I read the bantam, the fly weights
Of those who define poetic verses and the trade
With the western-subjective eye. The beholder’s beauty,
Rows of tall maize plants that possess
A single trick in photosynthesis, calling themselves the taller ones
In stature, the tall fellows to the shorter Asian.
They coronate themselves with trinket crowns
Tattooing their intellects with glory marks
Yet some poets, are not merely fluff balls
In the wind, or pus cells in a chronicled body of works
Poetry is just a whirlwind tornado of the lexicon
Deracinating the mid-western bowls of Maize
What the Americans call corn – the origin of chips and syrup
And the American poem is a study in itself
The stars and the stripes, the mighty dreams
And the long incarcerations of American ink.
Poetry transcends a yankee’s doodle, it is pure craftsmanship
Of the third eye that few dream of, or attain
And maize, is a collection of yellow colored kernels
On cobs, that the Yankees devour, unknowing
We too have rice fields in our hearts. We don’t just
Eat our rice, we orchestrate mandibles and maxillas
To an operatic explosion of flavor. Pilaf and biryani
Jade and sticky rice are our main dishes
And every little ball of rice snowballs a verse or two
In to a full tummy, when parsimony tells
You not to look any further. Poetry to the reader, is a stereo-ocular
Manifestation of a tapestry of teleological verses.
And beauty, is an overcrowded third eye, when rods and cones
Of stardust become relay stations
To transmit the Asian poem, from rice fields
To filled tummies. Rice will always be a staple
To sedge hats and chopsticks, even the ceramic bowls
That feed rice. And through this staple we become
Nourished of what is uniquely ours. A heritage of
A little chalky grains that only know how to feed.
An inheritance of muddy floors and excess rain
And a little crop that fills expectations
One rice bowl at a time.