Poetry from the Jungle | The Jungle, edited by Max de Silva

The Jungle
The Work of an Unknown Author

Edited by Max de Silva, 2020

I secrets

Nothing yet

does the jungle give,

however long you wait

or watch;

it is eternal,

it does not age.

Its appearance

is scarcely a hint

of all that is hidden -

tight-lipped,

dark green;

ceaselessly undisturbed,

untouched,

unconcerned even;

indifferent

to what begins where,

or how, or why -

as if it could know

that it will all

simply return.

Actually,

it is a great wall,

limitless,

its ends unreported,

holding close

the smuggled secrets

of this day

and tomorrow,

of one millennia

to the next,

filtering the sun like a censor,

carrying forward its confidential cargos

in low capacious vaults.

Listen now;

stop, and listen.

It speaks in ciphers

that have no key,

yet picks out imperfections

betraying them

like a spy to an enemy,

dipping, dipping

into nameless valleys

and up the steep sides

of unforgetting hills.

II island

The songs that have endured

are merely words,

the tunes themselves long lost;

the texts are somewhat incomplete,

but what survives

is that perfect island,

presented in the way

a child might dream of an island

set in a great sea,

rising up from forested beaches

to a centre of mighty mountains

that disappear into clouds.

Immense rivers

tumble back down.

In the villages

the old dances are still young;

new babies

are fed on milk

dipped in gold

before their horoscopes are taken.

Numbers rule the universe.

Boys touch the feet of elders;

households

prepare their daughters

to come of age

washed in water with herbs,

the girl concealed

until she is presented

with her own reflection

swimming in a silver bowl

beneath her face.

The gems later looted from their antique tombs

were not even from the island -

diamonds, emeralds,

even amber, to mix

with their own stones,

pink sapphires and rubies,

garnets, topaz, aquamarines;

rose quartz

fine enough to see through.

Carpenters inlaid furniture

with ivory and rare woods;

crafted secret chambers,

hidden drawers.

Fish sang off long sandy beaches.

And along the rivers

stretched parks,

warehouses, jetties, mansions.

III bounty

Later,

they measured that happiness,

when happiness was a choice,

recalling a time of bounty,

an embarrassment of great cities,

of shipping lanes that converged

on southern ports.

The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon

welcomed visitors.

Kings ruled,

father to son,

brother to brother,

daring to do all they thought,

There were brindleberries and fenugreek;

lemongrass, mangos;

the coconuts fruited;

frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,

even kadupul flowers,

queens of the night.

High wooden watchtowers rose protectively

over wide courtyards,

and gardens grew cardamom,

cinnamon, cloves, vanilla.

Waters rippled in great tanks

built by kings like inland seas

to flow to fields and homes.

Kitchens prepared milk rice

and new dishes

with ginger and kitel,

turmeric, tamarind.

In the shade of palace buildings

frescos were painted, statues carved,

the talk was of new trade routes,

marriages, miracles.

Tomorrow is tomorrow -

Here I picked a flower, and this is for you.

Mangosteen ripened in orchards

their seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,

strips of edible flesh.

It was like eating sex.

Within the stupas

were thrones and begging bowls,

and relics won in foreign wars.

From northern temples

great chariots were hand pulled

through the crowded streets

by thousands of worshippers.

Fortifications, moats, ramparts

guarded the borders;

the realm was not made for defeat;

and the fishermen flung their nets with ease.

IV underfoot

Somewhere,

rotting in its red earth

is the custom of half-remembered kings,

and the begging bowl of antique gods;

of adventurers

who thought to make their mark

with gold;

of lawmakers, doctors, artists

soldiers, saints -

even governors, wise administrators,

men and women with titles,

once known;

of the nameless poor

who left no trace,

of hermits courting

a legitimate oblivion;

and the guard ordered

to slay the king;

of thieves and outlaws,

whose character was their destiny;

and refugees, sent south,

pushed

onto small carts,

stripped

of their valuables, jewellery, money;

of freed slaves walking towards the hills

in search of jobs.

of last year’s leaves lost underfoot,

disturbed by the flickering passage

of unseen snakes.

