A Chinese Scroll

In the top right-hand corner, descending
Cross-slashes and canted squiggles announce
A different meaning, one that the uncomprehending
Westerner might view askance, denounce
As quaint chinoiserie, but which, of course,
In the light of cultural relativism, must
Be accepted as equally valid.  And so, perforce,
The jaded occidental mind, distrust
Put aside for now, juggles with a new
Perspective.  Craggy rocks high in mist,
The long dark triangles of the bamboo plant
Scattering clouds of diagonals, meandered through
By the dusty path’s slow zig-zag.  Enlist
The mandarin’s eye: give beauty another slant.

(9.10.1996)

Icon

Light.  Holy Mother of God, head
Showered in gold.  Light.  Holy Mother
Of God, swathed in rich folds, red,
Ripe as blood.  Light, thrice hallowed.  Another
Look, and the humble faithful reap through grace
A vision of the shining Son.  But when I scan
From the hem of her robe, stiff-plied and piled, in place
Of effulgence there is only reflection.  I can
Read the image: a shrouded fifth colour of gilt,
Byzantine, stylised, a recondite architectonic.
It’s a shallow version, though, sheepishly built
On two-dimensional surfaces, a sardonic
Best guess.  I analyse as a beast ruminates;
They understand whom the Icon first illuminates.

(9.10.1996)

The Game

“Father, let us play.”  A fearful old
Potentate among dulling perfumes and fans,
I think of all that I had bartered and sold
To reap the acme and nadir of every man’s
Life (the sweat of bullocks trudging through the mud
Of the patchwork paddy-fields, the maiden’s modest blush
As ochre skin turns to scarlet flood).
“With what and how shall we play?” I ask in the hush
That has lasted too long.  “It is easy, my father:
Give me but something, even the merest toy.”
“But alas, my son, I have nothing,” I parry, “ – or rather,
What I had is already yours, my dearest boy.”
“O sir, I know that your mighty bullocks have ploughed,
And your fair maidens threshed... ” (my head bowed

Slightly, I wait for what comes next
As a condemned man expects the swinging blade) 
“Go on,” I say, as if reciting a text
Already written, a part that must be played.
“And so, my generous lord,” – here, he smiles – 
“All I ask are a few seeds of rice.”
Like a fool, I laugh, trying to fathom the wiles
That lie behind.  “And the game, my son?”  And in a trice
He says, “ – Just this: place one grain on the first
Square of a chessboard; two grains
On the second, and double to the end – a little thing.”
I assent, and order my slaves –  though fearing the worst –  
To begin.  The child sings, and such strange refrains:
“Checkmate, the shah is dead: long live the king....”

(9.10.1996)