Pilgrims Quest I
I scrubbed the dirt and dust
of the plains of Bagan
off my Reeboks this morning.
What is not erased,
is the memory of my feet without shoes -
hot, sweaty, swollen, tender,
from the gritty brick,
the stony cement and plaster
the fine powdery red dust,
the hot black marble and the cool white marble
the uneven pathways and stairways,
the dark, unknown passages,
of the sacred ground of the temples of Bagan,
where countless pilgrims through the ages
have trodden barefoot
in their search
of cool, spring water
from deep within
in which to dip their aching feet.
Pilgrims Quest II
My feet are tender, swollen and sore
Having trodden bare and torn
On the powdery red dust
Along the banks of the mighty, muddy, Irriwaddy river
As she sluggishly wends her way down to the sea.
They have climbed the rough, stucco stairs
Felt white marble’s cool relief,
The burning heat of black stone,
The piercing of thorny scrub,
The abrasion of gritty brick,
stony cement and plaster
along uneven pathways
and dark unknown passages.
How many have trodden this way.
Marching, striding, strutting,
Stumbling, falling, hurting, breaking, bleeding, hobbling,
On this site of a thousand golden stupas reaching for heaven
Twinkling with promise
as the earth moves on her great rotation
away from the glowing red sun.
Kublai Kahn and Marco Polo,
Soldiers, slaves and adventurers
Prisoners and princes,
Monks, scholars,
Widows and the poor
Marauders, robbers, merchants,
All seeking escape from suffering
On this pilgrimage path of life
And how many have stopped to stand still
like Moses by the burning bush,
bare feet firmly grounded
And found within their own souls
the luminous Buddha-light of the heart
that transforms dark into eternal day,
stumbling into dance
that turns the dust of the earth
on which they stand
into Sacred Ground
Buddha Baby
Jostled by insistent throngs of shoppers in the market,
the day before Chinese New Year
I’m propelled between piles of orange mangoes,
red, hairy rambutans,
avocados and bananas,
unshelled peanuts, papayas and pineapples,
bristly brown coconuts,
baskets of rice and green beans, tea and betel leaves,
and smooth, maroon aubergines.
Curry and chili,
coriander, cardamom, garlic and ginger,
durian, incense, tamarind,
sizzling sesame oil,
fish and prawns,
aromas all mingle in the hot muggy air.
I halt abruptly,
my eyes lighting on a little buddha baby,
round and brown,
all chubby seriousness,
sitting amongst the green melons
beside the lady frying mooncakes,
whose eyes meet mine in mother’s recognition.
She stoops to pick up the ancient child,
holding her out to me.
You hold my baby
she invites ....
her eyes smiling with a shared secret knowledge.
May all beings everywhere
- Seen and unseen,
- Dwelling far off or nearby,
Being or waiting to become:
May all be filled with lasting joy.
~Sutta Nipata: The Buddha’s Discourse on Goodwill
He eyed me from his vantage point,
sitting on the dusty sidewalk,
back propped against a palm tree.
black shiny hair, brown sparkling eyes,
blue flip flops and threadbare longi
wrapped around his skinny legs
and knobbly knees
Next to him a cage of bamboo slats
bound together with twine
swelled with the twitter
of a hundred small birds.
From my seat at the sidewalk café,
with a cool, green bottle of Mandalay beer
to chase down red prawn curry
I eyed him back.
He quickly hid the cheroot he was smoking
and flashed a cheeky grin
Enchanted, I smiled back,
finished my meal
and got up to leave.
He jumped up,
bright, alive, eager
For a sale.
You buy a bird? You buy a bird?
Makes your prayer come true,
fifty Kjats, just for you.
Smiling, he handed over
a small, brown fluttering of feathers.
I cradled it gently,
feeling the beat of its frightened heart,
lifted my arms and opened my hands
for the winged messenger to take to the
heavens my silent request for
freedom.
From fear…
for it,
for me,
for the boy,
for us all.
It flew, in a second,
to the top of the tallest palm
with my prayer to the spirit realm.
