THE
WANDERER (7286) // Justin Lo
I.
IN
DAYS PAST OF BALLPOINT PENS UPON PARCHMENT,
In
days as ruins cried their first,
When,
like rain, our memories dripped forth
And
in the lake swelled upon each other,
Did
we not see come at our gates
On
foot
Under
the blazing sun with nothing but his Self
(And
an apple)
With
hair loose like the reeds near the lake,
He
with a solemn tune at his lips (we must be
Embarrassed
to admit we know not his melody),
And
a smile of no bounds and eternity?
As
well, we would say,
You
and I were tending to our humble plot
Of
plum tomatoes and basil;
We
were birds of the day, chirping away,
Flitting
about the same endroits
(Wearing
the same dresses each day)
Always
hoping for a little change, a sign,
A
little twinkle like
The
first tomato or the first basil blossom
Or
a newborn child or the day the teacher smiled;
Oh,
as well, we would say,
You
and I were maidens of the Wind;
No
one else could hear his chatter!
Yet
why ought they, upon the nights gone by,
Have
listened when they hoped nothing to hear?
Yes,
you and I,
We
hoped to hear and heard
The
footsteps of his bare feet approach us from afar
The
exotic sounds like the tomatoes bursting forth
Yes,
the maidens of the Wind could hear how the air
Bent
about him
And
the mystery’s allure
With
gentle prod of feather’s wisp
Threw
fits of phoenix forth
And
no one heard a thing but us!
I
watched him from afar, gliding about with
Probing
eyes and the gentlest utterance;
I
danced about the fields
And
washed my dress each day;
And
oh, you saw the twinkle!
You
didn’t say but you secretely whispered
To
the Wind (in full confidence)
And
threw forth your vibrant treasures
Until
the Sky glittered like your dreams.
The
wanderer seemed oblivious,
His
eyes pure and piercing
Like
the whites of his teeth that haunted
Our
nights with wonder.
You
and I, we objected never
To
the way the wanderer built his home,
Never
a brick, never a log,
But
straw, pale as the moon and bristling as
The
attractive stubble upon his chin
As
if he had an implicit contract with the Wind
(Like
you and I, but he heard and he spoke
And
with clarity as the blossoms of the spring)
That
one day the house would flutter down
Like
moths and butterflies
Flutter
down and flutter up, in writhing reverie,
And
we objected never.
II.
WE
WERE HIS FRIENDS BECAUSE
We
snuck in those little plum tomatoes.
Oh
yes, and what great lengths we took
To
even hide ourselves from his adorable gaze
(And
to hide the ripplings of our billowy dresses
In
the Wind!)
I
saw how you pranced about the fields
With
inhuman grace with your jet black
Streams
of hair
And
flew over the fences to the ephemeral straw house
Like
a dragon in the Sky.
Yes,
I envied your deliberate delicacy,
The
heart of a warrior
In
the tenderness of youth and love.
I
confess
When
it rained,
I
saw him pass with his silver hair,
Glistening
And
I buried my face in the folds of my gown,
Knowing
(guessing) how his heart was elsewhere
Or
else with you
And
where! – that would be so close
In
our garden, or perhaps,
On
the slopes that tumbled down to the river that we shared,
Or
in the forests where the rabbits burrowed,
Or
anywhere
But
with me.
III.
I
PLAYED WITH MY HAIR
While
I thought;
Could
not the intimacy of words be the
Vehicle
of lasting friendship?
By
a bizarre stroke, by the Heavens above,
I
spoke a word with him,
Eyes
always fidgeting, my fingers pinching my clothes,
Yet
words, yes, naturally, naturally not like the way I moved
For
my words were true
True
as the Wind and Sky
True
but not enough;
Like
the ripples in a pond wave regularly,
So
she kept surfacing in his words
And
I thought her to be quite crude
For
a blossom who could net the heart of the wanderer.
You
glided about, as always, as always,
I
suspected that you had started to neglect our garden,
But
I did not accuse:
With
the rainclouds fast approching,
I
felt compelled by the ominous shadows
To
recount his words to you.
I
played with my hair
While
I thought.
The
plum tomatoes were dying and we all knew it.
I
wept lightly as I watched them crumple
Like
ball lanterns deflated and extinguished;
She
said, he said,
And
the storm came as I strolled to town.
Huddled
in shock and love, below the muted moonlight
Obscured
by clouds,
I
found you
And
I ran away
But
you found me;
I
think you were angry that I had made my dress muddy
But
I was no lady anyhow.