V gods

Old texts have given gods

to many vantage points;

to the meeting point of streams

and small rivers;

and the little demons

of maladies and fevers;

and the ones used

for exorcisms.

Everywhere, everything

was full of gods.

They have given gods

to triangulation points

laid out later by surveyors

of the old school

using theodolites;

to the dance of flower dancers;

to the point of it,

and the zero point,

measured from the oldest stupa

fifty times the height of men;

to stories

that were once true

in some small part,

and now persist magnified, distorted,

a map of ghosts, and hard redemption

that is chanted through dense trees,

ceaselessly murmured,

like love -

even now,

across the laid-out bodies

of the recent dead,

lying in white satin;

the incantation

is fixed and precise,

deaf

to the mourners

and the myths;

to the modest wakes

on small verandas

where people have collected

to give alms

(for the gods cannot do shameful things;

they are not fools).

VI pilgrims

Prayers are passed on

like a baton

that has worn thin

since the time

they were first ever

written down.

Night falls abruptly,

brilliantly,

an elegy

of shy beasts and fear,

a long hypnotic lament

of disregarded lives,

burning on a brief horizon

where the sun has collected

into a million tiny pieces.

Pilgrims halt,

the path to the top

dissolves with dusk;

an out of season wind

drives heavy rain and mist.

They were unprepared for rescue;

this, after all,

was not this kind of rescue

that brought them here.

They were hoping

to be remembered

for their good deeds,

not their sins –

but they were not sure.

Coming here,

they had something quite different

in their minds,

salvation of another kind,

a liberation.

Worry

has led their minds to waiver.

Oh, they know sorrow,

they know it only too well.

VII famine

Then, suddenly

came the time of famine,

an inadequate, insufficient, deficient, barren,

niggardly age.

The old queen was burnt in her palace.

There were massacres at the cemetery;

mobsters were released from jail;

tax collection fell;

nothing was working.

There was no money

to pay the mercenaries;

administrators multiplied

a hundred fold

but had no stipend

and came to work marginalized, ignored.

Wild elephants trampled

the roads,

people were hungry, insolent,

and the warehouses lay empty.

Faraway,

the new king built a lofty citadel,

a capital just for him,

a safe estate

where he could live secure,

tending his fears,

trusting no-one –

its stone cemented by frightened masons,

its rooms places where he would watch

his allies.

From its walls

he could see far across the plains.

His enemies would not surprise him;

and occasionally he appeared

in specially managed ceremonies.

VIII regicide

Later, came the days of terror,

a time to burn the forts.

Unlike the last,

this regicide will not fail.

The king’s death was confirmed

when his ring was found.

Rumours of spies

flooded the markets,

a murderous intent seeped from town to town

shops were looted;

buildings burnt;

the criminals escaped.

A curfew was declared;

societies formed

to protect language, culture,

even the gods.

The dead had living enemies;

impaled heads stood in shocking circles

at the entrance of certain villages.

Assassinations were listed

like a muster roll –

councillors,

generals,

diplomats,

scholars;

even the friends around the throne.

Suicide-assassins raised their knives,

their mouths laced with small sachets of poison

should the attack goes wrong.

One by one, three coup leaders

took their turn,

each

loving his power:

a rotten dedication;

and though the new judges

were busy

with proscriptions and judicial slaughter,

the hangmen resigned

or simply fled.

IX exodus

Old actors put on plays

That should be banned.

They, at least, are unafraid.

“I am the end. I exist no more.”

Charges of sedition

imprisonments, floggings,

advertise up-country courts;

even ex advisors are not safe.

Especially, ex-advisors are not safe.

The cunning plans have come to nothing.

The debt is grown.

New laws prohibit

counterfeit coins,

the possession of weapons,

unlawful assembly.

The anthem is changed,

its composer dead,

by suicide.

