Faking Villanelles

The reckless soul of a traveller
The true, eyes-wide-open traveller
That sees what is further

Travel is popular, easy, so common,
But among the common folk I seldom encounter
The reckless soul of a traveller.

Because what is a traveller?
The one that sets off the shutter, or,
That sees what is further?

Indeed, few do open their eyes.
Is it laziness, or fear of what lies beyond?
The reckless soul of a traveller.

Reckless, indeed, and yet so pure!
Pure like a newborn for who else is it
That sees what is further?

The time of explorers is over,
now I only see the banana pancake crowds.
The reckless soul of a traveller
That sees what is further.

Tarzan in Hong Kong

Tarzan in Hong Kong
Originally uploaded by david.vilder

The Stare,
Silent, laconic, focused,
On the flame, glamorous, enlightened one,
All that escapist attitude
Tarzan in SoHo.

Sonnet?

Untitled...

The loud conversations, aimless, pointless.
With the longing whine of air-conditioned.
And the babies, shouting, crying, restless,
Met by stranger’s angered stares, maddened!
And in the meantime, what is there to do?
Outside, the nomadic bustle, sleepless;
Like in a beehive, the queen is there, true,
Taken care of, cuddled, affectionless.

Her Majesty, queen of infinite skies,
Above the clouds, ruling with all her might,
But down here, fat, motionless, oversize,
Branded by awkward numbers, impolite!

Down here the airbus Queen is without court,
Among the mayhem of New York airport!

Random Haiku

Blond, Tan, and stupid

Koh Phi Phi is full of them

The stupid Tourists.



Glorious emptiness,

Stuffed with nothing but bullshit

The Ignorant mind.



Stares, empty smiles

The pointlessness of it all

In a globalized world.

Harmony, Draft #1

They kept telling us
On these fabulous posters

That this is the beauty of our society,
And that makes us all stronger.

The sky scrapers, high, always higher,
Synonym of expeditious development;

The material proof that things were good,
Posters made of concrete.

And yet, behind those sky scrapers,
The hints of something, there, restless.

I told my children,
But they couldn’t understand.

I did not see it coming either,
Although it was right there,

Under my nose,
Too real to be true.

But it became true enough,
And sooner that anyone imagined.

It’s like if anger itself had come,
And like a tsunami when it comes,

It has swept everything,
Leaving nothing but hate.

They tore each other’s fragile flesh
Until the streets were flooded with blood,

And overnight the piles of corpses
Made curious signposts;

The following day they came, the survivors:
Grim, angry, outraged, ripped,

Without their kins,
the dead ones.

And pain would not stop them,
But only maddened them further,

They sought a rallying cry,
Nationalism gave it to them.

The banner, red as blood, hoisted,
above the destruction, broken glass,

And Urumqi was bleeding,
And Harmony was all but a dream.

Haiku

A seat cold as ice

The chilling wind of air cond

In empty classrooms.

Adaptation plan, Master Plan

The Plan: adapt this into free verses.

Summary: Urumqi, July 7th, 2009. Hordes of Han Chinese are storming Urumqi, looking for Uighur to beat down, and eventually, kill. Their anger is such that only the army rows can prevent them from burning the bazaar, with the Uighur in it. The official Harmony, so beautiful in its concept, exists only in rhetoric. I could not really feel this harmony as I was walking in Urumqi, that night.