The Jungle, edited by Max de Silva

Poetry from the Jungle

The Jungle
The Work of an Unknown Author

Edited by Max de Silva, 2020

I secrets

Nothing yet

does the jungle give,

however long you wait

or watch;

it is eternal,

it does not age.

Its appearance

is scarcely a hint

of all that is hidden -

tight-lipped,

dark green;

ceaselessly undisturbed,

untouched,

unconcerned even;

indifferent

to what begins where,

or how, or why -

as if it could know

that it will all

simply return.

Actually,

it is a great wall,

limitless,

its ends unreported,

holding close

the smuggled secrets

of this day

and tomorrow,

of one millennia

to the next,

filtering the sun like a censor,

carrying forward its confidential cargos

in low capacious vaults.

Listen now;

stop, and listen.

It speaks in ciphers

that have no key,

yet picks out imperfections

betraying them

like a spy to an enemy,

dipping, dipping

into nameless valleys

and up the steep sides

of unforgetting hills.

II island

The songs that have endured

are merely words,

the tunes themselves long lost;

the texts are somewhat incomplete,

but what survives

is that perfect island,

presented in the way

a child might dream of an island

set in a great sea,

rising up from forested beaches

to a centre of mighty mountains

that disappear into clouds.

Immense rivers

tumble back down.

In the villages

the old dances are still young;

new babies

are fed on milk

dipped in gold

before their horoscopes are taken.

Numbers rule the universe.

Boys touch the feet of elders;

households

prepare their daughters

to come of age

washed in water with herbs,

the girl concealed

until she is presented

with her own reflection

swimming in a silver bowl

beneath her face.

The gems later looted from their antique tombs

were not even from the island -

diamonds, emeralds,

even amber, to mix

with their own stones,

pink sapphires and rubies,

garnets, topaz, aquamarines;

rose quartz

fine enough to see through.

Carpenters inlaid furniture

with ivory and rare woods;

crafted secret chambers,

hidden drawers.

Fish sang off long sandy beaches.

And along the rivers

stretched parks,

warehouses, jetties, mansions.

III bounty

Later,

they measured that happiness,

when happiness was a choice,

recalling a time of bounty,

an embarrassment of great cities,

of shipping lanes that converged

on southern ports.

The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon

welcomed visitors.

Kings ruled,

father to son,

brother to brother,

daring to do all they thought,

There were brindleberries and fenugreek;

lemongrass, mangos;

the coconuts fruited;

frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,

even kadupul flowers,

queens of the night.

High wooden watchtowers rose protectively

over wide courtyards,

and gardens grew cardamom,

cinnamon, cloves, vanilla.

Waters rippled in great tanks

built by kings like inland seas

to flow to fields and homes.

Kitchens prepared milk rice

and new dishes

with ginger and kitel,

turmeric, tamarind.

In the shade of palace buildings

frescos were painted, statues carved,

the talk was of new trade routes,

marriages, miracles.

Tomorrow is tomorrow -

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