For a moment, a brief moment,
I was elated and free
so was the bird
and the boy
smiled sweetly.
As I walked away,
I heard him whistle.
When I turned
I saw the bird fly down
back into his hands
and the confines of its flimsy prison,
ready to take another prayer,
another day,
to the distant gods.
The Buddhist Monk
His warm, golden body
wrapped in folds of red,
he held court
cross legged on a bamboo mat
lion regal and elegant,
his smile and direct gaze
inviting like an open door
to a sunlit inner space.
Long fingers gestured
to a chipped, white,
enamel bowl
of soya beans
You eat,
he invited.
Pointed to a dented and battered flask
Drink!
I sipped weak, green tea
as he carefully unfolded
the thousand year old
teachings of the Buddha,
inscribed with palm leaf pens
on bamboo strips
in round Burmese script.
His voice flowed like music
on water
creating resonant patterns
of cooling sound.
He ended his discourse,
then sent the boy monk scurrying
to return with a maroon fan
inscribed in gold that
all the monks hold
The child on bended knees,
bowed three times to me,
forehead to the ground
and presented the fan with two hands,
whispering to me urgently,
You bow, you bow down, now.
I knelt before the Buddhist monk
and bowed three times as shown.
He smiled and dismissed me,
You go now.
In the blinding sun outside,
the round fan did not fit
so I carried it,
not understanding how
everywhere I went
the fan was silently noted,
kindness and help
instantly offered,
with deference
and eager solemnity,
as if it had its own authority
Until boarding the train back to Rangoon
in a caboose of straight, wooden benches,
waiting, while women,
basins on heads,
sell food for the long ride;
spicy fried chicken,
crunchy cicadas and rice
steamed fish in banana leaves
Jujube plums cooked in jaggery,
hard boiled eggs and palm sugar cakes.
Friendly jostling, bumping, shoving
settling bundles, blankets, baskets
and cages of chickens and ducks
a cacophony of clucking,
infants wailing, vendors selling
laughing, clamoring, yelling,
the air, alive and vibrant,
hot, humid, happy,
before the old train
steams off to jolt and rattle
it’s way through the night.
Still I do not realize
the blessing in my hand
until black boots, steel guns,
stern faces appear
demanding instant order,
no movement
silence,
all eyes cast down,
hands clutching
grimy, well worn papers.
The smell of sweat and fear.
I scramble for my passport
as three soldiers reach my seat.
As one
they glance down,
see the fan,
pause,
stop,
bow their heads,
hands held to their chests
in
Namaste,
leave the train
and we all breathe again.
In a moment I comprehend.
I have shared
with the Buddhist monk,
the people of this holy land
and the soldiers of oppression too
a deep communion.
The Saleslady
Susie Wu is just ten,
with big, black eyes
and a sunshine smile
her too short, shiny hair tied into pigtails
on either side of her head
like a well-groomed Pekinese,
Thanaka paste protects
the tip of her nose and cheeks
from the equatorial sun
Her white blouse spotless under
A faded, blue denim dress
“I will show you the temple,”
she leans towards me confidentially.
I know the history
You are interested in the history?
I tell you about the architecture
It is interesting, no?
You have questions?
I have all the information.
- I have told you everything
- and now you buy from my family stall.
These are from the temple,
she proudly points to
ancient artifacts on a rickety table
There is nothing I want.
Would you like a present instead?...
I don’t want a present
she stands a little taller,
- I want to be a good saleslady!
Now you buy something from my family stall.
Not knowing how
to conclude this stalemate,
I smile awkwardly,
turn towards the horse cart
that will jolt and bounce me away
to the next temple at Bagan.
Her pride and resolve crumble.
With as much dignity as she can muster
Suzie Wu runs after me
I would like the present then.
- I take your picture?
And now,
her smile is forced
the sparkle in her eyes
as dull as an overcast day
as she poses in her dress of faded blue cotton
Saddened, I hand her pencils and candy
wondering why I expected Susie Wu
to prostitute
her smile
and, her soul.