real skirting the unreal
||This was the real
skirting the unreal
an ox-bow river on a boiling plain
water-buffalo knee deep in its leaden swirl
and me twelve-feet high surveying it,
swaying on an elephant's back, its
sure-footed ponderous grace
the rhythm of a lost world.
The sun a greasy gold webbing the plain
hot as chip fat in the sky, and
crazy peasants pic-nicking yards from
the clenched jungle's clannish gloom
where rhinos lumber, wild boar start
and the rainbow-muscled tiger lurks:
fantastic people who dwell –
how the artist in me envies them! –
in the imagination not the reason,
fatalistic but fantastic as
children of some migraine dream.
under jacarandas toiling
and spoiling words in the head,
the safari lodge
crouched colonially behind.
At a coffee-coloured wicker table
contemplate in sun-whittled shade
a two-inch-wide cockroach's endless
to climb the flaky-chocolate tree trunk,
forever falling back,
never giving up.
Then the safari lodge at night licked by storm lamps and
stars, the blue mosquitos of heaven;
and a banquet on the lawn interrupted
by a pony and cart in the lumbering dark,
there none knew why.
Mystery! like that dry plain
enlarged in the now-dark below
river forever on the go.
| Llibre del Tigre | sèrieAlfa
| varia | Berliner