I
was a gardener –
I
loved my plants,
And
yet why were the plants so fragile?
I
protected them!
Would I not say so?
I
nourished them!
Would you not admit so?
So
why so cruel must the Sun be
To
teach the lesson of God
With
the vile sticks of death?
And
you, you were cruel as well;
You,
the dragon, with gentle but resilient grip
And
a heart of the sun and moon in union
You
of all could make the wanderer stay
While
I ran away.
IV.
OH,
OH, THE PUMPKINS GROW!
The
basil is divine,
Why,
yes, the radish is great,
And
look at that grape vine!
I
could not care
To
watch the fruits
As
they grew to size;
Why
else had I grown them
(Do
you not see?)
But
to give them to him?
V.
CRY,
GREAT MOUNTAINS FORTH:
Let
loose your wretched sorrow;
It
would be like mine.
Into
the forest I wander,
Hands
touching the handsome bamboo
That
clutters the landscape
Like
ships on the sea,
And
I can only wallow deep,
The
rocks abraiding my tender ankles
And
my hair tangled by sweat.
Loves
me, loves me not, loves me, loves me not,
And
then the flower withers
Taking
my tears with it;
Oh,
what waste a garden would be
With
no one to feed,
I
reasoned as I laid my head between my knees,
Huddled,
Humming
a solemn tune (this one was mine),
And
picking at the bamboo leaves.
And
what is the aesthetic
Of
a plant upon its knees:
That
I grew it? Watered it?
Bathed
it as a child, yes, I have none of my own;
The
men are off to work,
The
maiden of Wind holds no name amongst them.
And
the wanderer shall I be?
For no longer could he,
The
traitor, the beautiful one, the one of the silver hair like
The
stars, frigid in their demeanor, warm in the gaze
But
hardly a story told
And
the Wind berating my blistered hands
For
caring not about their happiness.
Oh
selfish girl! Oh pitiful creature!
What
substance had you ever held?
What
a weak body, like the bamboo that bends in the Wind
And
reaches for the Sky
When
a bird is the Sky and is the Wind and
Who
would ever love the careless gelatin
In
a bright blue dress?
The
mountains are strong, and so should be the maiden
Whose
life is a garden of no value but itself!
To
tend to the nothingness
To
cultivate and toil with nothing but
Faith
And
a bright blue dress.
Ah! Loves me not,
And
I should strangle the bamboo with the ribbon
That
I tie around my waist,
Or
at least say
I
am different! The wanderer cannot be
mine
Nor
you, sleek dragon, who I cannot approach any longer.
In
the Sky you court the drifting soul of emeralds
And
I on Earth wrap the ribbon about my neck
To
gauge my weakness.
VI.
OH! I AM NO COMMON MAID;
The
ribbon draws blood and I smile,
Then
I tumble down the weeping Mountain
To
my garden once more.
I
see you just fine;
My eyes are slits in the dark;
You
are happy; your royal blue apron
Dances
about
And
you cart off the pumpkins and the grapes
And
the basil and the radishes.
I
bid you farewell
And
eat the plum tomatoes
On
the ground.
Forget!
I implore the Wind,
For
if he lets fall the memories, so may I,
I
would give it up now
To
once again work in this garden;
The
Mountain is to great to scale.
The
wanderer’s heart is yours to keep;
I
shall resign myself to the tasks
At
hand.
You
are off in the earthly paradise;
Each
dream I have of you is bittersweet.
Idyllic!
What
things pass behind the straw doors
And
under the Kingdom that is yours,
Oh
Queen of the Skies?
And
under the Empire that is his,
Oh
King of the Stars?
What
trite names, trite,
And
yet the ideal surpasses and vanquishes
The
bitter scorn of mature dungheap slander,
And
the innocence of heart cries out:
“Let us be as we may”
And
I speak not a word and content myself
With
the spider’s web between the branches
Of
my soul.
Idyllic,
idyllic,
Like
a taunt it sounds;
I
envy the unknown because
A
human cannot live forever
In
a garden she cultivates;
Yet
trapped I am, for the Sky and the Stars
Are
claimed by the lovers
Caught
in the idyllic trance of pure love
And
not an ounce
Of
the mutual sin
Of
romance.
And
I, ribbon about my waist once more,
Off
to town to buy the seeds,
And
you out of my memory.
VII.
