The Streets of Taiwan

Location

95831
United States
38° 29' 24.3852" N, 121° 31' 32.0952" W

We stand out like white sheep,
Stumbling along the crowded Taiwan streets,
Tripping on cracked sidewalks crammed with clothing racks and crates—
Congestion of vertical signs in Chinese hieroglyph,
An occasional decipherable word:
“Language School”
“Pub”
“McDonalds”
“Tiolet”

People scramble cross streets
(Traffic lights have mild significance):
Do Not Walk?
Fuming busses belching black diesel;
Intertwining mass of cars and
Maneuvering motorscooters;
One carries a family of five:
The father driving with girl in front basket
Behind him her brother in front of the mother
Another child strapped to ma’s back.
Some riders wear surgeons’ masks
To filter the heaviest particles of fetid air.
Sometimes the mad machinery
Brushes your skin as it rushes past;
One close call you smell dead meat in the streets.
Horns bleat.
Hearts thump.
Taxis dart and swerve;
One topples an old woman’s scooter;
Her foot looks broken.
No “senior citizens” on the streets of Taiwan.

Mangy, scabby animals,
Dodging cars and sniffing out
Meager crumbs of existence,
Sorely need Bodhisattvas
To lick their festering wounds.
One cur lifts its leg and pisses on a basket of tomatoes for sale.
Dog shit everywhere on the streets
Liquefies in rain;
Red pools of betel nut spittle;
Endless litter, endless litter, endless litter…

We stand out like white sheep:
Hawaiian shirts,
Jansport backpacks,
Birkenstocks
Light-haired ponytails.
“Aloha” says a young Mormon “elder”
Cycling past me on his mission to convert the natives.
He thinks I look ridiculous.
The few white foreigners on the street,
Often pretend not to notice each other;
We sense our absurdity but all look like movie stars.
I’m Kevin Bacon;
Dan is Paul Newman;
Matt is Bruce Willis (when he cuts his hair).
Locals stare.
“Foreigner” someone mutters in Mandarin,
Others more specific: “American”
How they can tell I’m afraid to guess.
Could it be the stench
Of occidental arrogance?
Eager youths sometimes greet us:
“Hello. Where you from? Merry Christmas. Happy New Year,” one says.
It’s July.
He wears long sleeves, while I’m dripping with sweat.
“Happy birthday,” I tell him. “Have a nice day.”

Buy and sell.
Buy and sell.
The endless cycle of commerce:
Infinite food stalls and family storefronts;
Squawking chickens losing their necks on chopping blocks,
Their black feet point heavenward;
Organs hanging from meat hooks;
Dangling entrails;
Pigs’ heads staring blindly at Buddhist temples,
Where ghost money ash
Floats from ornate furnaces and incense
Wafts serenely, honoring ancestors.

Buy and sell, buy and sell.
Old women in bamboo hats, balancing vegetables on shoulder poles,
Straight and strong like scales of justice;
They need no license here to sell their goods,
And few are homeless;
Beggars here lack arms and legs,
Are covered in tumors or pustules.
They do not clean your windshields.
They do not “work for food.”

Tired and smoke-choked and seeking reprieve,
I ride a rattling bus to the beach at Kuan Yin —
Village named for disciple
Of Buddha’s compassion; a temple there honors her:
Ong Ma Nee Bei Mee Hong

From the temple a long, hot walk to the water,
Where I pass two soldiers holding automatic weapons;
“I’m visiting the beach,” I tell them
In mangled Mandarin.
Others with binoculars watch from coastal towers lining the shore;
Military radios scratch the solitude.
As I wade the warm waters
Collecting coral and shells,
Observing concrete fortifications from the Second World War,
I imagine soldiers crouched with rifle barrels
Jutting from narrow cement slits,
Awaiting impending invasion.

As I leave the beach,
Vaguely thinking of Taiwan’s streets,
I see the huge white figure of Kuan Yin,
Palms upturned,
Arms outstretched,
Hazily gazing over the Taiwan Strait,
Facing China.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

Comments

Rojas

The imagery in this poem is well written. I can hear the cars, the poeple,

the commotion.

 

The best feature this poem has that not many accomplish is the language. I still have

a hard time inserting my first language into my poetry, but this piece had no troubles

in that aspect.

The chosen perspective of the piece gives insight about the experience abroad, and the

baggage the label, "American, " comes with.

 

your use of line breaks definately keeps your reader on their toes; i couldn't wait to get to

the nest stanza. Please keep posting because your voice is important and wise.

 

best,

rojas

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