The Motorbike Lesson

We stood on an empty dirt patch

And on the few grass hairs

Lifeless on the surface

Perpendicular to the empty block

Was a one storey building

and a few workers carried large parts of tin

on their way to erect the roof

The sun reflected on my skin

And the colour of paper

Shimmered and made the builders squint

They didn’t know that I spoke their mother tongue.

The motorbike was parked,

Separating Mr Bird and I

As though to our own half of the land

And as my teacher gave me a lesson on how to ride

Our eyes were always paused.

Uncomfortably on the bike

After awhile, the builders had finished erecting the tin roof

And they sat on it, not to test its durability

But to eat their lunch

From the metal containers packed by their wives

And to laugh at a foreign girl who couldn’t ride in a straight line.

Soon, Mr Bird turned to them - scolding

bpit hai naen!

And they finished their pointing and laughing -

Decided to subtly join in on the lesson

By motioning to me with their hands

Because it was the closest they thought they could say – “Hey, this how you do it!”

Prayer

Underneath a symphony of whispers,

I stand beneath the prayer flags

That you hung around up for me in April

And listen to them flap from the breeze.

Although you’re not here anymore,

You’re still here to keep me company – for now

Here, to blow on the flags for your little girl so they fly again

Here, just to whisper, Lily, there is still life.

So go, and wander the villages

Like you always imagined,

I’m sorry I won’t be here to watch you grow

Om ah ni padme hung

You can go now.

The food stall owner

I remember, the first house I rented in Chang- Rai,

And how it sat just opposite the road

From an old man and his food stall.

I remember how he would stand

Sometimes camouflaged by the rising smoke from the stove,

All day underneath a little silver roof

Held by a little silver cart – that he called his kitchen

I remember when I first wandered towards his stall

Not knowing how to order -

But he served me fried egg with pork

That he later taught me to be pad kee mow

I remember that every day, as he cooked

He wore a red cap printed with “Number 1” on the face

And the cigarette clinging affectionately on his left lip

Was his daily dose of some kind of a connection

For months we exchanged no words,

Maybe a nod here, an awkward glance there…

Sometimes when I was eating at the stall,

Sometimes when I was writing songs with my guitar outside the house,

But one day, when he didn’t know I was home

I caught him crossing the road,

shaking a bowl in his hands

Calling, “Pi-casso, Pi-casso!”

I remember how I hid, crouched under the window

and watched as he fed my puppy, Picasso

and watched as he hurried back to his stall with the empty bowl

as though no one had seen that other side of him.

Grapeshot publications

"Streams of Consciousness" in "Grapeshot" online magazine

http://www.grapeshotmagazine.com.au/?page_id=222