An unremarkable exodus

drains each little village,

the money lender gone,

the girl selling fruit

the spice wholesaler,

the shops selling sailfish, mangos, rope –

all closed.

The little cafes are empty.

And though the wise men know

of other wise men,

they cannot act.

Uprisings

break off corners of the state,

and the men who go to there to fight

do not return.

The lies have grown old;

no-one believes the little victories anymore;

or that the monarch’s forces have overrun

a rebel island,

a final, murderous innings

led, it is said,

by a golden elephant, ridden by a golden king,

last of the coup leaders

whose name, even now,

the scholars cannot agree upon.

It is a time of chaos,

the ancient kingdom’s long farewell,

remembered in frail scraps of bloody parchment

that contradict.

And in faded reds and ochres,

in lapis lazuli, cerulean blues

the lost landscapes flake away

a fragmenting world.

X memory

There are no names;

from end to end,

from this year to the next,

from the first year to the last

the annihilating heartbeats strike too softly

ever to be heard,

cancelled

by all that seems

to happen in the day,

their memory

rubbed out like people talking over each other,

their conversation grown a little louder

with each comment -

a rising tide of expectations

that is, now, merely academic.

The prophets are blind.

Even the notable families are evicted,

strangers in their own cities;

the oblivion a blessing – eventually.

And somewhere else,

somewhere, everywhere, far away

the centuries fall

upon centuries,

and fall upon centuries,

brighter, bigger, richer;

for it is not safe to stop.

Wealth; war -

evade what waits to come -

though they cannot outrun it

or outspend it;

they cannot, finally, out fight it,

or even out love it;

but they can

drown it out

till it is too late,

minimising the time it takes

to know all this.

(Though of course, they know all this

- or some do).

XI river

Even in the drought

the big rivers flow,

the muddy waters unstoppable

as falling stones.

In the evenings

people gather

in modest villages

that do not even have roads going to them,

merely paths

through scraps of paddy;

and they talk,

sitting in small circles,

and compare their days,

seeing how splendid they are.

To speak dishonourably is pardonable.

XII loose ends

The inscriptions tell of taxes,

of rules for monks,

of Roman gold,

and the conquest of lands

whose place names

live on in the way homeless lepers did,

shifting

from site to site,

learning things

that they did not want to know.

They have learnt many things

from their enemies,

and have become

the loose ends

of an older story with too many sub plots

from when the world seemed kind.

Sometimes, the savage killing

in this village

or that,

lets slip the longest rivalries;

the ones that still survive,

descending into hell

from a single place,

issuing currencies

whose pledges

are never broken

or betrayed.

XIII footprints

Here and there,

sentinel guard stones stand over steps

that led from the everyday,

and are now worn down;

the moonstones are rubbed smooth,

the buildings above

an outline of thin dissolving bricks,

the mountain lookouts forgotten,

the training grounds for soldiers

lost in marsh or forest

where the lions are extinct.

The monuments are unprotected;

invaders have come and gone;

the sluice gates lie open,

the live fences overgrown.

Land grabs are commonplace.

Burnt-out temples have lent

their scattered stones

to little houses, huts even,

a mute pedestrian eternity,

a witness full of heartbreak

certifying each short domestic dynasty

written in sand.

Doorposts lean open and still;

the smooth contours of an antique pool

(lovely for its lotus shape)

are granite-hard and dry.

The old springs have dried up,

have moved elsewhere

leaving sharp ravines and sandy basins,

footprints on footprints,

charting an unrecordable maze

of lost routes

and rumoured destinations.

Tales abound

of troves of ancient gold

in this hill or valley;

whole villages

empty for days on end.

The old kings have gone,

the last deported

to feed off dreams

(we know not where);

long ago the booty was carried off,

the linen, fine furniture, and curiosities,

the silver, statues, cannon, the howdahs

the jewellery made of sapphires and gold.

