the joy we gave (and felt in giving),
the love received, the easeful living
we made, the fact – to mother’s delight –
we soon acquired an air-conditioned
sedan for her to ride in, commissioned
a clan of wrestlers, body guards
and hired guns to make her feel
more safe, the fact we even barred
the bus’s windows, locked and sealed
the doors each night so we’d be sure
our fortune (Noorya) slept secure
within – despite all this, indeed,
despite the sense that we’d been freed
from penury and risk, that we
could bribe officials now, obtain
convincing passports, entertain
both old and new-crowned royalty,
receive – some six or seven times –
awards from DREAM (Dept. of Rhymes,
Emotions, Artful Musings), sing
for tourists, foreign dignitaries,
directors of movies, visiting
jihadists, church groups, missionaries,
hippies in Volkswagen buses – despite
the grand chateau and ambient site
of forest-edged, lacustrine lawn
amidst the hills near Sheberghan
and where our choral cavalcade
would holiday (what beauty, Arcady!
The hot afternoons beside the shady
swimming pond, our meals arrayed
on giant rugs with servants to chase
the monkeys away!) – a magic place,
a Dome of Pleasure, a Palace of Song –
despite all this success – and so
much more ahead! – something was wrong.
Perhaps it was the undertow
one feels when riding buoyant waves.
Or maybe thoughts of Noorya gave
us pause; for shouldn’t it give one pause
when capture serves as rapture’s cause?
If you’re not palpably, scalpably poor,
with dirty clothes, and nearly dead,
then Fate locks cross-hairs on your head.
But there was something else far more
disturbing, Arcady. Something even
now I’d rather not believe in,
out here, on this tiny isle, unkempt
and hungry, dispossessed of hope
or anything else that might just tempt
the world to fix us in its scope;
but which I can’t forget: The way
her cries (which didn’t, at first, convey
a meaning, as such, or something sensible)
began to sound more comprehensible.
began to make sense. Those languid lips,
serenely-lined (though veil-eclipsed
and often gagged) were soon exhaling
wisps of words, aphasic phrases;
and now, as well, her glazy gazes
seemed perceptive, as if what she
was singing was something we call haydys
in Turkmen – in English: prophecy.
And while our troupe performed their latest
songs and I half-napped amongst an
eruption of pillows (or laps of drunken
nymphs) inside my private tent,
or lounged with rose and olive scents
on shaded ottomans behind
our colonnaded palace porch,
I heard her words. I felt them scorch
the happy arbors of my mind,
and cloud my future with their smoke.
More Tuesday Poems at Tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com.