Now they sat

With their foreign teacher

In sneakers

And laughed

 

  Kabul a grey city of red earth in a landscape of pitted mountains. Standing at the edge of Kabul looking towards the sky I saw a camel caravan      come out of the dust              faces were covered                but I could easily                 make out the shape of a thin women                           wise breast was covered                       with metal coins                        that heaved with every breath she took             her face was partially covered                       and around her like a pool of blood                   lay a red cloth                     she smiled her eyes crinkled with dirt             and my feet went like water          and I blushed              I was in the presence of a desert queen                 she saluted me                acidhead hippie               escapee from san Francisco’s haywire children of  miasma colored dreams                                       I stood and watched as the mist burned away and could feel beneath me the  rhythmic  chant of animals and men dismounting                       it rolled into the earth  like a murmur and a roar I had never heard before                            and my mind  tangled with the vision  like a hibiscus vine that clung to             the minaret where                       the morning calls to prayer brake the silence at five a.m.                                            She commanded the camels and their riders with a wave of her hand and the noise dissolved              just as night suddenly shrinks back in Kabul and your bathed in the stunning white of fresh mountain air                   she stood                    among the odors of food and fire and made her way towards me with her layers and layers of cloth                  she came close enough me that I could inhale her                     and her short bitter laugh             she pointed to my large square Woolworth earrings             and I undid them and held out my hand in an offering                                   she in turn unfastened what I thought to be her dowry around her neck and  put i on me so it lay                on my chest like a coat                    of protective  mail.                         The audacity i had felt in my green leather boots                  the power of my to the floor white rabbit coat that i had crossed the Bosphorus in and threaded my way thru Iraqi, Iran to reach Kabul                suddenly was lost only wonder was left                             I continued my roll towards India like a thistle on the wind   suddenly awake touching like            a talisman the necklace and the spirit from a women                  who began my teaching   of endless change

 

Bamijan Afghanistan

The Giant Buddha and drinking chai

 

 

In the valley of the Hindu Kush

Below the purple and white

Peaks sits a place of dark

Rich colors and

 Quiet  that surrounds

The Standing Giant   Buddha

Carved in stone

Among the caves

Where monks used to meditate

The Buddha no longer has

Neither its head nor its hands

He has been blinded by

Muslims over centuries

 but he continues

To stare all seeing

Beyond time.

 

how many days i returned

there to sit near the feet

of the Giant Buddha

listening to the stillness!

tribes people walked by

with their animals

unseeing not noticing

yet

the thin air of the mountains

sharpened

your senses as you moved

among the starkness of the

landscape that i likened to

the moon.

we were all tiny motes

next to this paean in stone

that had lasted it seemed

since time began

everything around the giant Buddha

had dissolved long ago into a well

of oblivion

yet there he stood

Despite the violence

serene!

 

 

 

 

It is here in this village

 

We sipped tea from

A samovar

And watched a small

Man dance until he became

Both a bird and a women

Egged on by rude soldiers

His frail body metamorphosed

Into such sweetness of ethereal

grace

We never noticed until

Later that he was bald

And toothless

So complete had his

Transformation had been.

Another design

Bombay Slum

Small fires in the city streets

Send curling smoke

Between the dense buildings

Making a funnel that moves

On the wind

Debris and dumpsters

Provide living space for

The old men with

scars

And the rats that become

Pets and do the scouting

For bits of food

Long lies wait in

The burning eyes of

Children that can not

See the resurrections

Distorted by hopes of

Some voyage

They are unable

 to contemplate

The ends of

thier many

lives but they

see the distortion

of every day

as they beg

for

 garbage

 it is the time

of beginnings

a few paisa

for these dirty

unkempt

children of the slums

 dressed in

 once white rags

they haul thier treasures

past thier paper

shack homes with

bits of corrgugated

 iron with

the smells of

jasmine mingling

with the stench

and flowers on

the makeshift alter

they

walk these

children gingerly among

the debris and the

people who crowd

thiegh to thiegh

women carrying buckets

of dirty water

 

men begin the smoke

for the

evening meal

crouched

on thier haunches

they move among

 broken limbs

turning corners

with

Lobeless ears

Like scattered sea shells

Listening to music

Like colored spirals

dispersing in the

wind

they stare at

the skies and

the ocean

they sing at the

upcoming storm 

a sound so simple

full of joy

that

it makes me weep

Atop a minaret

overlooking the dusty town of Herat

Afghanistan

I watched from my perch

Dust filled the air

as all life

was waking up

 

A sepia day break

A cycle that has been repeated

for thousands of years

 

Round wooden wheels 

spitting yellow sand into the air

The donkeys all crusty eyed

The children darting in and out

The bobbing of the men's turbans

their long shirts flowing

The women

black pillars

moving among the rickety

weathered wooden stalls

And I marvel at the hues

this land contains

The soft browns of the rolling landscape

The fawn colored camels

The softness of the rippling wheat

 

I shifted
to be more comfortable
Crouching

 

From there

I could see the the mountains

in the background

Their tips touching the sky

like jagged finger nails

 

 

The city

a giant labyrinth

sprouting out of the desert

Shops

huddled together

like men over a desert fire

keeping the cold away
A maze emerging
as if from a dream

 

 

Morning
 coolness
brushing against me changed
as the temperature climbed

The
 ruffling air

called my vision

to a huge
 bird

sitting next to me

Time froze

I looked into his large black eye

and he looked back at me

It’s head moved just a bit

Clearly

I was sitting
 on his perch

I had no idea who he was

An eagle, a vulture,

a griffon, a raptor
?

