A notice to my postal carrier:
I know that there is nothing scarier
Than seeing a letter so prolix
Marked: "Poste Restante, The River Styx"
But as I read once on Eighth Avenue
Wind, nor snow, nor gloom can tarry you
So don't return this marked "Deceased"
Deliver it to L. MacNiece
Dear Louis--(may I be so brash
To use your first name and a dash?)
I'd like to start with a confession
Poetry's not my profession
So if my style seems amateurish
My meter weak and stanzas boorish
It's not that I'm a Language Poet
It's just that I'm untrained and show it
Read me now and judge me later
If you must, I'm a curator
Having fun on my sabbatical
If my rhyme's erratic, who'll
Object, in any case this piece
Is just for you, Louis MacNiece
I read the book you wrote with Auden
Letters from Iceland, and it broadened
My idea of travel writing
With poetry that's so inviting
Now your book is what's inspiring
Me to write this letter while perspiring
Across India with my mother
On a bus that's crammed with other
Anglophones from far-flung places
In whose accents are heard traces
Of the Empire's distant reaches
From London-town to Aussie beaches
We've assembled here in Delhi
Which is noisy and quite smelly
My throat is sore, my nose is runny
My stomach feels a little funny
The diagnosis: La Turista
Perhaps, though there's at least a
Chance it's something in the air
Unleaded fumes are everywhere
So though I'm popping Pepto-Bismol
I just keep on feeling dismal
One can do without the water
But I know I really oughta
Keep on breathing--what a bitch
The demise of an eco-niche
Archaeologically speaking
Delhi's tough for those who're seeking
Simplicity in the march of ages
It's lacking in defined stages
The oldest sites are in the new part
While--before they're done--the new start
To acquire a ruined status
First they tilt and then collapse, it's
That they're made with poor concrete
And methods that are obsolete
Instead of sending code inspectors
The city has baksheesh collectors
New Yorkers call them "rats with wings"
But Delhians see these wretched things
Quite differently--birds as holy
In fact I think it's rather droll, we
Saw a hospital for pigeons
Where busy doctors made decisions
Assigning birds to cages where
They could receive intensive care
Cooing calmly while outside
A beggar had just up and died
Now let's skip this Mogul town
For one where Rajputs roam around
Like Jodhpur with its hilltop fort
And lodgings at a swank resort
Fountains play about the pool
Keeping us refreshed and cool
All of which is quite romantic
And making me a little frantic
You travelled with your boyfriend, Louis,
But all I have is someone who is
Not just female she's my mum
Though I'm glad that she could come
My boyfriend, James, remained at home
To mind the cat, he's not alone
But I've been gone for months and missing
That sweet pet, his hugs and kissing
Tonight, at least, I'll look for solace
In a dinner at the palace
Of the former maharaja
Perhaps a tikka or masala
To soak up all the atmosphere
We'll have drinks on the terrace where
I'll toast to mother's jubilee
And watch the lights of Diwali
Which looks like Xmas but is actually
A party for the goddess Laxmi
Yes, Jodhpur's nice but not for purists
Since it's painted blue for tourists
So in the a.m. we'll go where
It's more authentic--Jaiselmer
A desert town whose reputation's
For filigrees and crenelations
A Mid-Eastern charm, even uniqueness
That has one little, fatal weakness
Simply put, it's too alluring
And, in attracting hordes of touring
Groups like ours will find quixotic
All attempts to stay exotic
I hope they've book a veterinary
Since next on our itinerary
We're joined by one-humped, two-toed mammals--
Which almost everyone calls camels
Though technically they're dromedaries--
And ride past ancient ossuaries
Enjoying the afternoon perambulations
In the saddle's undulations
Chafing parts and crushing others
Strange to say it, even Mother's
Riding well though that's not counting
All the help she needs in mounting
In some villages, like Roopsi,
We poked around and like snoops we
Went into their inner sanctum
Took some photos, smiled, and thanked em
In our morning orientation
We hear the truth about this nation
"The real India's not spectacular
It must be simple and vernacular"
Now we know that less is more
And Daspan's what we came here for
A town whose only claim to fame is
It's exactly just the same as
Every place from here to Madras
The only difference is the address
We see some Hindus and some Moslems
Chat with them about their problems
While around us there swarm legions
Of unruly, loud, and wee ones
To be so friendly can be trying
So I'm glad that we are hying
To an old and walled-in villa
A bit run-down though it's still a
Viceroy's country getaway
Of course he welcomes us to stay
Not to do so would be rude
Problem is, he has no food
And so we wait, becoming thinner
Until, voila! here comes our dinner
They've ordered out, we are in luck
It's all been brought here in a truck
From Jodhpur which is miles away
Not haute cuisine, but it's okay
Guidebooks call it "The Pink City"
But Jaipur's really mauve and gritty
They say it got its rosy color
When some British prince or other
Decided that he'd pay a visit
The town had to be made exquisite
They painted it with what they had
