Tibet Is Not In Peru She calls home to Aba from monks in the teahouse – mad Han hegemony awry Odd call I’m confused, heard Odd call home. She She seems to know Tibet Not a Westerner Speaks of forty days and forty nights Odd call home. She will not peruse the news She’s singing sweetly Seems she News of spring colors and flights. In China No calls, Tell me if a llama died greeting Molly of Lhasa Tibet Is Detached My cherished Lhasa Apso spearing Tibet Compassionate ones, A gamble on diplomacy A dialysis is For the tourists’ amusement But let us be Why would the world The Autonomous Evil Of China While some are wise enough I have found Mao Must I speak to Han shopkeepers in Lhasa Wang Zhongyong Yuan Qinghai The science of the missile, I know nothing of Lhasa I know Tibetans Maybe I have strayed, but
Sichuan Province, China
to hear the brooding
many dead in Tibet, from Lhasa
protests spread
with soldiers and
agent provocateurs
uniforms and robes
plainclothes
home. She sells
Buddhist statues still,
swears she doesn’t know
the Dalai Lama
she wants to
go to Peru
speaks in riddles.
is not Peru
she’s a Tibetan, yet
with biblical aspirations
140 dead, and
it seems she seeks
to go to Peru
from Lhasa,
or even Aba
or Luhuo.
Sichuan food for thought.
on the phone in English
an old Irish song,
“cockles and mussels
are dead in Peru.”
An odd call is this. Arresting…
might be going to
a re-education camp for torture
to learn spelling and about
Szechuan Restaurants in Peru
Aba green with
a flood of soldiers.
Whirlybirds hover.
she sells
Buddhist statues still
with cockles and mussels
alive in Peru
merry or odd. I
wonder
how is Peru?
on the high road
sweet and narrow
in spirit alive
my culture’s watchdog,
you are dead by Chinese
poison dog food
imported, trade imposed
stirring the air
with political pollutions
javelins
to teãr a tear
from fallen monks
shot in cultural genocide
we are the only true
clique for justice
is failing
like a kidney
on Chinese heparin
to bet Tibet
in a card game
with Artists of War
and propaganda
an atheistic clique
with bullets
let them people
the autonomous puppet government
with the buffoonery of their claque
the only true clique
left alone
for our prayers
and daily walk
be a lap dog
to search for the next
reincarnation of the Dalai Lama,
I am not, but
as a fly in a spider web
Tse Tung, or indulge
the tongue of my hatred
by laughing at he
who teachers mocked,
the angry secularist who
revenged himself by
collecting grievances, in
confusion, hate for relics,
for Religion, for Buddhism,
who is caught
in a spider web?
speak with condescension
of Tibetans they call
unworthy and lazy
ungrateful for smokestacks
calls us
“white-eyed wolves”
a Lhasa taxi driver
calls us filthy
not clean
like Han on their high tanks,
we on our horses
the rocket, entices
the Han jackals to embrace
the harmony and unity
of delusion
while plainclothes police lurk
have died
how would I know –
all my elders are dead, and
in ignorance of my faith I cry
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
