| Joan of Arc in inner Mongolia | ||
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A green bird planted with oaks the written
signs In summer rivers of snow On his father’s side The steel serpent of greenness Serves relevant facts and chai with rum At the Mecca of monotone green Clocks cluck in our internal Mongolia An adjutant broke off training Transsiberian Mongolian goat owners And Tscham Dancers Princess flies over mountains on her magic sword Cured by tree spirits A solitary man thinks only of Stuffed roast swan and says, “Serve me the fragrance of a June morning.” Animal demons get presented a full plate of Horse railroad where we eat roast reivers While this shanghaied local misses Tashkent and Samarkand. With gluttony to your health in a blue bonnet We travel into slumbering after Pan Ziu—Pannax ginseng—well-timed. Oil-impregnated kneeguards threaten willed animals Out of danger losing their way into a sleeping demon’s stomach Solitary root-seekers follow the call of Screech Owl. Ginseng disappears to an evil man the moment it’s found Jackie Gleason doing Lotte Lenya’s “You are a large, conspicuous sandwich.” Hell left Bakunin in an ocean of love. Now we’ll dive black and green into a rose red dress. All nations can sing “Bei Mir Bis Du Schon” in sound sequins. “How’s your hot cold Tartar morning French cognac for breakfast,” Says your friendly, snow tiger waitress. She now offers buttermilk festivities to pyramid families Travelling knapsack style in knowledge’s swaying baggage net The Buriats will bury your overfull stomach. “Good luck in your `Desert Song’ as a man of the golden east,” They sing in their transmongolian migration riding festival Where cedarcone kernels are eaten by native virgins in fur frocks. “We’ll swallow our way all across Genghis Khan,” They overtone intone as a huntswoman threatens to shoot An arrow through first tourist’s Kodak instamatic fastbackwards camera But prayer flags in white get us to no Internet near Kirkut. Without even a telephone pole, the hostages look awfully relaxed Under their Bodhi tree in a desert One sings in a low-cut, tight-fitting dress. “The yurts come equipped with cows, camels, and goats.” Embrace yourself for an upside down whiplash In a blue dog year, the talk of caravansaries Return with our fairies to bring Royal Cloudmother back every 77 years from the sky. Now the camels sing along. A black-speckled tiger drinks at your stream of green grass. They lost more than you stole. As you now blanch the yurts again with time Call that camel gut the old musician’s strumming. Fire going around in circles over and over again Snaps shut your voracious jaws, internal spirits. Before you drink, spill a few drops on the ground Of this year’s best mare’s milk. Heroic lays follow. We ambushed you out of your misfortune. Stags carry you in their teeth As a nightingale talks to the swan in rhyme. Happy hostages or courteous captives, Your laundry load angered the sky. So they shot arrows at your frying pan cymbals And oboes whose way-signs add stones to a pyramid Hero fairy on a milk-white sea, your hands bathe in blood, An earthquake spits fire, and some dancing skeletons find closure. [Tom Savage] |
| entrada | Llibre del Tigre | sèrieAlfa | varia | Berliner Mauer |