Ten syllable lines that don’t rhyme. Made famous by Marlowe; lit up and smoked by Shakespeare. People still use them. Usually they’re used to tell stories.
Above Kreunteap,* out on a balcony,
we listened to the call of mutts below
and ate Pad Thai prepared upon a plugged-in
pan. We laughed in broken language. I learned
what they’ve done to my native tongue or call
my native land: in Thai, “Uncle Sam City.”
We laughed until she asked in broken English,
“How about your native people?” Chilis
lost their kick and I looked to the hazed moon
to smile upon my mind with a response.
“The natives that are left,” I said, “live alone,
on reserved land.”
. . . . . . . . “Why?”
. . . . . . . . . . . “The settlers forced them.”
I was the first to tell them of the Trail
of Tears. They sat in silence at the thought
of so much bloodshed; our national debt.
The King, I’m told, once redesigned the roads
of Kreunteap from his hospital window.
The King could find no rest when, below,
his people were stuck in traffic. He loved them
and couldn’t leave them, not one, behind.
(*Kreunteap=what natives call Bangkok. It means, “City of Angels.” The shortened name is, “Kreunteap a ha nakorn” but the actual name is about 30 times as long…
I had to put the dots in because the blogger wouldn't publish my spaces. Argh.)