Invaders rule

from time to time,

fleeting overlords,

curing evil with evil,

adding pain:

“Side?” they asked;

“I am on nobody's side,

because nobody is on my side.”

A single shattered path remains

holding the island

to the outside world

on sunken limestone banks

racked by cyclones,

reduced, year on year

till all it holds

is cast adrift.

XIV beat

The greatest griefs

are wielded like a knife

held in the same hand.

A catfish wriggles across dry land;

vipers eat their young;

geckos bolt,

their soft stickly toes

sucking them briefly up and out of danger.

Tarantulas wander

through temple groves

found out by time;

birds fly overhead,

invisible and shrill;

dragonflies and damselflies

hover – and are gone;

a family of monkeys

glides

from branch to branch;

in this place

snakes and squirrels

sail

suddenly through the air,

and the jungle

pauses and parts,

and closes in, its dark green waves

holding fast the drama;

enfolding, tight,

wrapping tighter and tighter,

like a pair of arms

around a thrashing child,

that is hysterical and small.

And as suddenly as it started;

it stops.

It is quiet.

For a moment, even the insects

are still;

the humid air

holds it breath,

until its silent, speechless

beat

begins again,

this time

in a register

too high

to even hear.

And those you love

What is Poetry from the Jungle?

Listen to a growing poetry anthology: 80 poets who reset the world’s literary canon. Recorded in the jungle, the Podcast takes its surroundings as its measure - that perfect order that exists, in artless balance, beneath a dense and tangled canopy.

The Jungle
The Work of an Unknown Author

Edited by Max de Silva, 2020

I secrets

Nothing yet
does the jungle give,
however long you wait
or watch;

it is eternal,
it does not age.

Its appearance
is scarcely a hint
of all that is hidden -

tight-lipped,
dark green;

ceaselessly undisturbed,
untouched,
unconcerned even;

indifferent
to what begins where,
or how, or why -

as if it could know
that it will all
simply return.

Actually,
it is a great wall,

limitless,

its ends unreported,
holding close
the smuggled secrets
of this day
and tomorrow,

of one millennia
to the next,

filtering the sun like a censor,

carrying forward its confidential cargos
in low capacious vaults.

Listen now;
stop, and listen.

It speaks in ciphers
that have no key,
yet picks out imperfections
betraying them
like a spy to an enemy,

dipping, dipping
into nameless valleys

and up the steep sides
of unforgetting hills.

II island

The songs that have endured
are merely words,
the tunes themselves long lost;

the texts are somewhat incomplete,

but what survives
is that perfect island,
presented in the way
a child might dream of an island
set in a great sea,

rising up from forested beaches
to a centre of mighty mountains
that disappear into clouds.

Immense rivers
tumble back down.

In the villages
the old dances are still young;

new babies
are fed on milk
dipped in gold
before their horoscopes are taken.

Numbers rule the universe.

Boys touch the feet of elders;

households
prepare their daughters
to come of age
washed in water with herbs,
the girl concealed
until she is presented
with her own reflection
swimming in a silver bowl
beneath her face.

The gems later looted from their antique tombs
were not even from the island -
diamonds, emeralds,
even amber, to mix
with their own stones,

pink sapphires and rubies,
garnets, topaz, aquamarines;
rose quartz
fine enough to see through.

Carpenters inlaid furniture
with ivory and rare woods;
crafted secret chambers,
hidden drawers.

Fish sang off long sandy beaches.

And along the rivers
stretched parks,
warehouses, jetties, mansions.

III bounty

Later,
they measured that happiness,
when happiness was a choice,
recalling a time of bounty,

an embarrassment of great cities,
of shipping lanes that converged
on southern ports.

The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon
welcomed visitors.

Kings ruled,
father to son,
brother to brother,
daring to do all they thought,

There were brindleberries and fenugreek;
lemongrass, mangos;
the coconuts fruited;

frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,
even kadupul flowers,
queens of the night.

High wooden watchtowers rose protectively
over wide courtyards,
and gardens grew cardamom,
cinnamon, cloves, vanilla.

