Colin This poem has so much atmosphere and I get a real sence of this place.
It evokes the senses, the smells as you walk along the waterfront and the
taste as you eat the simple food. The sense also of intense cold  and the
contasting heat and cleanliness as each guest washes his feet.
The title Christmas is so apted as this shows the true christmas spirit in a
communist country as the uncle shares what little food he has and gives up
his warm bed for his guests. The last verse sums the poem up for me as this
shows that he realises he is poor by his guests standards but that there are
others poorer than himself. It is as if he is  proud of his daughter despite
missing her. It speaks volumes and works on many layers for me. I found it
very interesting. and there were many lovely little anecdotes (if this is
the right word " like "Red blankets wrap white babies in a floor of silk"as
he descibes the peanuts. Is so poignant for me showing the hospitality and
the welcome and love for the guests.
I wonder if this is part of a series?
The only thing that jarred a little for me was "but lean over boys with a
ball getting smaller and smaller".
Thanks for the read Sally J

>From: hui dewar <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: newsub/Xmas
>Date: Sat, 17 Jul 2004 16:29:25 +0100
>
>     Christmas in Hangzhou
>
>
>
>Along the waterfront at Hangzhou young men tug my arm.
>
>Will I go by boat on the West lake?
>
>"Only five quai", they cry
>
>while old women push flutes, post cards
>
>and incense as I pass. Must my nose
>
>seem so large beneath my cap?
>
>
>
>Uncle's block is just as I recall,
>
>in communist grey, and I smile
>
>on the way up eight flights,
>
>pass a space in the wall at each floor,
>
>expect glass, but lean
>
>over boys with a ball
>
>getting smaller and smaller.
>
>
>
>Warm coats stay on indoors.
>
>"Pass the bucket of hot water", I shout
>
>as I pull shoes, numb fingered, two pairs of socks,
>
>roll Long Johns past my knees.
>
>
>
>"Cook them", yells Uncle with his gap-toothed grin.
>
>It's an hour for everyone to have a turn
>
>with a fresh kettle for each set
>
>of pale feet.
>
>
>
>Peanuts rustle in a bowl and Uncle shows my son
>
>how each husk is a house:
>
>
>
>"Enter as slowly as you wish.
>
>Red blankets wrap white babies
>
>on a floor of silk."
>
>
>
>We chew cylinders of cane,
>
>summer sun with each suck,
>
>spit pith into a basket
>
>when the sweetness leaves,
>
>cradle melon and pumpkin seeds in our palms.
>
>All evening to split them from their shells
>
>till our nails are cracked and thin.
>
>
>
>The ten-watt bulb is too dim to read by
>
>and there's no TV.
>
>We talk and Uncle nods
>
>when I say that he misses his daughter,
>
>glances at a poster of three kittens, torn from a calendar,
>
>a child's glasses and books worn at the spine.
>
>
>
>That night duvets stuffed with wadding
>
>weigh down  on the four of us in the double bed.
>
>Back from the toilet, I stumble on uncle and aunt
>
>on the concrete floor, sharing a cotton blanket,
>
>mumble what I didn't know,
>
>then return to the guest's bed.
>
>
>
>At breakfast, Uncle is full of fun,
>
>and laughs, asks why
>
>I spend my holiday in Hangzhou.
>
>
>
>"For you coming here
>
>is like us staying with peasants.
>
>If our daughter were not in France,
>
>we'd definitely have a better house."
>
>
>
>
>
>___________________________
>
>
>
>Colin
>
>
>
>
>

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