twenty-four hours in pokhara a poem by marianne peel forman
TRANSCRIPT
"My life goes on in endless song,
Above earth's lamentation.
I hear the real though far off hymn
That hails a new creation...
How can I keep from singing?"
-Traditional Hymn
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know.
You did not smell the jasmine along the uneven centuries old steps
perplexing to these symmetrical Western feet
Stumbling on rocks covered with moss and dew
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know.
You did not see her eyes,
Open and round
Blurred blue spots
Congealed over eyes the color of Nepalese morning tea
Oblivious to light
To shadow
To the colors that cover the Annapuras at sunset
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know
You did not see her hands
Fist without fingers
No white linen bandages to conceal what the leprosy has stolen from her.
I wonder how she will hold the rupees
tossed to her
so that she move on and out of the way,
so passersby can continue to pass
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know.
You did not see her face
This four year old child
With the sunrise at her back
Perched on a stone wall
Sucking her fingers.
The cookie I place in her hand is filled with rich mango creme
And she unscrews the wafer
Licking the flavor of the fruit
From the inside out
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know.
You did not hear her voice
Descending the steps of the Hindu temple
Where a bell was rung
After dyed red rice was pressed into her forehead,
Homage to the monkey god.
She slips her hand in mine
Balancing me in this crooked place
Singing Sha la la la la
Sha la la la la in the morning...
Sha la la la la in the evening...
And I respond with “My Lord what a Morning”.
And When I fall on my knees
With my face to the rising sun,
We weave a patchwork of morning songs on this mountain
Giving honor and blessing to the light of this day,
Of all days.
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know.
You did not see his hands
Orchestrating these folk songs,
The blind truly leading the blind.
His vision is partial,
He tells me he can see shadows
Some color
And does not need to use a stick.
He moves among the sightless singers,
Mingles with the flute and the bellows keyboard player
Cueing them in with the rhythm of his body,
The way he moves to the music of the song.
His arms are largo and vivace,
Transforming the tempo of the melody.
His hands are nuance, as he conducts these musicians
Who are unburdened with sheet music,
Free in this courtyard,
Celebrating the Tihar festival
For a plate of rupees and rice
Which will become a picnic feast of sweets
The very next day.
Twenty-Four Hours in Pokhara
You could not know.
You did not feel his hands,
Tight around my own
Accepting the invitation to join the dance.
Moving feet and arms
we are synchronized in our swaying
And I follow his lead.
We dance to the Piridee
and he tells me of the most pleasant surprise
of meeting again on this festival day,
How there is no distance between us,
How he will always think of me with love and remembrance.
He is blind to my face
And my eyes that cannot keep from singing and crying.
This young man and I,
we hold hands, silent and still,
For many moments after the music ends,
And I long for his grace, his wisdom, his vision...