Waters rippled in great tanks
built by kings like inland seas
to flow to fields and homes.

Kitchens prepared milk rice
and new dishes
with ginger and kitel,
turmeric, tamarind.

In the shade of palace buildings
frescos were painted, statues carved,

the talk was of new trade routes,
marriages, miracles.

Tomorrow is tomorrow -
Here I picked a flower, and this is for you.

Mangosteen ripened in orchards
their seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,
strips of edible flesh.

It was like eating sex.

Within the stupas
were thrones and begging bowls,
and relics won in foreign wars.

From northern temples
great chariots were hand pulled
through the crowded streets
by thousands of worshippers.

Fortifications, moats, ramparts
guarded the borders;
the realm was not made for defeat;

and the fishermen flung their nets with ease.

IV underfoot

Somewhere,
rotting in its red earth
is the custom of half-remembered kings,
and the begging bowl of antique gods;

of adventurers
who thought to make their mark
with gold;

of lawmakers, doctors, artists
soldiers, saints -
even governors, wise administrators,
men and women with titles,
once known;

of the nameless poor
who left no trace,

of hermits courting
a legitimate oblivion;

and the guard ordered
to slay the king;

of thieves and outlaws,
whose character was their destiny;

and refugees, sent south,
pushed
onto small carts,
stripped
of their valuables, jewellery, money;

of freed slaves walking towards the hills
in search of jobs.

of last year’s leaves lost underfoot,
disturbed by the flickering passage
of unseen snakes.

V gods

Old texts have given gods
to many vantage points;

to the meeting point of streams
and small rivers;

and the little demons
of maladies and fevers;

and the ones used
for exorcisms.

Everywhere, everything
was full of gods.

They have given gods
to triangulation points
laid out later by surveyors
of the old school
using theodolites;

to the dance of flower dancers;

to the point of it,

and the zero point,

measured from the oldest stupa
fifty times the height of men;

to stories
that were once true
in some small part,

and now persist magnified, distorted,

a map of ghosts, and hard redemption
that is chanted through dense trees,
ceaselessly murmured,
like love -

even now,
across the laid-out bodies
of the recent dead,
lying in white satin;

the incantation
is fixed and precise,

deaf

to the mourners
and the myths;

to the modest wakes
on small verandas
where people have collected
to give alms

(for the gods cannot do shameful things;
they are not fools).

VI pilgrims

Prayers are passed on
like a baton
that has worn thin
since the time
they were first ever
written down.

Night falls abruptly,
brilliantly,

an elegy
of shy beasts and fear,

a long hypnotic lament
of disregarded lives,

burning on a brief horizon
where the sun has collected
into a million tiny pieces.

Pilgrims halt,

the path to the top
dissolves with dusk;

an out of season wind
drives heavy rain and mist.

They were unprepared for rescue;

this, after all,
was not this kind of rescue
that brought them here.

They were hoping
to be remembered
for their good deeds,
not their sins –

but they were not sure.

Coming here,
they had something quite different
in their minds,

salvation of another kind,

a liberation.
Worry
has led their minds to waiver.

Oh, they know sorrow,
they know it only too well.

VII famine

Then, suddenly
came the time of famine,

an inadequate, insufficient, deficient, barren,
niggardly age.

The old queen was burnt in her palace.

There were massacres at the cemetery;
mobsters were released from jail;

tax collection fell;
nothing was working.

There was no money
to pay the mercenaries;

administrators multiplied
a hundred fold
but had no stipend
and came to work marginalized, ignored.

Wild elephants trampled
the roads,

people were hungry, insolent,
and the warehouses lay empty.

Faraway,
the new king built a lofty citadel,

a capital just for him,

a safe estate
where he could live secure,
tending his fears,
trusting no-one –

its stone cemented by frightened masons,
its rooms places where he would watch
his allies.

From its walls
he could see far across the plains.

