At The Volcano: Season 6 - 1995.

ONE 

 

Wholly beautiful, 

this is a remote 

withdrawn  

unsaid place; 

  

knowing nothing, 

  

wisdom held 

unaided. 

  

The volcano, 

burst, blistered,  

blasted before time, 

  

rises above savannah, 

autonomous. 

 

  

Nothing of what I have left behind 

has followed me here: 

  

no bars, or clubs, 

or safari parks 

swarming with mutinous animals; 

 

there are no buildings here,

no cables, no pylons, 

nothing.

 

 

There is nothing,

nothing; 

 

there are no roads even, 

nor walls, bridges, hospitals,

barbers, butchers, pharmacies; 

 

museums are absent; and shops,

and markets selling fruit

and sentimental knick-knacks.

 

 

 

 

TWO

 

Even the ruins

around this place

 have still to be built,

lived in, fought for, 

destroyed

 

by monsoon rains, 

 

by dead and dated wars,

and rebels

hiding from the recent defeats

of old conflicts

that never end;

 

there are just trees;

 

just podo trees

rising like citadels

around the titanic flanks

of the volcano;

 

trunks

thirty feet round;

 

their branches

forking low,

twisting,

arching

into artless beams,

hewn lintels,

giant joists;

 

a stronghold,

spontaneous, animate,

built in a high lapsed land,

 

soaring

above borders

that have worn into wasted lines,

pale snaking imprints

woven invisibly

between every spur and stream,

 

climbing the sides,

between ridges and peaks,

vents, conduits, lakes – 

 

the crater, cloistered, limitless:

 

every inch of every border

remembered in old, disputed books 

in archives in Nairobi and Kampala;

 

in the stories the tribespeople

tell each other

every breaking day

in villages far, far away.

 

 

THREE

 

Mostly though, there are no people here:

no trippers; 

no travellers, tourists, 

not even residents;

 

just me, 

and one bemused young driver

smoking through a pack

of Marlboro lights.

 

Especially, there are no houses,

no homes 

or gardens;

 

no streets or settlements.

 

In this place -

in this place here – 

 

no cars sound

no buses blare 

their loud exhausted horns;

 

there are no windows

to open

for music to escape from;

 

conversation to drift from

 

no drilling, grinding, crashing, crunching,

no barking dogs

or phones,

 

no people talking, shouting, singing,

nor even passing each other,

to pass the day

with a nod, a “Hi,” a “Humm”.

 

 In this place here

there are no rooms filled 

with the ordinary things

of life

or of objects passed 

from one generation 

to the next.

 

In this place here

it is the trees that talk,

that chatter and discourse

in sudden winds;

 

it is the birds 

that speak, confer, negotiate,

the buzzards, bustards, cuckoos, kites;

 

and the waterfalls, 

slapping over a hundred meters of rock,

the hot springs bubbling,

 

and hyenas baying at a cornered buffalo.

 

In this place

it is the sounds you cannot hear

you notice first and last:

the stealthy leopard,

the bushbucks, cobras, lizards.

 

This is a place

that leaves no trace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOUR

 

I have climbed here

quite alone,

leaving the jeep

where the level ground

ran out.

 

 

At the end 

of a ragged tread

of off-road tyres

the bush rolls,

 

scrub to forest;

 

long burnt grass 

- the colour of lions –

reaches to the forest 

on the mountain’s 

sheer as tombstones sides;

 

the slopes narrow 

to a lawless green,

 

strip out light,

break space

into an elaborate maze

only animals can navigate,

following the antique paths

made by wild elephants.

 

 

You hear them,

travelling by night,

scouring the salt caves,

their tusks - 

like the claws of massive diggers -

carving deep channels

into the volcano’s heart.

 

 

Jungle

defends the cancelled land,

morphs into thick shadows,

repeating and repeating

all that it is;

 

fugitive tracks -

the tread of wary animals - 

blur and disappear,

snaking off in the sombre light,

 

the measured lunatic murmur of insects

twists in tail-winds.

 

 

Colobus move.

 

 

 

FIVE

 

Python creepers curtain 

from forty-metre trees;

 

camphor, 

redwood, juniper,

 

rebuff

the shrinking sun.

 

 

A hungry old insistent night

begins to fall;

 

and in the evening mists

the volcano

appears and disappears;

 

floats,

through the turning years

since before the day was late;

 

a temple

over the world 

it made;

 

a dreamland built in fire and ash

 in tephra, cinders, lava,

 

a guarded shangri-la

whose gods have names

now quite forgotten

(if they were ever known at all).

 

Here, the jehovahs

are perfect, imperfect,

perpetually lingering on

heedless of permissions

craving not to know

what to know

before the world was finished.

 

 

 

SIX

 

Six continents

and sixty countries

hang here, with me,

fill me, form me - 

 

silent bells

ringing on their own

through my unspeaking

head and heart;

 

ringing

through all the houses too;

 

a cavalcade of homes,

hollow, white, enormous,

each replacing the last

a little less exactly,

 

each haunting the next;

 

as if the first

could ever return;

 

as if the first 

could ever stop

everything that happened next 

from happening next,

 

or fling open

every door,

 

and lead,

like Ariadne's Thread,

to the first room,

 

when the world

was perfect.

