The joy must be in there somewhere.
Poetry from John Grey: Tropical Paradise, Photographs
Tropical Paradise
The dead are buried above ground for the soil will not have them. They lie in shoddy coffins surrounded by skulls. Each grave comes with its own brass begging bowl. Offerings are made and offerings are spent, though no one knows by who and on what. There is a smell to the air that is not quite rotting flesh yet not incense either. It’s disguised well enough by the odour of a clove cigarette smoked by a solitary mourner. Surrounding palm trees sop up enough of the death to neutralize its brutality, as they ward off the sun with flat floating fronds. Not a mile from here is a bustling beach flooded with foreign tourists. Europeans, North Americans, are either pampered by locals serving drinks for the bar, or hustled by the ones selling trinkets. That the inhabitants also die would never occur to them.
Photographs
Everyone is smiling. At least, they would be if each and every one of them possessed a smile in their repertoire of expressions. But the older ones, those preserved in fading black and white, were dour in the moment their picture was taken. Who knows? Maybe dourness is happiness where they come from. They didn’t starve. They had a roof over their head. They survived. The joy must be in there somewhere. Just not around the mouth.
About the Author
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. His latest books, Subject Matters, Between Two Fires and Covert are available through Amazon. He has works upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos.