November Poem of the Month: Lindy Warrell

The Tourist by Lindy Warrell

It's not my country… 
          this jeweled isle of caparisoned elephants
           and twirling dancers chanting and
            torch throwing in dazzling costumes 
             over pure white cloth 
              to a million torches and drums
               thrumming in veneration.
                                    Buddhist spectacle surround sound.
 
It's not my country…
          where obeisance to gods
           and vows are performed
            in coconut frond palaces
             woven for the divine when
              a priest trans vests to dance
               in silken sari and trance. He is the Goddess.
                                     Cries of joy and rupees adorn Her sacred hem.
 
It's not my country…
          where drunken tourists
           lounge near-naked in hotel luxury
            and palm-lined beaches
             wander unheeding in
              paddy fields people call home
               where buffalo graze and children play.
                                    Passport to selfies on Instagram.
 
It's not my country…
          where strangers ask, Madam, you are from?
           Do you want hashish, madam?
            Boys, sir?
                                    On streets where monks and guns parade.
 
It's not my country…
          where village souls at first meeting
            take you to their mud-brick home
             where children laugh and women
               squat at hearth making chai.
                                    Though poor, they share their meal with a smile
 
No, it's not my country…
                where begging and touting 
                 remind us daily that
                  to give is a blessing.
                                    No. It’s a piece of my heart.

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