 

 

 

 

SEVEN

 

The sky shrinks,

a melting line

of red and gold;

 

clouds marbling

a space defined

by what the jungle

does not claim.

 

 

And

in the dying light

an unexpected track

expands,

 

widens 

into an atoll of green grass;

 

breaks the forest's

tangled symmetry.

 

 

A line of double-planted canna lilies

marks a nervous boundary,

 

a wooden bungalow

on the jungle’s edge.

 

 

Orchids dangle

out of reach;

 

bougainvillea,

dip their blood-red flowers

in shafts of light;

 

from a deep veranda

lawns slope away.

 

 

 

EIGHT

 

And in this place,

this sudden, random, hit-upon place;

 

in this place – 

 

between the emptiness

and the histories

I do not comprehend,

 

the ones I know enough about

to know

nothing - 

 

in this place

I find

what I never thought to find -

 

the house,

stopped at three decades ago,

replicated so faithfully

in another continent.

 

 

What is lost is found.

 

 

A drawing room

opens onto a half enclosed veranda;

 

pillars frame a distant view of plains.

 

 

Behind me, African hills

repeat the line

of the Indian Nilgiris,

rising

wedgwood blue

around the empty house.

 

 

Only the people change –

 

this door opening

to a young man -

 

the old caretaker

fixed in another time and place

waiting on the porch steps,

walking from room to room,

removing dust sheets,

lighting lamps,

 

his unreadiness composed,

 

followed by children.

 

 

Followed even now.

 

 

  

NINE

 

There is nowhere

to go

when the gods

are unassigned,

 

where the gods are local, monumental – 

so secret

as to cast no shadow.

 

 

I ran from you;

I run to you;

 

and yearly, 

I have traced

each road from Coimbatore,

 

following the map

where the Madras train stopped

and the car journey began,

 

searching

for an eight year old's

landmarks;

 

for the Ooty turnoff;

 

the dam,

its shoreline, blue with eucalyptus;

 

for the winding asphalt road

leading across tea plantations

to a mud track

and the house,

lit up,

burning through the dusk

like a shrine.

 

 

Crickets sing low.

 

 

Unseen birds call like spirits 

on an out of season wind -

forgotten bells

singing siren songs

singing ballads, 

gilded and magnetic,

honing, homing

a wild liberty;

 

and I am here, once more:

I am here again,

here, and here and here again.

 

 

Dusk sighs across

the sanctuary land;

 

surrounds the surrendering house.

 

Underfoot

grass crackles

with dry leaves.

 

 

Trees shield and shroud 

the old volcano;

Jacaranda blooms

in blues and mauves;

poinsettias arch

in six-feet tips of red –

 

and all about the frangipani lies,

emphatically white

upon the rust red earth.

 

 

What is lost is found.

 

What is The Disappearance Diaries of an Apprentice Hermit?

From disco to disappearance.

AT THE VOLCANO

ONE
_______________

Wholly beautiful,
this is a remote
withdrawn
unsaid place;

knowing nothing,

wisdom held
unaided.

The volcano,
burst, blistered,
blasted before time,

rises above savannah,
autonomous.

Nothing of what I have left behind
has followed me here:

no bars, or clubs,
or safari parks
swarming with mutinous animals;

there are no buildings here,
no cables, no pylons,
nothing.

There is nothing,
nothing;

there are no roads even,
nor walls, bridges, hospitals,
barbers, butchers, pharmacies;

museums are absent; and shops,
and markets selling fruit
and sentimental knick-knacks.

 
TWO
_______________

Even the ruins
around this place
have still to be built,
lived in, fought for,
destroyed

by monsoon rains,

by dead and dated wars,
and rebels
hiding from the recent defeats
of old conflicts
that never end;

there are just trees;

just podo trees
rising like citadels
around the titanic flanks
of the volcano;

trunks
thirty feet round;

their branches
forking low,
twisting,
arching
into artless beams,
hewn lintels,
giant joists;

a stronghold,
spontaneous, animate,
built in a high lapsed land,

soaring
above borders
that have worn into wasted lines,
pale snaking imprints
woven invisibly
between every spur and stream,

climbing the sides,
between ridges and peaks,
vents, conduits, lakes –

the crater, cloistered, limitless:

every inch of every border
remembered in old, disputed books
in archives in Nairobi and Kampala;

in the stories the tribespeople
tell each other
every breaking day
in villages far, far away.

 
THREE
_______________

Mostly though, there are no people here:
no trippers;
no travellers, tourists,
not even residents;

just me,
and one bemused young driver
smoking through a pack
of Marlboro lights.

Especially, there are no houses,
no homes
or gardens;

no streets or settlements.

In this place -
in this place here –

no cars sound
no buses blare
their loud exhausted horns;

there are no windows
to open
for music to escape from;

conversation to drift from

no drilling, grinding, crashing, crunching,
no barking dogs
or phones,

no people talking, shouting, singing,
nor even passing each other,
to pass the day
with a nod, a “Hi,” a “Humm”.

