Deluge

I promise I'll write soon about my new life in PA. But in the meantime, I'm sharing this delicious poem written by my friend and former Logos colleague Hillary Snyder. I like it not only because it evokes sweet and rueful memories of Cambodia, but because of its intricate sestina structure, using the same six words (road, slow, puddles, mud, holes, maze) in various orders to end the lines in each stanza. 

You can find it and other writings by her on her blog. I'm a bit envious of her talent, and so thankful Logos students get to continue studying  English with her!


Deluge

the cacophony of car horns blaring up and down the road
most mornings gives way to the slow
progress of motorists weaving across puddles
that hide pits of glass, bricks, and mud—
whatever objects shop owners find fit to mend holes
and restore some semblance of order to the maze

of haphazard traffic that moves as if there is no maze
in this melee.   cars and motorbikes converge on the road
with expertise.  there will always be holes—
for them.  my own progress here is as slow
as theirs, my novice skills inept. The thought of my mud-
caked frame if I were to fall in these puddles

stops me. and the puddles
are omens of the rains to come, a maze
of disorder that, combined with the mud,
brings me to question the Road
I’ve chosen— in a city that seems at once to reject slow,
and to embrace slow progress in fixing these holes.

I yearn to pause in front of holes
instead of rush through them, and to seek reflections in puddles
instead of facing the brown, congealed mess that’s slow
to dry in the humid air.  other motorists maze
their way toward their own Road
oblivious to the mire and mud.

I see others walking in the mud,
monks in tangerine humility whose Holes
are Wholes on their austere Road.
They diverge around the puddles
and in a show of reverence the maze-
weavers pause or come to a slow.

oh, heart of mine, so slow
to see anything but mud
in a city desperate for watering holes
that rain can’t provide!  Through the maze
of wandering souls these puddles
ripple with the reality of life on this road.

a hint of the slow, ritual streaks of the maize
and coral mornings reflects in the mud-filled puddles
and the holes in my soul seem as empty as those in the road—