BEATING THE DRUM

By Indran Amirthanayagam

The rat still runs
through the tunnels of my blood,
and elephants trumpet
in the war chest of my heart,
and kabaragoyas
the reptile kings
slither out of my eyes.

Beat the drum
beat the drum
facing the Bridge in the fog
facing the towering city
across the water walking
upon the water
beat the drum.

The fog will clear, the clouds
take back the rain
and the Sun burn again
on the rogue elephants back
charging up the footpath,

while over the sea
the herd trumpets
while over the sea
the herd trumpets.

SPILLED ABROAD

By Indran Amirthanayagam

But in love our hearts are as red
earth and pouring rain:
mingled
beyond parting.

--Cempulappeyanirar (trans. A.K. Ramanujan)

the jugs neck broken, the peninsula spilled, vines dry,
red onions hard pressed to flower in gnatted pools
felled by bombs, cacti, field rats, and in the jungles
an underground city and throne, two leopard cubs
at the foot of the guerrilla king, Prabhakaran, his subjects
scattered beyond the whorls of the secret, pushed out by fighters
on every side, by the daily taste of bombs and silence,
by conscriptions at the door, have you sons and daughters

are they wandering away, out of the red earth
and pouring rain, wood-fired mutton, wedding and temple,
tongue buried in the secret city, thrown overboard
in the airports, a few words in English, or German,
picked up on the beaches, taught by smugglers,
you are, I am, seeking political amnesty.

UNDER THE TENT

By Indran Amirthanayagam

My friends, the tent is up, I have cooled the sun, here there is only light, come in and eat, said Salaam, the Iraqi owner as he stood under the canopy in his outdoor garden. It had rained for two days the pebbles under the tables shone, the rocks shone vines shone, the hands of the Palestinian cook shone rolling the dough spreading the seed to make zaatar bread; I smiled, Hamdi, my friend, how are things in Palestine, and Salaam, how how are your brothers and sisters in Baghdad. The thick mud of coffee, mint tea, how is your computer, Hamdi, the desk- topped journal on Palestinian affairs, your Jewish wife, I too have crossed the seas, long may the burning sun be robbed of meat and drink, diffused by our canopy, my coffee and cigarette and The Pleasures of Exile by George Lamming "The Idea Of Order At Key West,"

I read and read from everywhere Hamdi, Rushdie and Cardenal, the letters of Dylan Thomas, The Star-Apple Kingdom, I bring to this rest house on Atlantic Avenue news from the radio of my dreams the evidence of my eyesseeing a customer from Israel looking for familiar cooking, a Ghanaian dreaming fou fou and peanut soup, I write it out in a verse My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts pull down thy vanity, I say, pull down Thou art a visitor under the canopy of Salaam, recite Things I Didn't Know I loved, then sing of Lizbie Brown and feast at Nerudas Great Tablecloth and The Citizen and ask again for the justice of eating freedom to visit the toolshops. It's a long way to Tripperary, I see Lawrence and Peter O'toole, and Burton, briefcased, carrying his poems, The Bible, and William Shakespeare. I see the mad useless killing and The Human Abstract, and I see the darling of my life skipping and jumping jumping and skipping on the mountains top, by the sea wall, on the walls of the city, and the Sun burns her, the winds and rain lash her, yet she skips, yet she jumps and I see Hamdi stepping into a convertible riding on Atlantic Avenue through East New York and East Jerusalem.

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