When I get to Bombay ….

  I will bathe my eyes in the warm bright light …
  stand under a cold cold shower
  and feel new,
  then squat over a dark hole
  and wash myself with my hand
  and cool water
  and be clean.

  I will drink chai in a dark street-side tea-shop
  perhaps with a biscuit or samosa
  as the fan turns and I gaze gently
  upon the portraits
  of the gods
  and goddesses.

  I will accept the gaze of strangers
  as why ever not
  as who am I?
  I will return the smile of beggars
  as why not
  no harm
  is done.

  I will take off my sandals and enter the temple
  and wander silently and try
  not to think too much
  as I spend some time
  in the presence
  of the Lord.
    
 I will have a 15 cent rice plate
 perhaps with fish
 though just one piece
 is all you get,
 perhaps
 with mutton,
 depending.

 I will visit a tailor and
 for just a few dollars,
 will be fitted out
 for a light shirt
 and pyjama trousers,
 then retuning to my hotel
 will give all my western clothes
 to the boy who looks after
 the laundry,
 to do with
 as he wishes.

 I will be up at dawn
 as the crows caw
 the vultures fall
 and the monkeys
 scatter,
 and soon the
 shiny bright children
 will wander by
 chattering
 as they go to school.

 I will find the Govt store,
 often just a hole
 in the wall
 with bars,
 where I'll get
 some ganja
 some hash
 and a little opium
 unless they're
 out of stock
 that day.  
 
 I will drink from a green coconut
 that's just been opened
 for me as we stand
 together next his cart
 by a youngster
 with a machete.
   
 I will find sweetmeats
 with dripping honey
 and almond slices
 and thick thick syrup
 and coconut
 and have more
 chai and relax
 and await
 the night.

 I will see fruit-bats
 and rats
 and huge lumbering
 white cows
 and hawks
 and even perhaps
 a dancing bear
 if he's made it
 down from
 the hills.

 I will shower once more
 feel cool and refreshed
 light incense
 in a packet so colored
 and gaudy,
 and smoke,
 listen,
 and wait.

 I will immerse myself,
 I will dare,
 I will enter
 the still moving
 throngs,
 shouting and calling
 and never
 tiring,
 always
 to-ing and fro-ing.

 I will wander back
 amongst the draped
 and sleeping figures,
 mindful
 hopefully,
 and
 I will smile.










 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From a poem started oh, twenty years ago ... from memories
of years even before that.
Bombay is called Mumbai now. 
     

     

      
     Me and Mum in Mexico after far too much tequila ...

     Anyway folks, here's three poems from a long time ago ...

                  * * * * * * * * * * *


  'On Reading A Poem by William Carlos Williams'

    It is titled 'The Painting'
    and begins with a line
    containing the word
    'black'
    which made me think
    of charcoal

    which led to the drawings
    composed by students
    when I used to model
    at an art school

    and then the poem
    goes on to speak
    of 'a delicate lock
    of blond hair'
 
    and I picture
    the fair-haired girl
    who I never spoke to
    but whose shy smile
    open and inviting
    haunts me now,
  
    and I wonder
    how it might have been,
    our friendship

    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   'Pregnant Lady in the Laundromat'

   Draped inside a diaphonous
   and billowing
   angel-white sari,
   its red border
   trailing over your delicate
   sandelled feet.

   Eyes downcast
   or gazing everywhere
   but where
   others are.

   Intently passing time
   by reading 'Rental Homes'
   then placing it in front of
   your blooming belly
   as a barrier,
   hiding from view
   the growing little one
   inside you.

   I guess it is
   so very personal
   isn't it.

   You were so aware of yourself,
   shy and a little afraid,
   like a nervous animal
   at a water-hole.

   * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   'Bourbon'
 
   I am discovering that it is the hardest thing
   to stop myself going downstairs
   to the liquor store
   for a bottle
   of Bourbon,

   it seems to call and my whole body
   seems to be craving
   some release,
   and my mind
   and my eyes
   hurt real bad.   

   * * * * * * * * * * * *
   Stillman Street, San Francisco, very early nineties.