Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

On Jalan Legian, muddy street of schemes
         and baseball-capped vendors
                                        of cheap watches and perfume,
                           the sky is sacred blue.

The sidewalk gleams with grime. Every dirty puddle
                    shines. Every filthy inch of asphalt,
every fold in the tattered skirts of black and white
                                                     wrapped at the waists
        of stone guardians at timeless shrines
glows in the boom of noon.

From the sidewalk, shops are dark,
                                                  stark with shadow,
         but when we linger, voices call--

                     “Hello.”
                               “Yes, have a look?”
          “Where are you going?’

Veronica unfolds sarongs of earthy tropical hues,
                              rich, dark shades in sunlight,
           and jokes with a shopkeeper
                                        in Indonesian.

“Ini suami saya,” she says. I know the words,
                      and I glance up.

He greets me, and appropriate to the day,
         I speak my little Indonesian,
                                        “Selamat Hari Natal.”

“Oh, Meri  Kerismas,” he says,
                                  "and you are Christian?”

Surprised, I blink and look at the sky. This blue
                    spans a land of ten million gods,
         yet every foreign face must follow only one.

Blue and yellow taxis honk in the streets.
                   Motor scooters and buses blast by.
I shake my head, searching for words
                                         in his language or mine,
          but find none before he asks again.

                          “Buddha?”

I consider the endlessly amusing possibilities.
                                              Me, a Buddha?
                    But I must say no. “Bukan.”

The shopkeeper frowns, confused,
                                                but soon brightens.

                               “Yes, Hindu.”

O, land of boundless possibility! I swear
                                        I will instantly convert!
         But I deny him again,
                   “Maaf, Bapak, bukan.”

Veronica explores racks and rows of clothes,
                              smiling at our slow words
                    and finally speaks,
       “Bapak, dia tidak punya agamah.”
                     "Sir, he has no religion.”

I’m astonished, amazed. No religion!
                  Veronica laughs at my fallen face.

“At least tell the man I’m a poet,” I whisper.
       She grins, “I don’t remember the word.”

Now, the shopkeeper smiles.
                               He has an answer at last.
      “O, begitu,” he says, “Dia bebas.”
                                                  “He’s free."