David Thornbrugh

Riding the Bus in South Korea

Rivers here are broad and shallow,
sandy grooves between concrete dikes.
Before the dams, every spring,
the coastal plains flooded.
White herons stand motionless
beside pale green waters, staring downward.
In the countryside, farmers spread rice
out to dry on strips of black cloth
laid both sides of concrete bridges.
The leaves fall from the persimmon trees,
exposing the fruit like orange constellations.

The terrible secret of language
is that it is unnecessary,
extraneous to the body's necessities.
When hungry, I search city streets
for models of noodles in bowls,
skewered fish on sticks,
a fried egg rampant on a field of rice.
Pointing and grunting will take you
around the world, even get you laid.

Behind restaurant tank glass,
cinnamon-colored eels tangle like
worn-out typewriter ribbons.
The people here are kind,
but evenings they suck meat fibers
from beef bones bubbling in thick
red pepper sauce, cheeks glowing
from sweet potato vodka.
"Be sure to wear a face mask in the spring.
Yellow dust blows out of the Gobi,
and it's toxic, full of heavy metals,
cadmium." In fields beside the road,
rice straw tied into bundles
stands like little teepees.
A row of scarecrows guards a vineyard,
but where are the crows?

Last night I dreamed flocks of migrating starlings
trooped the sky in black bands
as regular as the universal bar code
that prices all the commodities of our world -
even the birds, or so say my dreams.

When I change buses,
the new driver seeks me out to tell me something
I don't understand.
As so often in my life,
I smile and agree,
assuming all will work out for the best,
knowing that, soon enough,
death will erase any discomfort,
bury any shame.

Out of Asia

When I moved to Japan at 33, the poetry dried up.
I blamed it on a bad marriage, teaching English,
correcting camera ad copy and writing annual reports
for atomic power plant companies,
but it was something inside me that quit.
So many images pouring in, drunken groping,
Godzilla's sky line stamped with Mt. Fuji -
I just froze, choked on too much self absorption.
I poured the words into brochures for typewriters,
not sonnets or rants, no one to blame other
than the muse choking on green tea.

Now at 57 I live in South Korea in a shoe box
with a view of a bowling alley and greenhouses
of caterpillar plastic, and crossing the street
is a salmon run against hydroelectric turbines.
The words inside me jostle like koi in a pond
of muddy water, grown as large as pillows
from years of listening to temple chanting,
waiting to be snagged and bagged.

A junked bed has waited by the power pole
outside our apartment since the day we moved in,
just as all these words and images stack up
in me waiting for pick up, for workers in soiled clothes
to rummage through and collect what's thrown out,
what's stacked along the road for disposal.

Asia is more than a land mass,
poetry is more than words.

Expatriate or Refugee?