September 2018
NOTE: My old friend Barry Bishop and his wife Linda enjoyed their vacation in Vietnam, and he sent this picture to his friends. It spoke to me in ways beyond our friendship and way beyond what I know about Barry. The poem is a fiction and was originally published in Perfume River Poetry Review without the photo. But Barry's been nice enough to let me use the photo along with the poem. I think it makes the poem richer. For more made-up stuff, visit alanwalowitz.com.
Video Postcard from Vietnam
This might have been the way it was
approaching rainy season in country.
The clouds grow ominous, layer upon layer,
on an otherwise perfect day on the river,
a signal for the wary to rustle an extra tarp or two,
though the carrying would be no delight,
as nothing had been then in the vicinity of Hue.
The water now takes on a faint smell of spoiled eggs
despite its reputation for pleasant odors when flowers fall.
The old ones will tell tourists who wonder about its name
that blood, having once troubled the riverbed,
forever taints the water that flows upon it—
the visitors nod having been made wise,
such wisdom not an industry brought often from the west,
though factories on either bank
are artfully hidden by scenes from a Disney transport—
jungle rhythmically cooing; water buffalo, slow-footed and harmless;
the too perfect remains of what might have been
an ancient French garden.
Now the husband and wife in the postcard
float down the Perfume River as if on a loop—
two people resting in lounges on a pleasure boat
that’s been jury-rigged into seeming-junks topping the launches
that once plied the river and then were left behind.
There are those who miss them at home
and might question where they’ve gone.
Others have not seen them for some time
and might wonder why they’re always here.
The odd, unspoken message says,
Here is a place we feel safe.
Their fingers barely touch across
the distance between them, the width of the deck,
as they try their best to make a heart of their hands.
originally published in Perfume River Poetry Review
This might have been the way it was
approaching rainy season in country.
The clouds grow ominous, layer upon layer,
on an otherwise perfect day on the river,
a signal for the wary to rustle an extra tarp or two,
though the carrying would be no delight,
as nothing had been then in the vicinity of Hue.
The water now takes on a faint smell of spoiled eggs
despite its reputation for pleasant odors when flowers fall.
The old ones will tell tourists who wonder about its name
that blood, having once troubled the riverbed,
forever taints the water that flows upon it—
the visitors nod having been made wise,
such wisdom not an industry brought often from the west,
though factories on either bank
are artfully hidden by scenes from a Disney transport—
jungle rhythmically cooing; water buffalo, slow-footed and harmless;
the too perfect remains of what might have been
an ancient French garden.
Now the husband and wife in the postcard
float down the Perfume River as if on a loop—
two people resting in lounges on a pleasure boat
that’s been jury-rigged into seeming-junks topping the launches
that once plied the river and then were left behind.
There are those who miss them at home
and might question where they’ve gone.
Others have not seen them for some time
and might wonder why they’re always here.
The odd, unspoken message says,
Here is a place we feel safe.
Their fingers barely touch across
the distance between them, the width of the deck,
as they try their best to make a heart of their hands.
originally published in Perfume River Poetry Review
© 2018 Alan Walowitz
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