Hi Barbara,
I'm really enjoying reading all of this! I keep coming back to it, reading
it through again and again. But I guess I ought to start to put some
comments down and post them!
I've put a few marginal scribbles - IN BLOCK CAPS - here and there but
they're minor-ish quibbles/queries.
I think the simple language and uncomplexity of the thing works well.
Yeh, IMHO, it's real canny!
Bob
PS There was a book published in the UK by a poet called Kathleen Jamie (The
Autonomous Region, Bloodaxe, 1993) about a trip she made in the Karakorum. I
don't know if it could be found in the US. I was reminded of it - in a
complimentary way - when I read through yours. In that book the poems were
alongside photographs (kind of complimenting each other more than assisting
each other). Did you take photies? Could a blend of images and words work
alongside each other?

>From: Barbara Ostrander <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: Kathmandu trip
>Date: Mon, 13 Oct 2003 20:57:19 EDT
>
>Just some thoughts from my recent trip.  I'd love your critiques.
>
>Good to be back,
>Barbara
>
>***********************************************
>
>Thai Airways:
>
>  *the smell of rose water on hot towels
>  *stewardesses that skim the aisles like goddesses
>  *the colors purple and fuchsia, the richness of silk, the taste of spices
>  *food and more food
>
>**************************************
>
>In Kathmandu
>
>the devout ring bells,
>whirl prayer wheels,
>slaughter goats,
>touch red to phallic symbols
>and foreheads,
>worship what they have made
>with their own hands.
>
>we all find comfort, at times,
>in ritual,
>
>but what can it save?
>
>********************************
>
>When I forget You
>
>I'm one of the devout
>who worship daily at the temple,
>feel the emptiness of these gods
>I have chosen.
>
>***************************************
>
>Pashupati at Kathmandu
>
>4 things I cannot forget:
>
>  * wood thrown with a hollow thud to the temple's stone terrace
>  * a stricken mother's face as she drips holy water into her baby's
>uncovered
>mouth
>  * a bundle of infant clothing released to float downstream
>  * the smell of smoke
>HOW WOULD CHANGING THE ORDERING OF LINES ALTER THIS? (i'M TEMPTED TO PUT
>THE MOTHER & BABY LINE LAST...)
>*****************************************
>
>There are monkeys
>
>at the Swambu Temple in Kathmandu,
>high up the steep steps among the trees,
>they swing along the lattice work
>of prayer flags,
>eat food set before the gods.
>
>No one shoos them away,
>they are left to tread and touch
>what is forbidden to man.
>
>*****************************************
>Everest
>
>a dream of a lifetime
>magnificent, awe-inspiring,
>
>a part of the whole,
>yet undeniable
>
>not.
>
>**************************************
>
>Raxaul, Armpit of India
>
>The smell of sewage claims the place,
>welcomes you first.
>The faces suspicious and questioning.
>But through the door of the orphanage,
>every hand is outstretched in welcome,
>every face alive with greeting.
>Like love, children can do this...
>
>bridge the gap between worlds.
>NOT SURE YOU NEED THE LAST LINE - THE LOVE/CHILDREN LINE SAYS SO MUCH AS IT
>IS!
>***************************************************
>
>Scabies
>
>can burrow under the skin within 2 minutes,
>lay their eggs,
>erupt into open wounds.
>I watch you limp,
>touch hand to your hot face,
>investigate the bottom of your feet
>the infection, the green pus,
>that mingles with filthy ground.
>
>Not a tear or whimper,
>you join the others for dinner
>but I wonder,
>
>how to clean away a world of dirt,
>wash your feet so they stay clean
>
>after I am gone?
>
>***************************************
>
>Flying Yeti Airlines from Raxaul, India, back to Kathmandu:
>
>I start to clean my glasses, but it is the window that is dirty.
>Flat green plains below give way to forests with wide sandy river beds
>that cut through the densely growing trees.  The Monsoons have passed
>and the rivers are virtually dried up.
>Next to me, a woman in sari, her baby cries, but her young son sits
>glued to the window, bouncing in his seat, excited by flight.
>The steep hills rise up from the plains, cut with deep ravines
>and dotted with huts and terraced farms, (THE PHRASE "DOTTED WITH..."
>SOUNDS TOO UNORIGINAL...)
>mustard, tea, lush from above.
>Now flying blindly, over peaks, only clouds ahead through
>the cockpit window. (NOT TOO SURE ABOUT THIS LAST COUPLETS LINE BREAK...)
>I'M TEMPTED TO CUT OUT WORDS HERE... SOME DESCRIPTIVE PHRASES. I ALSO
>WONDER IF IT COULD BE REFORMATTED IN SHORTER LINES? IT LOOKS SO DIFFERENT
>FROM THE REST - YET IT ISN'T DOING MUCH THAT'S DIFFERENT. WHADDYA THINK??
>******************************************
>Jetlag
>
>In Bangkok it's 2 A.M.
>and jetlag won't let me fall asleep.
>My friend's noise maker leaves me
>drowning in a swollen river,
>the traffic outside the hotel window
>hasn't died out yet,
>nor has the light that trickles
>through the slit in the curtains.
>
>I count breaths,
>I count sheep,
>the alarm is set for 4 A.M.
>
>and I can't sleep.
>
>******************************************
>Home
>
>I am so close now,
>another thirty minutes and I'll be there,
>these are the longest miles of all.
>
>*****************************************
>
>I'm no poet
>I only play at words
>try to capture what I see
>already written
>behind eyes
>
>in the end
>all I can do is weep
>each story
>into the ground
>
>BBO
>10-2003
>
I'm not sure about this last part. Don't say "I am not a poet!" The
sentiment "all I can do is weep/ each story/ into the ground" is good!
I guess I'd like to see you stood on the ground (at the airport/at
home/whereever and this notion of weeping to happen... then it's as dramatic
as the rest. Then I can reflect and draw conclusions instead of (merely)
having to read yours! Know what I mean?
Bob

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