In this place here
there are no rooms filled
with the ordinary things
of life
or of objects passed
from one generation
to the next.

In this place here
it is the trees that talk,
that chatter and discourse
in sudden winds;

it is the birds
that speak, confer, negotiate,
the buzzards, bustards, cuckoos, kites;

and the waterfalls,
slapping over a hundred meters of rock,
the hot springs bubbling,

and hyenas baying at a cornered buffalo.

In this place
it is the sounds you cannot hear
you notice first and last:
the stealthy leopard,
the bushbucks, cobras, lizards.

This is a place
that leaves no trace.

 
FOUR
_______________

I have climbed here
quite alone,
leaving the jeep
where the level ground
ran out.

At the end
of a ragged tread
of off-road tyres
the bush rolls,

scrub to forest;

long burnt grass
- the colour of lions –
reaches to the forest
on the mountain’s
sheer as tombstones sides;

the slopes narrow
to a lawless green,

strip out light,
break space
into an elaborate maze
only animals can navigate,
following the antique paths
made by wild elephants.

You hear them,
travelling by night,
scouring the salt caves,
their tusks -
like the claws of massive diggers -
carving deep channels
into the volcano’s heart.

Jungle
defends the cancelled land,
morphs into thick shadows,
repeating and repeating
all that it is;

fugitive tracks -
the tread of wary animals -
blur and disappear,
snaking off in the sombre light,

the measured lunatic murmur of insects
twists in tail-winds.

Colobus move.

 
FIVE
_______________

Python creepers curtain
from forty-metre trees;

camphor,
redwood, juniper,

rebuff
the shrinking sun.

A hungry old insistent night
begins to fall;

and in the evening mists
the volcano
appears and disappears;

floats,
through the turning years
since before the day was late;

a temple
over the world
it made;

a dreamland built in fire and ash
in tephra, cinders, lava,

a guarded shangri-la
whose gods have names
now quite forgotten
(if they were ever known at all).

Here, the jehovahs
are perfect, imperfect,
perpetually lingering on
heedless of permissions
craving not to know
what to know
before the world was finished.

 
SIX
_______________

Six continents
and sixty countries
hang here, with me,
fill me, form me -

silent bells
ringing on their own
through my unspeaking
head and heart;

ringing
through all the houses too;

a cavalcade of homes,
hollow, white, enormous,
each replacing the last
a little less exactly,

each haunting the next;

as if the first
could ever return;

as if the first
could ever stop
everything that happened next
from happening next,

or fling open
every door,

and lead,
like Ariadne's Thread,
to the first room,

when the world
was perfect.

 
SEVEN
_______________

The sky shrinks,
a melting line
of red and gold;

clouds marbling
a space defined
by what the jungle
does not claim.

And
in the dying light
an unexpected track
expands,

widens
into an atoll of green grass;

breaks the forest's
tangled symmetry.

A line of double-planted canna lilies
marks a nervous boundary,

a wooden bungalow
on the jungle’s edge.

Orchids dangle
out of reach;

bougainvillea,
dip their blood-red flowers
in shafts of light;

from a deep veranda
lawns slope away.

 
EIGHT
_______________

And in this place,
this sudden, random, hit-upon place;

in this place –

between the emptiness
and the histories
I do not comprehend,

the ones I know enough about
to know
nothing -

in this place
I find
what I never thought to find -

the house,
stopped at three decades ago,
replicated so faithfully
in another continent.

What is lost is found.

A drawing room
opens onto a half enclosed veranda;

pillars frame a distant view of plains.

Behind me, African hills
repeat the line
of the Indian Nilgiris,
rising
wedgwood blue
around the empty house.

Only the people change –

this door opening
to a young man -

the old caretaker
fixed in another time and place
waiting on the porch steps,
walking from room to room,
removing dust sheets,
lighting lamps,

his unreadiness composed,

followed by children.

Followed even now.

 
NINE
_______________

There is nowhere
to go
when the gods
are unassigned,

where the gods are local, monumental –
so secret
as to cast no shadow.

I ran from you;
I run to you;

and yearly,
I have traced
each road from Coimbatore,

following the map
where the Madras train stopped
and the car journey began,

searching
for an eight year old's
landmarks;

for the Ooty turnoff;

the dam,
its shoreline, blue with eucalyptus;

for the winding asphalt road
leading across tea plantations
to a mud track
and the house,
lit up,
burning through the dusk
like a shrine.

Crickets sing low.

Unseen birds call like spirits
on an out of season wind -
forgotten bells
singing siren songs
singing ballads,
gilded and magnetic,
honing, homing
a wild liberty;

and I am here, once more:
I am here again,
here, and here and here again.

Dusk sighs across
the sanctuary land;

surrounds the surrendering house.

Underfoot
grass crackles
with dry leaves.

Trees shield and shroud
the old volcano;
Jacaranda blooms
in blues and mauves;
poinsettias arch
in six-feet tips of red –

and all about the frangipani lies,
emphatically white
upon the rust red earth.

What is lost is found.