His enemies would not surprise him;

and occasionally he appeared
in specially managed ceremonies.

VIII regicide

Later, came the days of terror,
a time to burn the forts.

Unlike the last,
this regicide will not fail.

The king’s death was confirmed
when his ring was found.

Rumours of spies
flooded the markets,

a murderous intent seeped from town to town
shops were looted;
buildings burnt;
the criminals escaped.

A curfew was declared;
societies formed
to protect language, culture,
even the gods.

The dead had living enemies;

impaled heads stood in shocking circles
at the entrance of certain villages.

Assassinations were listed
like a muster roll –
councillors,
generals,
diplomats,
scholars;

even the friends around the throne.

Suicide-assassins raised their knives,
their mouths laced with small sachets of poison
should the attack goes wrong.

One by one, three coup leaders
took their turn,

each
loving his power:
a rotten dedication;

and though the new judges
were busy
with proscriptions and judicial slaughter,

the hangmen resigned
or simply fled.

IX exodus

Old actors put on plays
That should be banned.

They, at least, are unafraid.

“I am the end. I exist no more.”

Charges of sedition
imprisonments, floggings,
advertise up-country courts;

even ex advisors are not safe.

Especially, ex-advisors are not safe.

The cunning plans have come to nothing.
The debt is grown.

New laws prohibit
counterfeit coins,
the possession of weapons,
unlawful assembly.

The anthem is changed,
its composer dead,
by suicide.

An unremarkable exodus
drains each little village,
the money lender gone,
the girl selling fruit
the spice wholesaler,
the shops selling sailfish, mangos, rope –
all closed.

The little cafes are empty.

And though the wise men know
of other wise men,
they cannot act.

Uprisings
break off corners of the state,
and the men who go to there to fight
do not return.

The lies have grown old;
no-one believes the little victories anymore;
or that the monarch’s forces have overrun
a rebel island,
a final, murderous innings
led, it is said,
by a golden elephant, ridden by a golden king,
last of the coup leaders
whose name, even now,
the scholars cannot agree upon.

It is a time of chaos,
the ancient kingdom’s long farewell,
remembered in frail scraps of bloody parchment
that contradict.

And in faded reds and ochres,
in lapis lazuli, cerulean blues
the lost landscapes flake away
a fragmenting world.

X memory

There are no names;

from end to end,
from this year to the next,
from the first year to the last
the annihilating heartbeats strike too softly
ever to be heard,

cancelled
by all that seems
to happen in the day,

their memory

rubbed out like people talking over each other,
their conversation grown a little louder
with each comment -

a rising tide of expectations
that is, now, merely academic.

The prophets are blind.

Even the notable families are evicted,
strangers in their own cities;

the oblivion a blessing – eventually.

And somewhere else,

somewhere, everywhere, far away
the centuries fall
upon centuries,

and fall upon centuries,

brighter, bigger, richer;

for it is not safe to stop.

Wealth; war -
evade what waits to come -

though they cannot outrun it
or outspend it;

they cannot, finally, out fight it,
or even out love it;

but they can
drown it out
till it is too late,

minimising the time it takes
to know all this.

(Though of course, they know all this

- or some do).

XI river

Even in the drought
the big rivers flow,
the muddy waters unstoppable
as falling stones.

In the evenings
people gather
in modest villages
that do not even have roads going to them,

merely paths
through scraps of paddy;

and they talk,
sitting in small circles,
and compare their days,

seeing how splendid they are.

To speak dishonourably is pardonable.

XII loose ends

The inscriptions tell of taxes,
of rules for monks,
of Roman gold,

and the conquest of lands
whose place names
live on in the way homeless lepers did,

shifting
from site to site,

learning things
that they did not want to know.

They have learnt many things
from their enemies,

and have become
the loose ends
of an older story with too many sub plots
from when the world seemed kind.

Sometimes, the savage killing
in this village
or that,
lets slip the longest rivalries;
the ones that still survive,

descending into hell
from a single place,

issuing currencies
whose pledges
are never broken
or betrayed.

