i didn't write from india

because the smell of curry leaves wafted up from the canals
the children squatted to piss on the side of the road
the kites soared and dipped on the beach
the fishermen hauled up nets like miners
the lights flickered like a flirting distant shore
the ice cream trucks lit up the night
the flame soared high,
the smell of smoke burned nostrils
the pineapple wallah smiled though toothless
and the street child patted my hand though empty

because the temple walls felt smooth under fingers
and the yellow turmeric brushed a glow into the women's skin
because we went the wrong way to do pradakshana
because we found holy relics washed up with shit and sand
because the old woman chanted four of a thousand names of Durga
while the priest circled her with butter lamps, poured roses at her feet

because the sour sweet hot
cool cotton candy fish Limka lentil cakes
imam songs grins train whistles namkeen snacks had us all distracted
as did the fruitless, fleeting beauty of our existence

and the words couldn't pin them down,
didn't have time, what with the
measuring of an elephant's foot,
the angle of repose for a bat,
the size of a monkey's baby teeth
the circumference of Ganesha's belly,
and the purity of coconut meat said to reflect the soul. They were
preoccupied with the counting of threads, cords, and fishes,
the chime of an ankle chain,
and the clink of bangles said to make
the unborn baby listen

preoccupied with the statues depicting
Hindu horse, Muslim tiger locked in an ancient grudge
and larger than life testaments to faith,
the grieving shaving their heads in remembrance
the heart lifting outward at the call of a song,
and the prick in the palm of a comb

the words lined up
in pilgrimage with other pilgrims
to form inward awe
and to chant thank you in three tongues.



Copyright Jamie Laurens and Waste and Praise contributors. All rights reserved by individual artists.

mountain stream

for my father

Rivulets of tiny red veins
stories in rock.
Moss climbs ruddy cheeks.

The sad almond
of a water-blue eye,

chest rising
like a cleaved stone

the split in your thumbnail
the seal of hard work,
the splinter of wood,

the slight wheeze in the stream
of breath, an old friend

the high-rise of ribs and trunk,
the search for motion,
the eye taking in the scene.

Nearby, the
call of a wolf.

You are water curved
around elements of wood and stone,

by that stream
a bird of prey sits perched
on a branch, at rest.

My words have spooled
in a tangle about my feet

but here there can only be footfalls,
and silence.

For you, this song of praise.


Copyright Jamie Laurens and Waste and Praise contributors. All rights reserved by individual artists.

Snow Breath

When I was a child
after a good long walk outdoors
he would pull me in for a hug
and the breath from his airways
smelled of lungs scrubbed
clean by fresh air and pure sky.
This was my favorite smell.

Not long ago I realized
that the passions I pursued
fell in my father’s footsteps
the way my footfalls followed his
and used his imprint
as we walked through the snow
and pursued that air
over the contours of the land.



Copyright Jamie Laurens and Waste and Praise contributors. All rights reserved by individual artists.