Palestinian Pietà
How can there be laughter,
how can there be pleasure, when
the whole world is burning?
I found these words in a book
called Buddha’s Teachings,
translated from the Pali by
Juan Mascaró. It startled me,
at first, by its contemporary
relevance, Gaza in flames
and the niece I love lying dead
in my arms. Was the question
rhetorical, the mystic aware
of things beyond my grasp?
I spotted the book on a shelf
in the abandoned hospital
beside a tin of stale cookies.
I could have taken one, but
picked up the scriptures instead,
asking Allah to forgive me.
In case my limited English
had betrayed me, I needed
time to root out their deeper
meaning, roll syllables over
in my mouth, taste them.
The office, otherwise, was bare,
the doctor fleeing with his wife
and child to Egypt. I don’t
blame him for his decision.
Fear and desire are enough
to ignite the flesh, incendiary
devices. She’s not just limp
but thin from hunger, from
scavenging among the ruins,
not a flutter in her delicate
cage of ribs, neither the oath
nor allegiance of oxygen.
I, the one to whom they
brought her, could not protect
her from revenge and rage.
My arms enfold what’s left
of her. O if I could offer up
myself instead, a sentiment
that’s real but laughable now,
her fine linen shroud too white
and far too small for both of us.
how can there be pleasure, when
the whole world is burning?
I found these words in a book
called Buddha’s Teachings,
translated from the Pali by
Juan Mascaró. It startled me,
at first, by its contemporary
relevance, Gaza in flames
and the niece I love lying dead
in my arms. Was the question
rhetorical, the mystic aware
of things beyond my grasp?
I spotted the book on a shelf
in the abandoned hospital
beside a tin of stale cookies.
I could have taken one, but
picked up the scriptures instead,
asking Allah to forgive me.
In case my limited English
had betrayed me, I needed
time to root out their deeper
meaning, roll syllables over
in my mouth, taste them.
The office, otherwise, was bare,
the doctor fleeing with his wife
and child to Egypt. I don’t
blame him for his decision.
Fear and desire are enough
to ignite the flesh, incendiary
devices. She’s not just limp
but thin from hunger, from
scavenging among the ruins,
not a flutter in her delicate
cage of ribs, neither the oath
nor allegiance of oxygen.
I, the one to whom they
brought her, could not protect
her from revenge and rage.
My arms enfold what’s left
of her. O if I could offer up
myself instead, a sentiment
that’s real but laughable now,
her fine linen shroud too white
and far too small for both of us.
Jimmy's Place
We found the cow in a grove below the road,
leaning against an alder for support,
her udder swollen, her breath ragged and grating
as a rasp. I could have drowned
in the liquid eye she turned to me.
Her calf, though dead, was perfectly positioned,
forelegs and head protruding from the flaming ring
of vulva. Too large, perhaps, or hind legs
broken through the sac, dispersing fluids.
Much as we tried we couldn't pry it loose
and the flesh around the legs began to give
from pressure on the rope. The cow
had no more strength and staggered back
each time we pulled. Tie her to the tree,
I said, being the schoolmaster and thinking
myself obliged to have an answer, even here
on the High Road, five miles south of town
where the island bunched in the jumble
of its origins. It was coming, by God,
I swear it, this scrub roan with her shadow self
extending out behind, going in both directions
like a '52 Studebaker, coming by inches
and our feet slipping in the mud and shit
and wet grass. She raised her head and tried
to see what madness we'd concocted in her wake,
emitted a tearing gunny-sack groan,
and her liquid eye ebbed back to perfect white.
leaning against an alder for support,
her udder swollen, her breath ragged and grating
as a rasp. I could have drowned
in the liquid eye she turned to me.
Her calf, though dead, was perfectly positioned,
forelegs and head protruding from the flaming ring
of vulva. Too large, perhaps, or hind legs
broken through the sac, dispersing fluids.
Much as we tried we couldn't pry it loose
and the flesh around the legs began to give
from pressure on the rope. The cow
had no more strength and staggered back
each time we pulled. Tie her to the tree,
I said, being the schoolmaster and thinking
myself obliged to have an answer, even here
on the High Road, five miles south of town
where the island bunched in the jumble
of its origins. It was coming, by God,
I swear it, this scrub roan with her shadow self
extending out behind, going in both directions
like a '52 Studebaker, coming by inches
and our feet slipping in the mud and shit
and wet grass. She raised her head and tried
to see what madness we'd concocted in her wake,
emitted a tearing gunny-sack groan,
and her liquid eye ebbed back to perfect white.
