Pass us by, O . . . Cavalryman!
We are the fallen.
O . . . Death Angel,
will you convey our bodies to heaven!
A night in the life of New York’s Times Square,
centrous, imperious & lustrous. Riches reproduce riches.
In Venezuela, a coffee plantation owner from the Mainland
makes his laborers sing in unison at every dawn –
‘Arise ye workers from your slumber! Arise ye prisoners of want!’.
At the battle for Aleppo
victorious generals wine & dine on a reclaimed bone yard.
News-news is all I know.
In the afterglow,
crows on the roost tittle-tattle about their day.
They strategise for tomorrow.
On the corpse-strewn ground,
amid the tongue-clicks & the whimpers of the dead,
the spirit of a horse whose only existence is
its whinnies looks for his master
in the thick clouds of smoke in the far corners of the world.
I hear you.
I haul myself up on my broken sword, but
having lost the sense of direction . . .
the Seine seems smoother from the Eiffel Tower.
‘The Age of Heroes’
is the name of a computer game in this age.
The coffee seed from the plantation is worlds apart
from the coffee price at the supermarket.
I give my horse a whistle call.
When I walk into the Effigy Mounds of Native Americans
at the Great Mississippi
I hear the wind among the trees,
playing celestial symphonies.
As much as I am alienated from the world,
it was a blood-bond with nature.
At Hong Kong Poetry Nights I gaze at
the silver-haired wizard Adonis.
His stare back into my eyes makes me squiggle.
What is to be done?
In the spirit room, the Master of the White Horse,
riding a papier-mâché puppet white horse,
dances for me on its strings.
I straddle the bloodless neigh,
I am lost in my own existence.
In New York’s Central Park,
at MOMA, at the Tate, at the Bury-My-Heart-in-Wounded-Knee
of Sitting Bull of the Sioux,
in the throat
of the late poet Maung Chaw Nwe,
in the whimper of his TB-ravaged entrails.
O . . . the blue throat of Lord Shiva
in the blue throat of Lord Shiva.
O, lift us up, carry us away –
carry us away to Heaven.