June 2016
David Russomano
dwrussomano@yahoo.com
dwrussomano@yahoo.com
I'm an American author and visual artist with a growing addiction to charity shop purchases (just yesterday, I bought a harmonium). I received my MA from Kingston University, where I was awarded the 2014 Faber and Faber Creative Writing MA Prize. After an international courtship spanning three continents, my wife and I have settled on the outskirts of London near a horse field. You can find out more about my work at https://davidrussomano.wordpress.com/
Phonsavan
The plain studded with megalithic jars,
vessels so large that legend has them dropped
from giants’ hands, discarded at the end
of their last enormous party – stone grey
against green, these ancient cups lie scattered
like cluster munitions, ruptured and tipped
by trees, paused in the posture of spilling.
This is what we come to see, though our tour
includes visits to more recent relics
(a matter of secondary targets):
what’s left of a Russian tank, rust bucket,
every loose piece prised off and sold for scrap;
that blackened cave where unarmed hundreds hid
until it swallowed a U.S. rocket;
and craters persisting in rice paddies
like the circular battle scars squids leave
on sperm whales as they wrestle in darkness.
The plain studded with megalithic jars,
vessels so large that legend has them dropped
from giants’ hands, discarded at the end
of their last enormous party – stone grey
against green, these ancient cups lie scattered
like cluster munitions, ruptured and tipped
by trees, paused in the posture of spilling.
This is what we come to see, though our tour
includes visits to more recent relics
(a matter of secondary targets):
what’s left of a Russian tank, rust bucket,
every loose piece prised off and sold for scrap;
that blackened cave where unarmed hundreds hid
until it swallowed a U.S. rocket;
and craters persisting in rice paddies
like the circular battle scars squids leave
on sperm whales as they wrestle in darkness.
Twister
Match the white Bengal tiger’s gaze,
his eyes the blue of frosted glass
and front paws broader than your chest,
with no more than a splinter of thought
for what one quick gesture could do.
Now, instead of that dull New Jersey zoo,
picture meeting in the Sunderbans’ green
with the assurance of fences removed.
This is the way it feels to watch
the clouds drop a rope into the sea,
tethering one grey to another, with
so little between matchstick bungalows
and the water spout’s ferocity—
too tangled in fear to breathe until
the taut cord snaps just offshore,
its ends unravelling above and below.
Match the white Bengal tiger’s gaze,
his eyes the blue of frosted glass
and front paws broader than your chest,
with no more than a splinter of thought
for what one quick gesture could do.
Now, instead of that dull New Jersey zoo,
picture meeting in the Sunderbans’ green
with the assurance of fences removed.
This is the way it feels to watch
the clouds drop a rope into the sea,
tethering one grey to another, with
so little between matchstick bungalows
and the water spout’s ferocity—
too tangled in fear to breathe until
the taut cord snaps just offshore,
its ends unravelling above and below.
On Tiger Hill
Before first light silvers the sacred peaks
of Kanchenjunga, before night recedes
down the massif’s pale lilac face, navy
blue on the foot hills, plum in the valleys,
before the strands of Tibetan prayer flags
hanging from the observation deck catch
dawn like cathedral glass, each wind-beaten
square of fabric enveloped in brilliance,
while we stand, cheek by jowl, expectant
in the dark, chai wallahs blunt the mountain
morning’s bite, peddling warmth in flimsy cups.
Without a bin in sight, they’re drained and dropped.
With that plastic crust cringing beneath us,
Everest appears, faint in the distance.
Before first light silvers the sacred peaks
of Kanchenjunga, before night recedes
down the massif’s pale lilac face, navy
blue on the foot hills, plum in the valleys,
before the strands of Tibetan prayer flags
hanging from the observation deck catch
dawn like cathedral glass, each wind-beaten
square of fabric enveloped in brilliance,
while we stand, cheek by jowl, expectant
in the dark, chai wallahs blunt the mountain
morning’s bite, peddling warmth in flimsy cups.
Without a bin in sight, they’re drained and dropped.
With that plastic crust cringing beneath us,
Everest appears, faint in the distance.
©2016 David Russomano