 

Sitting on a minaret

in Afghanistan

just out of San Francisco

still wearing Haight-Ashbury


I knew nothing of birds

except the ones I'd seen

during excursions
 out of reality

or the ones my father showed me

when I was a child on his knee


reading national geographic


It was big
very big

almost as big as me

crouching down

but
 I knew he accepted

my being there

We sat together

neither of us moving
Both quiet

watching

I felt the power of this great

creature

I looked at his feathers

smooth, glistening
The sun lifting umbers

from deep in his cloak

I didn't stare

That would have been impolite

We sat for what seemed

a long time

I moved my mouth slowly

thinking

 be polite and respectful
I must not show my teeth

This is a wild creature

that has evolved

ingenious ways of surviving

Strategies I probably could not comprehend

 

I asked 
quietly

What nourishes?

In my head

I hear
d
“What does not?”

How long have you been here?
“Since time began”

How long will you be here?

“We will be gone

in your lifetime”

Startled

Now I hear no voice

Instead I see pictures

of glistening planes colliding

with majestic wings

Of capturing
of destruction
I see a way of life

soaring over the land
suddenly ending

Mice and locusts

proliferating

Disaster to the eco system

 

After
 a while

I hear him say
“It is the new people

that begin this

They will come with their

powerful metal
 birds
that will not eat rats or vermin

Their rubber hooved behemoths

will change the landscape

They will scour
like fire

and ruin the fields

of the future”

My heart raced

but there was no wrath

no anger
from this wild creature

Only the gentle knowing
 that

now where animals graze

and farmers plant

all be gone

A living cemetery

for his kind

 

I am so sad

He is not

It is the way it is

“There is still time”
he says
“for the stars”

Crow remembering

that time is beyond

us

long ago ( forty years?)

in the empty

dusty town of Bodh Gaya

in the state of Bihar in India

the Burmese Vihara

opened its doors for U.S.N. Goenka

the Burmese Vipassana

teacher.

to hand down the teaching

of Gautama

by way

of meditation.

the technique was simple enough

started by watching your breath

and then taking a mental broom

and cleaning your inner being

the way one cleans their teeth in the morning

the large broom  made of

thousands of straw hairs

of consciousness as we learned

to sweep our body

fresh and clean every morning

by remembering

everything changes

nothing stays the same

recognizing that our lives

at any moment can disappear

and the only way to be ready for this departure

is to know that you

are on a continuum that

does not last forever

and that in our meanderings

the nature of our journey

is to remain clear

with a heart of loving kindness

not to tenaciously hold on to anything

our anger, our distress, our idea of

how things ought to be,

to remember that it all passes

our reflections our musings

our expectations

our art

ourselves.

we gathered some slept on the balcony

in sleeping bags.

we called the participants

" snails " in those days

their lives in back packs

as they crisscrossed India

adventuring into unknown places

the great adventure of the 70's

along with heads of Acid

and arms full of who knows what

but eyes towards the Doors of Perception.

they came from all over

the Greek girls

the Danish boys

the Germans, the Irish, the English, the Frenche

ach with backpacks

a camel would carry.

they would stake out

their place on the

unrelenting wooden floor

and make it home

a rag of color here

a water bottle

with a view of the old trees

and the gekko singing in the background.

the day would begin

and end with meditation

and honing the techniques

interspersed with

wisdom from Gautama

who landed in this same placeand sat under the now

huge spreading Bodhi tree

and understood

that the nature of life

is about change

and learning to let go

its about this precious gift

of human life where

we can learn to expand

ourselves  for the benefit ofall beings.

this was not a religion

and never meant to be

it carried no deities or gods

there was no hierarchy

just the simple wisdom

of waking up.

every morning at five

not too early for a crow

i rang the gong

three times in all

a large brass one

that continued to sing

after i swung at it

with the mallet.

then from bedroll to bedroll

i woke everyone

and they cursed at me

a terrible way to learn different

languages and to this

day i remember some of  the Greek

the German, the Slovakian

the Swedish

curses and murmursof a sleeping soul

coming into wakefulness

when the body prefers

to sleep.

we would gather together in the great hall

while the cooks below

prepared the food for the day

we would sit in silence

blankets around us

listening to the morning chant

then the quiet of our

own reflections

the silence that led some to sleep

and others to become awake.

the smells of ghee would curl

through the boards

the gekkos would sing

large spiders would

race across the windows

the sounds from the vendors

waking up the pumping of water

the laughter of the servants

the low bellow of the buffalo

being milked

the children playing in the courtyard

the rickshaw drivers

wobbly wheels

on the stones

the monks swathed in orange robes

making their rounds

barefoot with bowls outstretched

and the trees held the crows

and more mellifluous birds

by noon the streets were filled

as were our stomachs.

a local bearded astrologer

sat on his haunches

ready to explain

your life and check the akashik records

for you.

many of the travelers had been

to the Ganges

had bathed in the Holy River

despite the dead cows

and worshiped there

many Indians believing that

a drop on the tongue

assured salvation.

now they were here in Bodh Gaya

leaving the colorful

God filled world of the Hindus

for the simplicityof this teaching.

They had seen for themselves

the filth of the streets

washed into the rivers

and yet

how people drank it

unscathed

surely this was a miracle.

and now this teaching

if the seed could take hold

was perhaps a miracle as well

that could change their lives

the teaching of loving kindness

the teaching of change

of seeing others

as yourself.

so the journey began

draped with dawn

in the small quiet town

where monks roamed

Tibetans

Japanese

Thai

Burmese

Cambodians

Ceylonese

the Laotians

all wearing different stylesof robes

all having put their cultural

stamp on the words of

the Buddha.

 

they shuffled from the great

ancient temple

to the lone standing tree

and sat

hoping for that quiet moment

of the soul

as we all did

crow.