Herbalist
Prescribe, prescribe. The sick
expect miracles, but seldom
pay bills on time. Taoists, alas,
are the worst. Purification
obligatory, never the settling
of accounts. What did I learn
in the ghastly desert, my sack-
cloth wretched and torn?
Meditation does not work
when the stomach's empty,
the muscles cold and cramped.
Sitting motionless in a dank cave,
no sensation in my feet, a spider
moving unencumbered across
my forehead, I had a brief
epiphany: a job, I was in need
of paid employment. Herbs
came first, treating my sores
with a potpourri of medicinal
plants. Aloe, eucalyptus. Hello,
said my body, coming at last
to your senses? Reassembled,
my ravaged parts acquired
wisdom, weight. I apprenticed
to an apothecary, a saintly quack
who followed his own advice
to the letter and died young.
I took over the business, widow
included. Her ministrations,
more restorative than herbs,
left me agog, a gong going off
in my extremities, an opiate
coursing the length of my mercantile
veins. And to think I might have
traded all this for gruel, for the
fiction of an afterlife.
expect miracles, but seldom
pay bills on time. Taoists, alas,
are the worst. Purification
obligatory, never the settling
of accounts. What did I learn
in the ghastly desert, my sack-
cloth wretched and torn?
Meditation does not work
when the stomach's empty,
the muscles cold and cramped.
Sitting motionless in a dank cave,
no sensation in my feet, a spider
moving unencumbered across
my forehead, I had a brief
epiphany: a job, I was in need
of paid employment. Herbs
came first, treating my sores
with a potpourri of medicinal
plants. Aloe, eucalyptus. Hello,
said my body, coming at last
to your senses? Reassembled,
my ravaged parts acquired
wisdom, weight. I apprenticed
to an apothecary, a saintly quack
who followed his own advice
to the letter and died young.
I took over the business, widow
included. Her ministrations,
more restorative than herbs,
left me agog, a gong going off
in my extremities, an opiate
coursing the length of my mercantile
veins. And to think I might have
traded all this for gruel, for the
fiction of an afterlife.
Farewell to All That
Love was a subject I explored
briefly. I entered the fray
with enthusiasm. The lotus
flower welcomed me in,
left its perfume on my body.
Faint from departures, lack
of sleep, I embraced trees,
conversed with birds, domestic
beasts. While I soared aloft,
singing the beloved's praises,
my verses went downhill
fast, vague, abstract, given
to hyperbole. I was saved
by betrayal, bare backsides
in the long grass, one of them
bearing an all-too-familiar
mole. I exchanged ink-stone
and brushes for a horse,
bade the lotus adieu.
Jimmy's Place, Herbalist, and Farewell to All That all reprinted with permission
briefly. I entered the fray
with enthusiasm. The lotus
flower welcomed me in,
left its perfume on my body.
Faint from departures, lack
of sleep, I embraced trees,
conversed with birds, domestic
beasts. While I soared aloft,
singing the beloved's praises,
my verses went downhill
fast, vague, abstract, given
to hyperbole. I was saved
by betrayal, bare backsides
in the long grass, one of them
bearing an all-too-familiar
mole. I exchanged ink-stone
and brushes for a horse,
bade the lotus adieu.
Jimmy's Place, Herbalist, and Farewell to All That all reprinted with permission
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Gary Geddes has written and edited more than 50 books of poetry, fiction, drama, non-fiction, criticism, translation, and anthologies and won a dozen national and international literary awards, including the Commonwealth Poetry Prize (Americas Region), the Lt.-Governor's Award for Literary Excellence, and the Gabriela Mistral Prize from the government of Chile. His most recent poetry books are The Resumption of Play, The Ventriloquist and The Oysters I Bring to Banquets. Geddes has taught at Concordia, Western Washington University, and University of Missouri-St. Louis and served as writer-in-residence at U. of Alberta, Green College, Ottawa U., and the Vancouver Public Library. He lives on Thetis Island, on the west coast of Canada.
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