The Jungle, edited by Max de Silva Poetry from the Jungle

The JungleThe 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,