poetry

a bower for Alex

a bower for Alex

lined with alpaca
and table saw shavings
overlaid with fine mosquito-proof screen
arched across ultralight trekking poles

inside: a Will Shortz NYT Sunday crossword (blank)
and Dixon Ticonderoga #2 (sharp, with sharpener)
an Agatha Christie you’ve forgotten
and a phone with earbuds and economics podcasts
(esp. Freakanomics
esp. Marketplace
and anything Nate Silver)

leading to the door:
alternating chilled pint glasses
(the sweat beading up and rolling down their straight substantial sides
masking the flat amber of the 90 Shilling inside)
and rich brown drip coffee with real milk to take the edge off

what else?
some Trails Illustrated maps
Greg Brown on a radio
and a stone the blue of northern ice
under a clear night sky
at the foot of a snow-dusted mountain
by a tender talking stream

poetry

Opening Papua

opening Papua

her reefs were hidden by azure skirts
bowerbirds dozed in the kinks of her hair
cuscus and cassowaries peeked out
from the folds of her emerald skin
her deep beauty concealed
from a stranger’s passing glance

until a sharp man
conversant with birds
traced a pig’s path
with his machete
learned a language
copying letters onto leaves
put down his bow for binoculars
and welcomed everyone:
neighbor stranger Java-man
alike saying
come to the Arfak
visit our village
meet our wonders
then please go home

poetry

Arfak economics

Arfak economics

mountain people
stay in the mountains
eat from the forest
climb steep tracks
as a matter of course

the cool air and mist
slip down the sheer green slopes
refresh and energize
and, not stifled by midday swelter
not prostrated by unending sun
the busy people shake their heads:
in the lowlands a man grows only bananas
trades this food for money
takes the money to the store
trades it for food –
why doesn’t he just
grow a garden instead?

this mountain man goes on:
in 1990
someone gave me money
I didn’t know what it was
so I brought it to the church
asked do you know what to do with this?

yes they said
yes, we do