Category Archives: Photography

Guide

There are no tourists now

No trekkers following close behind

No hikers underestimating the distance

Overestimating their stamina or agility

Almost a whole year’s income forfeited

The guide paces his village

His friend, porter when they’re on the trails

Leading the curious from around the world

Over steep mountain passes

Counselling on how to safely pass a Yahk caravan

Returning from a trading journey in Tibet

Designing routes to accommodate trekkers’ demands

Limitations or schedules or delays due to altitude sickness,

is anxious too but not so anxious as the guide

Who thought he could endure month after month at home

Being a grandson a son a husband a father a farmer

Stationary

His friend says we will rebuild and we will soon again traverse

High mountain passes through Langtang, Annapurna, and the mighty Manaslu

We will stand at the edge of the world and watch the clouds fill up

the depths of Kali Gandhi Gorge at Khopra Ridge

They will return and we will guide them again, my brother

But the guide is inconsolable

He retreats into himself and does not eat

No one will remember us he tells his friend

The world is afraid of us now

The trekkers are gone forever and we are nothing

In the West, we do remember

Two humble young men who became guardians

To us in an unfamiliar and perilous landscape

Its spectacular natural beauty eluding capture

In photographs, its vistas defying description through mere words

Two who educated who held us when we ran out of breath

Whose patience coaxed us to the survival side of our trepidations and fears

Whose care and kindness effected permanent changes within us

We do remember

With a bond borne of gratitude and love

And upon receipt of our nominal gift the guide sends his quiet message

Namaste. Thank you, mama and papa, for thinking of us

It’s so strange having no work when we are always ready

But you are right maybe

We will all somehow make it through to 2022

One day maybe we will again see you

I read his words through a blur

And hope somehow that distant dream might come true.

Hands

We were slow shuffling up Pilot Street

I promised I’d show you where fairies reside

Sea was roiling west winds were sighing

Stop for flowers we lingered no consultation between

Sometimes kindred depend on synchronicity not words

Man and his camera honouring life beneath stoic Garry Oak

We decide it’s phenomenon worth brief watching

But it’s the mirror on a trunk affixed askew

Spoke to me about what to do

And I like the way you smiled your acquiescence

Raise your small open hand you gentle friend spirit

I know the difference between a wave of hello and

Help I need rescue

Art

Why should I want to contain you

Place your beauty within this cage in this frame

For is not arresting all at the essence of Art

Fragrance of imperfect freedom

An unleashing

Flight from confinement

Escape from ordinary

Exploration of sensescapes no corporeal beings roam

Wings

Logic and deduction and evidence and explanation

Too loaded to follow

A bridge deconstructed an outline made of squint

Lace and velvet satin and flowers rivulets of sky in an ocean of dream

Scenes of an unscene

Can I slip into my/your/our centre in secret moments

Touch your raw naked pulse

Feel

What it is to know truth at the intersection

Where imperfect breath and depth of life exchange promises

Without uttering a sound

But a shift

Caught drifting soft past

A presence

Something there

Bees

Fortune arrives to those who expect it

Who said that, asks the one still waiting

Bees forfeit sunlit blossoms to suckle a blank wall instead

What made sense yesterday leaves a smudge for us to ponder

A circle is unending like a fortress of safety forever watchful

But through a new jaded pair of eyes a circle is a prison

From which only the secretive and most cunning may manage escape

Tunnelling through ages of rotted ideas and misguided plans

Breathing shallow so as to avoid disease by the effort

Believe in change, the mantra humming in their heaving chests

Through filth and squalor a sliver of light hints at silver

Bees circle upon walls, forfeiting temptation’s blossoms

Allowing either conspicuous gaps or innocuous bee suckling spaces

Readying themselves for the new age where winged things flourish

Where honey is the preferred currency

Arriving Almost Ready

I tune to the sound of wings

Hummingbird suckling geranium in sunlight

I do not like this book I am reading

Grateful for content that distracts

I am sitting in an uncomfortable chair

Obscured by holly leaves

This morning augmented with sculpted sacred stand ins

I dreamed last night of returning

Red flannel shirt faded jeans brown laces ankle boots

I pushed my desk inside lines

Conformity or belonging

A woman’s forever home now inhabited by strangers

I saw old hazel eyes as we were children

Singing the same song

John Lee’s Boom Boom

Right melody wrong lyric

Inhale rhythm resist lure

I am sitting still looking

Metres from maybe inches

I plant these red ones for her

Favourites

She mapped a meticulous design

Imagination Manifest these shapes

I arrive as if for a benefit

She falls from a ladder

Over there where the concrete is so unforgiving

I yield no sadness yet water flows free from these eyes

Presence is

I begin to understand

Or succumb

Krishnamurti on education

A Christening

Watchful watching watcher