At The Coalface

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, 14/12/10

Back at the coalface.

Back in the land.

No longer here just to look.

Instead it’s time

To take up my pick

And start carving out a life

Unearthing hidden treasures

Locked in years of promise.

For now it’s a season of slowness

Of feeling the rock

Of facing the looming freedom

Of living alone.

Already tested in the weakness

Of stomach sickness.

Exhausted by the thought

Of calling for help.

All too aware of no one there

Too soon for an easy community.

Wrestling with weariness and self-pity

The back-of-the-mind pressure

To do, make friends,

Get out there, get on with it.

The imagined demands

On faces far away.

But then a shift in thinking

And smiles of friends appear.

Each one for me,

Not against me.

Like the great cloud of witnesses

Waving their support

Yet with feet planted on this earth

Standing under the same sun.

Here the sky is sparkly and clear

And the land rich and green.

Here the people grin and giggle

And welcome,

Always welcome me in.

Yet still I feel

The unresolved rawness

The repression of a nation’s soul

Still suffering.

Centuries of civil war

Have left their legacy

With tribe against tribe

Friend against friend

Man against wife.

The now you see me

Now you don’t play acting

Of hidden truths

And up front lies.

The overflow of NGOs

Of missions and churches

Of projects and causes

All with different ways and views.

You can feel the unease

The friction and competition

The wariness and caution

The temptation not to trust.

Yet here I am

Standing at the coalface

Grasping at the words

To define this time.

The more I see and hear

The more my head spins.

The more I think too much

The more I delay.

So with pick in hand

I smile at those who sent me

Who loved me enough

To set me on my way

And ask that you might pray.

For Strong Arms around me

Peace deep within me

And release of the Wildness

That will break the rock.

The Mourning After Bon Om Tuk

Phnom Penh, Cambodia 14/12/10

“Bon Om Tuk” is the Cambodian name for the Water Festival which takes place every November when boat races are held on the Tonle Sap River in Phnom Penh to celebrate the reversing of the river’s current and mark the beginning of the fishing season. Thousands flock to the city to support their village or town’s crew and join in the party. This year, however, there were tragic results when a bridge spanning the river collapsed and 400+ people lost their lives.

The water is calm now.

The broken bridge fixed.

The boats that battled back and forth

Long gone.

Up and down the country

Villagers are celebrating victories

Commiserating defeat

Remembering good times

Burying their dead.

Last week we sat here,

Let the crowds pass us by.

Beside me, a small child with his mother

Wriggled and giggled

Dripping orange from his ice lolly.

She smiled beneath her checkered hat,

Crunching on crickets,

All spicy and deep-fried.

Men in their long dug-out boats

Sped by with warrior roars,

Faces full of fight,

Oars like swords.

The yellows and the greens,

The reds and whites,

The blacks and blues.

Tribes let loose to battle it through.

That night fireworks flared

As more people gathered. 

Street vendors cried out

Above the noise and the chatter.

Police patrolled in packs of three

And children weaved, unseen,

Dipping hands in pockets

Running away with freebie wallets. 

We stood unmoved by the river.

The boy and his mother

Gone to join the crowd.

Barges floated by like peacocks,

Their sails lit up

Laughing in the breeze.

Litter at the water’s edge

Danced and shimmied.

And the King in his enclosure

Stood nearby

Smiling at the display.

Further up a bridge was swaying

Full of people

Caught up in the razzle dazzle.

Pushing, squeezing, straining to see.

Not knowing

That soon the wires would frazzle

That soon sparks would fly

That soon they’d lose their footing

That soon they might just die.

That night we left with minds full of spectacle.

Ears numbed by the bangs and blasts

Stomachs heavy with syrupy sweetness

Eyes sparkling and sore

Oblivious to the disaster

Still waiting to happen.

Half asleep in the tuk tuk

That took us to our door.

Today the water is calm

The bridge is fixed

And the boats have gone.

Every now and then

A single flip-flop floats past

And the current, now turned,

Carries it away.

Sitting by water always has a calming effect on me. And when I wrote this poem I needed some calm. The disaster I’d heard about and seen on the news had disturbed me deeply. I’d not been in Cambodia long but the place had got under my skin. And I really felt it when I saw the images of all those people, mainly young people, bruised and battered and laid out, dead. Sometimes I’m not sure if a sadness I’m feeling is mine or someone else’s. Or something I’m picking up in the atmosphere. Whatever, that day I had to write to lift off the heaviness. To join in the collective lament. And to find rest for myself too. The only place where it felt right to do that was the river. Where it had all happened. But where life still went on. Albeit in sharper focus.

Breathing In

Phnom Penh, Cambodia, Dec 2010

Today I feel I can finally breathe.

A month in and finally I can begin to be.

From a shaky start with no known home

Being thrown by plans changing,

Thoughts rearranging:

Weaning off the obvious,

Wrestling with the whys,

Waiting for the unexpected.

This time last year I rode round in tuk tuks

Taking photos, exploring, taking it all in.

When I got a bike I was off,

Sweat pouring, gleeful in the anarchy

Of mad moto-filled streets.

Today I pedalled and felt God’s pleasure,

Saw his wink in the glint of a Lexus wing mirror

Saw his smile part the traffic

And usher me through.

Last time I just wanted to see the colour

And focus on the life here.

Didn’t want to know about war and death

Didn’t want to know about grief.

So avoided the genocide museum

Kept away from the Killing Fields

Was careful to tread a safe path

And guard my soul.

This time I have walked the ground of Toul Sleng*

Strengthened by a free-wheeling friendship

That took in all the bumps and steps and cracks.

Together we faced the mugshots,

The rows of dead-eyed stares,

Faces that could have been Sreyrohm, Sokim, Gul.

Faces that could have been my friends.

This time last year I was happy to mooch

To try things out and have a go.

To test and see if this land was good

To see if I could breathe here.

Today I gulp great lung-fulls

Of life in a spacious place

And finally feel I can breathe here,

Finally feel free to be home.

*Genocide museum in Phnom Penh

Thoughts about letting go

Phnom Penh, Dec 2010

In Ron’s Studio

Caught between two worlds

Walking slowly into the new one.

Panic as I see the old one slowly disappearing.

Friends voices heard less and less

As they absorb into their own lives

Their colours melting into a blur.

Turning round, looking forward

Seeing a moonscape.

People in groups and couples milling about

Some near, some at a distance.

Some catch my eye and beckon me over

Some just wave and smile

Some don’t notice at all.

Children run in between

And people speak a wall of words

That leave me baffled and confused.

But I go on

And wait. And walk.

Sometimes lie down and sleep.

Sometimes join in.

Later in my flat
I’ve been running with a head like an owl.

I see what’s before me

Then I look around

And wander this way and that.

I want to run back to the safe places

And be among known faces

But the distance I have covered is too much.

I could go back but what for?

To try and join in with lives that have let me go

And no longer see me in them.

So I rein in my head, hold it steady,

And choose to run forward into a space

Where there is no crowd

Where there are no cheers

Just me and the ground

And space all around

And a smile from heaven

That’s slowly getting closer.