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poems
Hi, here are three from my latest book, On The Road To Dharamsala. Thanks for reading. John
Bach
Each morning,
in a small courtyard
across the alley,
a teenager walks
slowly back and forth
reading a schoolbook
or manual,
repeating phrases
in rhythm with
the peaceful movement
of her legs through shade;
she turns as a line
of Bach turns,
defining old ground
newly, dark hair
bumping gently
on her cotton shirt.
Chandigarh,
India
Kamal
Kamal drunk, declaiming
by his brick two-room house,
one up, one under for the cows,
high over the valley.
He drinks his army pension,
works the rest of the month
with his wife and teenaged sons.
“They beat me,” he tells us.
“I haven't eaten in 48 hours;
I have a very bad wife.”
He is stronger than any of them.
His wife is loving. Strange.
He raves into the night
for hours using practiced
dramatic gestures,
pausing to sing, pacing
back and forth.
I asked Mickey what
the Hindi words meant.
“It's all bullshit,” he said.
Yes, Kamal
is acting badly again—
reproachful,
indignant, angry
to the point of violence,
long hands pleading
in the moonlight.
Kamal Repents at Dawn
Cross-legged on his roof,
rubbing his face briskly,
extending long arms,
circling his wrists,
Kamal surveys the valley.
A devotional chorus issues
from a loudspeaker below.
At the solo, he
begins to sing; his voice
reaches and spreads
throughout the settlement.
Slowly, musically,
suffering is forgiven;
blame becomes blessing;
Kamal repents.
McLeod Ganj
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