THE
WANDERER’S SECRET
Is
a hefty one;
How
does one wander
But
take, then leave
And
never speak a word of it?
And
what a tragedy it is, to find him ever wandering,
Unsatisfied,
And
dreaming of the next town
(El
Dorado)
And
you, the pure beauty of black hair,
Crying
on the banks of the river, not seeing
The
rabbit tracks.
I
am maiden of the Wind no longer,
Yet
neither are you;
I
lay prostrate upon Earth who gives the dust
That
I consume.
When
the Wind comes we fight,
Enemies,
for the Wind would like to rob us
And
carry off the wanderer to the next town
(Not
El Dorado)
And
you would cry,
I
let it pass
And
you draw your sword.
The
blade is the diamond’s edge
In
your graceful hands,
Yet
the claws of your dragon’s body
Would
hurt so much more to endure.
Did
you not see the way he held his heart clasped
Behind
lock
With
key in the hometown of yesteryear?
Neither
did I;
Let
be the heart away, and never will love know his name;
Take
charge, and take conscience;
And
perhaps the wanderer will tell
Or
perhaps he will leave.
You
and I remain friends,
And
he and I still talk,
Yet
tacitly, we know:
I
am alone.
VIII.
I
AM A DEMONESS,
My
dress is blood red from the tomatoes
I
let rot in my lap.
I
tend the plants but I feed them with the vile juice
Of
jealousy.
Friendship
is accomodating enough;
I am friend and enemy.
I
would never raise my claw against yours,
And
I would support your whirlwind fantasy,
But
the fire is still there.
I
bid you farewell and good luck
(I
want you to find it worse off)
I
write you cards and smile
(I
hope you are defeated)
Love
corrupts the naïve soul;
The
World becomes the prey
Of
the vicious tiger that sits in wait
At
the bottom of the bay.
IX.
WHAT
SHREDS OF ANGELIC FEATHERS
Do
I cling to each day!
By
night the monster claims my heart
And
the goodness cannot stay.
I
watch how you cry out to him
That
it is unfair how
You
offer him the Sky to reign over
So
that he can be closer to the World
While
he keeps the Stars in his closet;
The
wanderer’s secret
Is
a hefty one;
Would
truly anyone ever know?
I
sob when I hear of the tragedy
Of
the Skies and the Stars and the World.
Why
cannot the lovely couple be
Content
at its great fortune?
When,
torn by Angel and Demon,
I
may still cherish my dress,
Though
it is a mortal shade of crimson
And
not blue as I had hoped it would remain.
Wanderer,
stay!
I hear you shout with the force of
trumpets,
Powerful
like your heart.
The
wanderer is near tears:
For you, there is not the love you
want!
And
cry! For the moment has come
And
the wanderer’s house has fallen.
X.
I
CHASE AFTER HIM
And
he has no words for me.
He
says nothing but I offer a squash
And
he seems pleased.
I
have the soil!
I shout so that he can hear.
There
could be a house here
And
it would be wonderful.
But
alas, the dragon reigns upon all the Sky
And
the aura of the Heavenly mansion
That
you have prepared
Ensnares
the heart of the wanderer once again
And
I watch as he ascends.
Alone,
I return to the garden.
Alone,
the Elements mock me.
Alone,
I cry.
Alone,
the Demoness smiles and chokes the Angel
Until the fair one coughs
The
vital liquid
And
it splatters along the ground.
What
a mess.
XI.
ONE
DAY, MANY YEARS LATER, YOU RETURN;
I
am deviously tricking the rocks into turning over.
You
shiver,
Horrified,
When
you see my garden,
The
pumpkins grinning,
Their
teeth
Chewing
the grape vine.
Allow
me to welcome you properly:
I
am the Demoness of the Wind;
I
glide about with unfeeling efficacy,
Smiling
honestly at the garden I have created.
The
wanderer has drifted off to the next town,
You
say it is not so far
And
that you will follow him.
I
wash a tomato for you.
The
tomatoes are not bad at all;
I
would not poison a friend with
The
blighted individuals of my garden.
So
many years ago, we had stood here,
Awaiting
the arrival of the twinkling star,
And
now he has come and gone;
I
bring you to the bamboo forest
Where
even a Demoness can find solace;
My
red dress complements the verdure nicely.
Would
you like some tea?
But
you are already gone;
You
have followed the wanderer to the next town;
I
will tend to my humble garden,
Alone.
FIN.