Poetry Archives

Cars breed like rats in Jakarta,
but here slave statues broke their chains…
Go east south through eternal green
round ancient sculpted mountains
to cool Bogor climb farther on to the dragon’s back
ISUZU TOTAL ASSY         SEXY ISLAM IS THE WAY
at Restaurant Harley Davidson, next to the children’s
jet fighter park outside Chisarua
the rich in Toyota Super Kijangs meet for drinks.
Down and up the road, mostly broke orang kampung
cram into minibuses, windscreens named in honour of the gods
DEMI MOORE               SHRI KRISHNA
               JIMI HENDRIX          BOB MARLEY
Signs line this fine Javanese highway: TRANSMIGRASI, KELUARGA KECIL
DUA ANAK CUKUP.  Why are people here so friendly?

Another planeload of Ursula Andresses disembarks
at Jakarta Airport, will smuggle pinkness onto Moslem beaches
and minstrel louts sing of numinous aureoles,
guides show the gals secret tracks to waterfalls.
Climbing on with food vendors
the Prince of Persia busks on the bus,
sings of his love for a beautiful girl
who returned his love
then returned to Scandinavia
left him working for the equivalent of
two dollars US a day
singing sad songs to economy class tourists.

Some hotels in Yogyakarta have swimming pools…
From Tuesday to Wednesday mornings
without rest, a south side Imam preaches God’s goodness
whispers through a megaphone
to his street flocks, exhorts a miracle.
It’s a tough sermon that crashes with a siren thud
into Hell slime then rises gently to Heaven.
For two days no one in south Yogya sleeps.

Here, I learned first hand of the dreadful trade
in Komodo Dragons, which, the Travellers Guide advises
‘has continued unabated since the second century AD’.
A volunteer artist showed my family through the bird market &
ruined water palace then I was led, alone,
to where daylight died and there was a rotting house.
A young dragon was tied up on the veranda;
down stairs to a fetid basement where dozens
of dragons were chained and manacled.
Some wept tears like human beings, others just gazed blankly.
I caught the eye of one who began speaking in a language
closer to song than speech and when I tried to reply,
my guide hushed and took me out into the light.
“Their ancestors helped build Borobudur.  But…”, he shrugged,
“you’ve seen everything.”

Thirty metre tall brass Buddha sits
by the side of the road to Sarangan
and laughs, laughs.  The approach to Gunung Lawu
stuns—here is land that gives all that is asked of it,
the eternity farmers dream.