DESTINATIONS
CITY A-Z
Read poems and short stories from the author's travels.
BANGKOK, Thailand.
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LONDON, England.
SEVILLE, Spain.
BLED, Slovenia.
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HA NOI, Vietnam.
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SPLIT & ISLANDS, Croatia.
BANGKOK
Thailand
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BLED
Slovinia
an immense blue, clear
enough to see a
half
moon untethered,
staying
stubborn, with
big dark gorged eyes -
no white rug to sweep the
dirty under. no
dirty to find. only
dirty is a cracked chalk line.
that is wiped away
as quickly as comes. these
temporary taints
keep the dirty out of
mind, but now
there is no distraction.
A foot print
on damp decaying leaves.
The soft
rises at the sides,
the weight sinks
the moisture deep.
In the puddle
in the sole –
the moons mirror –
is an island.
Smaller than a pinky,
with a white steeple,
like the other
on the puddles edge.
Like either end
of a worm wondering
in pursuit of wetland,
just as this.
A puddle is a bath.
Other litters
tamper the ground,
but patterns on the base
make pretty prints.
These coloured
wrappers,
too small and sparse
to want to pick out
of the slush.
A gorgeous slush,
a creamed brown.
Frozen into luxury,
currently frosted
in spice.
As a sinking foot
marks distinctly
the place it stands,
so does the season
christen the earth.
The season of
frosted flame,
which burn the
mounds of matchsticks.
Every flame lick different,
each ash dives
to retire at its birth.
Soon sunken into
the boarded floor
soon glazed a glossy white.
Ambers are rare.
Rarely collided as this.
A congregation to summit,
acres of fire
turning to half moon,
which oblivious,
smothers the cinders
at a turn of glee
from her disciples.
A mound playing
what-time-is-it-mr-wolf
is on its way
to the lake above.
Try as it may to disguise
in the flame,
it’s icy tips
are extended to take
the silver half-queen.
But to her, the view
is just a pretty footprint
on a less pretty rock.
GDANSK
Poland
HA NOI
Vietnam
It’s 4:00 AM where I’m from, 11 over here, yet I feel I’m stuck at 3:00 PM
with my head in another atmosphere. I shouldn’t sleep till the evening so
as not to let jet-lag. I don’t think I could sleep anyway with all this noise
coming from below.
They are trying to drive as first-worlds do, but they can’t quite get it right.
I thought lanes were for regiment and order, although the ethos here
seems to be that the road marks are just a guideline. The only way that
they know how to drive is by flashing lights and honking harsher horns. At
least this method minimises accidents. If they didn’t do all this tooting then
I doubt any survivors would remain of the carnage coming from below.
Before busy days begin bikes with bulging waistlines weave through gaps
the size of a needles eye. Bags and boxes and buckets filled with bits of
material, flowers, pans. They even have food hanging from backs of seats,
like bananas, and as I watch in amazement, the needlework of driver’s, I
couldn’t help but feel pricked that this ‘ordinary’ intimacy with motor fumes
would be sold as fresh produce. Just by having the window slightly
ajar, I feel the fumes coming from below.
On my earlier wander into the city, I felt the disadvantage of this country.
Vietnam is a country fighting to keep up. California came to mind. I passed
over a remarkable bridge, which reminded me of the Golden Gate, with its
parallel figure. However, this was grey - concrete, a steady but unoriginal
crossing that even in all its magnitude could not measure to the attraction
of the western dragon. While peering out of the cab window on the journey
here, lights flickered like a static screen when I looked at what was coming
from below.
These lights were bulbs, which arrayed in different colours blue, red, yellow.
Like the LED lights of the Vegas Strip, they showed off food stands and
enterprise, but like everything in this city the signs were dated and cliché. A
sign of slow development coming from below.
The buildings with the boxed edges, block colours and lapping skyline look
to me like a scene from a Hayao Miyazaki animation. Every dishevelled
bannister and dilapidated window-frame produced an image. I can only
associate this vision to embarrassingly minute knowledge of this continent
that I have experienced in film. But as I look now from the skyline to the
streets, I see how the importance of the land reflects the life the people live
and this liveliness of life is coming from below.
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LONDON
England
It is hard to write about the place that you live in. The magic of a fleeting visit is dissolved. Envisaging London, I don’t think of Big Ben or royalty. I don’t think of the big wheel or river cruises. I don’t necessarily think of Westend delights or Oxford sights. My London is the Southeast suburbs.
My home has been a blow-up bed, slipped snuggly between desk and wall. It has been the shadows of silverfish in the ceiling light. Most recently, home is: wooden floors, salt lamps, shower steam and green leaves. Home is the road, like the waves in my childhood, soothing me to sleep.
My life in London has become routine walks to routine transport to routine rendezvous. London has been a scream in the night, a flashing blue light and the homeless people outside of Pret. London, right now, is an infested mattress under a grey sheet. London is occasionally a spontaneous good time.
For three years as Home, this is all I can say. But my Instagram will present this time in a different array.
PORTO
Portugal
SEVILLE
Spain
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SPLIT & ISLANDS
Croatia
In the moment
it was heat and
regular refuge.
Sweat and salt,
a repetitive lining – the stick
of cream
three times a day.
In my recollection
it is -
cool sky,
ripples
against the butt of a boat,
the glare in the eye
of a bobbing head,
the ecstasy of shrivelled fingers
- turquoise.
It is -
bare feet,
bare shoulders,
the hanging of viridescent flesh above
my head,
luxury untouchable,
touched,
the feeling
of sanctuary
that becomes a maternal hanker
to keep my breast close
- emerald.
It is –
sun dried tomatoes,
sunset on clay tiles,
the crevasse between Egyptian
cobble,
the beating of betrayal
blubbering cerulean
against the broad back of a concrete
dock,
comfortable community
an open porch
a mother of a mother
hushing with eyes closed
- terracotta.
From now
it will be
moments in an album,
the sounds in a dream.
It will be
peace that is longed for,
the lines at my eyes.
It will be.