ODORS OF ANCIENT TRADITIONS (1994) continued
They went to the emperor once
-- and they remember --
They asked for favors. Maybe
for the head of an enemy?
The gentle chaos of the streets:
Walk with your back to the cars
and the drivers will look out for you.
Walk against the traffic and you may as well be
against the tide, or against death.
You're going to lose eventually.
Gentle, simple goodness.
In the streets, open faces stare
in wonder at my foreign face.
Food in limp heaps overflows stalls, bikes, the gutter
where it's sold, bought,
sold for small profits for small bellies.
Cooked.
Traces of odors of ancient traditions,
anointed with oil, sacred herbs, sacrifices;
over burning coals unless you've got propane.
Pungent odors of centuries of unclean hands;
filthy walls, filthy sinks, filthy latrines,
filthy tables, filthy tablecloths, filthy cups,
filthy plates, filthy chopsticks. . . .
It's a new kind of music to me.
Hawking and spitting.
A finger holds one nostril closed,
the other opens wide away from the wind
and with perfect aim,
blows a packet of snot
which is carried by the wind
to a precise spot on the ground.
It's an art to be Chinese.
They went to the emperor once
-- and they remember --
They asked for favors. Maybe
for the head of an enemy?
The gentle chaos of the streets:
Walk with your back to the cars
and the drivers will look out for you.
Walk against the traffic and you may as well be
against the tide, or against death.
You're going to lose eventually.
Gentle, simple goodness.
In the streets, open faces stare
in wonder at my foreign face.
Food in limp heaps overflows stalls, bikes, the gutter
where it's sold, bought,
sold for small profits for small bellies.
Cooked.
Traces of odors of ancient traditions,
anointed with oil, sacred herbs, sacrifices;
over burning coals unless you've got propane.
Pungent odors of centuries of unclean hands;
filthy walls, filthy sinks, filthy latrines,
filthy tables, filthy tablecloths, filthy cups,
filthy plates, filthy chopsticks. . . .
It's a new kind of music to me.
Hawking and spitting.
A finger holds one nostril closed,
the other opens wide away from the wind
and with perfect aim,
blows a packet of snot
which is carried by the wind
to a precise spot on the ground.
It's an art to be Chinese.
