A Donkey For Listening
by WAYNE AMTZIS
They hit him in the gut
where his hunger was hiding
They tore the earth
out from under
For that was where his pride
(and hunger) lay hidden,
rooted and reoccurring.
They stole the sun from the morning
Pocketed in gold
Stole the stars from the night
Pocketed in silver Not me they cry.
In charge, but not accountable
That’s their mantra. Far away, looking on
as he slogged the seasons
through, the years stolen in triplicate,
generations misbegotten
Bartered away. They sold him short
discounting his needs
Weighed him down with debt,
and raised him up –buoyed with promises
till bent beneath the load
slung on his back,
he spits beneath his breath
Is a man “an ass,”
to haul around his hunger
“willingly” To starve on hope
and feed himself on complaint
To go belly up
as they cart off the stars
and stamp out the sun.
Not knowing
what to put in their place
Other than tarps and blankets
Not even seeds
for the earth that held
back its promise
blood rich
pockmarked with bone
His blood
His bones
Kathmandu, May 9, 2015
Night Closes In
by WAYNE AMTZIS
Night closes in with its breath taking grip
Night that walks in the guise of day.
Light footed across the rubble
morning comes as if rising from the dead
That which came and came again
leveled a world. In that sudden tolling,
what great works were interrupted?
The beating of a heart
A heart! Nine thousand hearts!
The mirrors that temper vanity
lie shattered, and multiply.
See how they run –to pixel the pain,
to instant message grief
Hands set to unremitting tasks ahead
are stitched, deeply stitched with glass
with shards of light.
For 2 days I was healthy
in touch with the earth
All it takes to make me whole
I realized as I turned in place: is a 7.8 shot
and a 6.7 chaser
Now the earth again stills
and I’m left spinning. A partner
without a dance
Eyes no longer widen
with a survivor’s camaraderie
and a tale in the offering
But shrink with pain,
mourning the lost. A hawk still glides
The city below is not the same
The town below is not the same
The villages below are not.
And will never be.
That which came and came again
leveled a world. That which leveled a world
leveled our souls. “My village is dead”
“My village…
No light rises from the rubble
Kathmandu, April 29, 2015
Hourglass
by WAYNE AMTZIS
Besieged, mid-street,
by cross current and clamor,
a black stone Buddha
faces four ways. Taking refuge there
men wait for work.
Sweat streaked brows so near
to sindur-smeared foreheads,
that statue and men seem to be brothers
rapt in guarded conversation
As sand falls through an hourglass
set on the windowsill, Kathmandu devours
itself. Pavement and store fronts
pile up at the feet of statue
and men, pile up like up like a future
seen too late. Doorways thronged, back alleys stammering,
the valley’s deep fault lines
shudder
Kathmandu, 1995
Wayne Amtzis, a long time resident of Kathmandu, Nepal, is the author of the poetry collections Sandcastle City/Quicksand Nation and Days in the Life, translations from Nepali and Nepal Bhasa. His collection of photos and poems, City on their Backs, is forthcoming in 2015. www.photo-poems.com. photo.poems@gmail.com.
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