XIII footprints

Here and there,
sentinel guard stones stand over steps
that led from the everyday,
and are now worn down;

the moonstones are rubbed smooth,

the buildings above
an outline of thin dissolving bricks,

the mountain lookouts forgotten,

the training grounds for soldiers
lost in marsh or forest
where the lions are extinct.

The monuments are unprotected;
invaders have come and gone;

the sluice gates lie open,
the live fences overgrown.

Land grabs are commonplace.

Burnt-out temples have lent
their scattered stones
to little houses, huts even,
a mute pedestrian eternity,
a witness full of heartbreak
certifying each short domestic dynasty

written in sand.

Doorposts lean open and still;

the smooth contours of an antique pool
(lovely for its lotus shape)
are granite-hard and dry.

The old springs have dried up,
have moved elsewhere
leaving sharp ravines and sandy basins,

footprints on footprints,

charting an unrecordable maze
of lost routes
and rumoured destinations.

Tales abound
of troves of ancient gold
in this hill or valley;
whole villages
empty for days on end.

The old kings have gone,
the last deported
to feed off dreams

(we know not where);

long ago the booty was carried off,

the linen, fine furniture, and curiosities,
the silver, statues, cannon, the howdahs
the jewellery made of sapphires and gold.

Invaders rule
from time to time,
fleeting overlords,
curing evil with evil,
adding pain:

“Side?” they asked;
“I am on nobody's side,
because nobody is on my side.”

A single shattered path remains
holding the island
to the outside world
on sunken limestone banks

racked by cyclones,

reduced, year on year

till all it holds
is cast adrift.

XIV beat

The greatest griefs
are wielded like a knife
held in the same hand.

A catfish wriggles across dry land;

vipers eat their young;
geckos bolt,
their soft stickly toes
sucking them briefly up and out of danger.

Tarantulas wander
through temple groves
found out by time;

birds fly overhead,
invisible and shrill;

dragonflies and damselflies
hover – and are gone;

a family of monkeys
glides
from branch to branch;

in this place
snakes and squirrels
sail
suddenly through the air,

and the jungle
pauses and parts,

and closes in, its dark green waves
holding fast the drama;

enfolding, tight,

wrapping tighter and tighter,
like a pair of arms
around a thrashing child,
that is hysterical and small.

And as suddenly as it started;

it stops.

It is quiet.

For a moment, even the insects
are still;

the humid air
holds it breath,

until its silent, speechless
beat
begins again,

this time
in a register
too high
to even hear.

And those you love
you will love still,
no matter how foolish
or how deadly.

XV travellers

Travellers
that still come this way,
have come from far away,

treading out one wilderness
for another,

leaving just before
they see that this is not
what they think it is,

or they,
what they think they are.

The air they breathe
smells wet, brown, organic,
blocking their noses
like soil;

Like snipe, flamingo, herons -
they pass through quickly,

deliberately so,
before they have to buy back
what they most love;

for they have read
(before they came)
the words of the last minister,

the one who said -

“Peace is a battle. Peace is never given freely,
never acquired.”

Although they have come here
to be here,

coming to get away,

they cannot arrive
until they stop.

And no-one stops in the jungle.

The dark evening
leaves them pitifully wrecked, sweaty.

Everything rustles.

They turn their face.

The old demons never left -
and though they are invisible,
they have black faces
and long white teeth.

XVI certainties

Season
after season,

the dark glades
are tinder dry

and soaking wet;

from one moment

to the next

flames explode across the mountains
like the sails of a stricken ship;

water drips from
a million billion
fronds;

creepers
flood over ancient trees,

concealing

the oldest certainties
of that time before
this time,
before time was old,

before, eventually, it was to come
only once more,
deciding everything;

assuring,
with stones and broken shadows
the road,

running out
to a point
that disappears
into nameless valleys

and up the sheer sides
of unforgetting hills.

The time for words has gone.
This is a time for sleep.