And decided it was not half bad
Pink paint is now perpetuated
Through taxes that are graduated
Rewarding those who have relinquished
That basic right to have distinguished
What is theirs from what's surrounding
Peer pressure there must be astounding
Jaipur's men are fun to meet
One thought I'd like the "Dirty Street"
Another wanted me to smuggle
Jewels, and it was quite a struggle
To extricate myself and flee
Considering he'd served me tea
All these rendezvous were fleeting
Save for one extended meeting
At the Museum of Indology
A place for art and archaeology
I'd been told that the director
Was a scholar and collector
Of esoteric Tantric painting
And, better yet, he was making
Some himself and might show me
If I didn't let him throw me
With his cunning feints and dodges
As done in the Masonic lodges
When testing an initiate
To ensure that he's no idiot
The apex of his pack of lies
Was telling me the Nobel Prize
Was his but for a nomination
And without a hesitation
Said, "Here's the phone, call up Oslo"
I took the bait but didn't swallow
Accommodating his ambition
Without judgment or derision
I tried to steer our conversation
To something more like meditation
In hopes that he'd at last explain
The pathway to the astral plane
We talked around these themes till midnight
When very much to his delight
I finally took a rickshaw home
And left the poor old man alone
At Pushkar is a great convention
Of turbaned men with the intention
Of trading a bad-tempered animal
For one that's meek and more commandable
Camels, cattle, also horses
Gather in enormous forces
Until they cover all the ground
Emitting a most frightful sound
Along with all this bestial drama
Pilgrims come to worship Brahma
Whose idol comes as some surprise
It's like a coconut with eyes
The town surrounds a small lake that's
Ringed with sacred bathing ghats
Where, in the guise of Hindu priests,
Men lure tourists off the streets
Offer them a consecration
Then demand a large donation
After such a rude awakening
Your thirst will need a certain slackening
With a Pushkar "special" lassi
That will make your eyes go glassy
As you start to weave and wander
Through the lanes and way out yonder
Past deformed saddhus cloaked in ash
Who make a plaintive cry for cash
A dancing girl who seems so gracious
Till you see her smile's salacious
Everything's so upside down
Until you reach the edge of town
Where a carnival is going strong
Yes, this must be where you belong
Still it's hard to get your bearings
Among the shrill, incessant blarings
Of loudspeakers squawking Hindi
Someone's giving you a bindi
By the hand you're led inside
A tent where there's formaldehyde
In jars that hold things very creepy--
Is that kid dead or is he sleepy?--
Suddenly you look around
You're back on earth, you're coming down
From your "special" lassi trip
It's time to chill out and to slip
Back to your tent-camp on a dune
The way home lighted by the moon
Our wake-up call is at three-thirty
Which really is a little early
On the bus there's time for sleeping
Except that I'm continually peeping
Through the curtains at the ashes
Of the evening's bloody crashes
We run the gauntlet by a whisker
And by noon are at Sariska
Where at our rambling hunting lodge--
A tired remnant of the Raj--
A monkey got into the room
Where we were dining and was soon
Sitting on a lady's lap
Munching on a table scrap
The ensuing high-pitched screaming
Sent the hungry primate reeling
Well, I think he's learned a lesson
And will temper his aggression
The next time he would like a bite
He must say "please" and be polite
At break of day we set out cycling
The air is cool, the sky is lightening
That's how India should be seen--
At its most quiet and serene
Mother tried it but was wobbly
So took the bus, and it's probably
Good she did, some were unlucky
Like the girl whose ride was yucky
In a village they attacked her
Another got a hairline fracture
When a truck whose heavy load
Sent her careening off the road
Sariska has impressive herds
But Bharatpur was made for birds
Hoopies, koots, and bulbuls
Mosies, kites, and spoonbills
Gather by the zillion
Some might even be Brazilian
As most of them are migratory
Like the one whose tragic story
Is that he's headed for oblivion
Since he's a crane and he's Siberian
But let's look on the sunny side
Our rickshaw's here so we can ride
And rest our feet instead of walking
I've had enough of this bird stalking
Though we have the Taj to do
After that--thank god--we're through
India, though I find it glorious,
Really can be too uproarious
But then some guy throws you a smile
Or holds your hand a little while
Which is something I suppose
That won't appeal to homophobes
Personally, I am impressed
That their love's so unrepressed
Finally, I've learned to sense
India's profound impermanence
The way its history is spinning
With no end and no beginning
Even as the place decays
Something of its spirit stays
The Vedas haven't lost their relevance
And the folks there still ride elephants
Mother's off to see Bombay
I hope that she arrives okay
My plane departs at 2 a.m.
From Delhi on to London then
After stocking up on duty-free things
I'll cross the Pole to where Thanksgiving's
Already sending out aromas
And calling me to where my home is
As much now as before, I'm very
Much your fond admirer--Larry
