Sunday, November 18, 2012

Bhutan Chronicle No. 6

When you visit me this weekend
Do not rush your return.
Every night, I see your nightbulb
Flicker in the opposite hills,
Like Morse Code.
I want to see you coming
Stealthily, like the wind from the mountains,
Which creeps in every night
Through the wall cracks.
The uphill walk has made you pant,
And beads of sweat glisten on your skin..
Like white pebbles on a moonlit night
By the river Jhelum.
Your "Dupatta' looks drunk tonight,
Slurring this way and that.
And that mole on your breast,
Sits like an unfrequented well
On the mountain top,
Out of reach, Yet desired,
Every time it is looked upon.
Do not rush this weekend...
There are places to go,
Maps that your nails and fingers
Will draw on my skin.
There are depths to dive in,
Walls to mend,
And wounds to heal
Mazes to unlock
And gibberish spoken when
The birds chirp me out of your clothes.
Do not rush your return,
The weekends between these mountains
Are rather long.

5 comments:

Gemma Wiseman said...

There is a tension of want and distance threading through the dimensions of this interesting poem! Like a journey through the hills and vales of an inner landscape! Fascinating!

Mixi said...

Wistful, filled with longing and promise of passion, the misty nights and sparkling days of living in the mountains, and standing benignly in the background is beautiful Bhutan.

This transported me to a different place!

Laura said...

full of longing and passion... beautiful.

Kay L. Davies said...

A beautiful write, with many layers.
K

Kim Nelson said...

The desire and anticipation are so very vivid, here. The imagery is gorgeous. I can see the trek, the journey, the arrival. Quite lovely view.