"Travel far enough, you meet yourself." David Mitchell
'Beyond the Sacred Mountains' Poetry
* scroll down to find each poem
Beasts! England
Beyond the Sacred Mountains Himalayas
Nyenchen Tanglha Tibet
The Sacred Mountain Nepal
Everest Nepal
Hac Sa Macau
Now! World
Jokhang Tibet
Bound China
Kanchenjunga Dawn Sikkim, India
The Dochula Bhutan
Floating Iran
Lamayuru Light Ladakh, India
Grit England
Stones of Venice Italy
Revolution Friday Iran
Trek Kettle Nepal
Ganga India
Buddha's Light Hong Kong
The Leaf Hong Kong
Aurora over Inari Finland
* All the photographs illustrating the poems were taken by David + Lynne Stott unless otherwise indicated.
© 2016 David A. Stott All Rights Reserved
Beasts!
Darkness envelops
Blackened grit-stone arches.
Approaching spinning steel,
Belching steam through grinding thuds.
Derailment!
Abrupt silence.
Glowing firebox glinting on coal dusted sweat.
Muffled shouts along the line . . . .
. . . . signals clunk.
Danger!
Two grime encrusted beasts menacingly
Approach in gathering gloom.
Clunking connections.
Stretched chains screeching.
Slow metallic reversing tension.
Pressure!
Sparking pyrotechnics.
Oiled hands twist, pull and turn
Juddering dials.
Engines straining within
Ferocious geysers of funnelled steam.
Relief!
Reversing shudders release
Pumping pistons.
Three beasts retreat into the night.
David Stott
April 2018
* Sometime in the early 1960's I witnessed an amazing event that coincided with the end of the steam age on our railways. I was about ten years old. I remember it was night time. I was walking down into my local village. As I approached The Arches, a railway viaduct leading to Littleborough station, I suddenly stopped. High up, above the arch over the A58, a partially derailed steam engine was enveloped in a mass of steam and sparks. Eventually two other coupled steam engines arrived to attempt to haul the derailed engine back onto the rails. It was an awesome sight!
* photos courtesy of Wikipedia
* photos courtesy of Wikipedia
David approaching the Kolahoi Glacier Kashmir 1985
Beyond the Sacred Mountains
Over the rainbow, beyond the Sacred Mountains, lies the Valley of Dreams.
Billowing clouds hang heavy in the foothills of normality.
Clouds roll back to reveal rare moments of clarity.
Crystal peaks shine over creative pastures.
Sparkling streams tumble between glistening boulders.
Crisp mountain air nurtures flashes of insight.
Emerging from pine and willow I ascend the stony path.
Pausing at the pass between the Mountains of my Mind.
Moments to glimpse unknown summits.
Staggering blindly I return down through dense thickets of bamboo.
Time to gather strength for the journey of a lifetime.
Sweet sounds gently calm my weariness.
Shining the glow over the hidden pass beckons.
I know the way.
I have trodden the path.
Once more the mountains will hear the crunch of my boots.
I climb the trail between the Towers of Silence.
My yak laden with bundles of flowing words and sweeps of colour.
Crossing the glacial threshold,
beneath the rainbow,
I wander beyond the Sacred Mountains.
David Stott
April 2017
David Kashmir Trek 1985
Nyenchen Tanglha Feng 7162 metres (23,497 feet) Tibet
Nyenchen Tanglha
Endless snow peaks stretch their jagged spine across frozen horizons.
Nyenchen Tanglha Feng's glaciated summits dominate Damshan's dusty ochred steppes.
Weathered wind-horses snap relentlessly below bitter blasts.
Largen La's snow-patched spurs reveal glimpses of the distant ice-bound Namtso.
Sturdy yaks wander beside shimmering turquoise waters.
Amber darkness descends upper snowfields.
Approaching dawn softly flushes the Nyenchen Tanglha and Namtso in frozen pink fusion.
David Stott
February 2017
* In April / May 2016 we travelled overland in Tibet. On Sunday 1st May we drove north from Lhasa on our way to Lake Namtso. For several hours we skirted the southern edge of the Nyenchen Tanglha mountain range. We stopped for a break at the closest point to Nyenchen Tanglha Feng which at 7162 metres (23,497 feet) is the highest peak. The entire area was covered in clumps of brightly coloured 'wind-horse' prayers flags. We eventually crossed the Nyenchen Tanglha over the Largen La pass at 5190 metres (17,027 feet). Descending from the pass we arrived at Namtso 4178 metres (15,479 feet) the highest salt-water lake in the world. At Namtso, where we stayed overnight, we had incredible views of the northern faces of the snow-capped Nyenchen Tanglha range.
Endless snow peaks stretch their jagged spine across frozen horizons.
Nyenchen Tanglha Feng's glaciated summits dominate Damshan's dusty ochred steppes.
Weathered wind-horses snap relentlessly below bitter blasts.
Largen La's snow-patched spurs reveal glimpses of the distant ice-bound Namtso.
Sturdy yaks wander beside shimmering turquoise waters.
Amber darkness descends upper snowfields.
Approaching dawn softly flushes the Nyenchen Tanglha and Namtso in frozen pink fusion.
David Stott
February 2017
* In April / May 2016 we travelled overland in Tibet. On Sunday 1st May we drove north from Lhasa on our way to Lake Namtso. For several hours we skirted the southern edge of the Nyenchen Tanglha mountain range. We stopped for a break at the closest point to Nyenchen Tanglha Feng which at 7162 metres (23,497 feet) is the highest peak. The entire area was covered in clumps of brightly coloured 'wind-horse' prayers flags. We eventually crossed the Nyenchen Tanglha over the Largen La pass at 5190 metres (17,027 feet). Descending from the pass we arrived at Namtso 4178 metres (15,479 feet) the highest salt-water lake in the world. At Namtso, where we stayed overnight, we had incredible views of the northern faces of the snow-capped Nyenchen Tanglha range.
Northern faces of the Nyenchen Tanglha mountains from Lake Namtso David and Nyenchen Tangla Feng 7162 metres (23,497 feet)
Machapuchare Annapurna Trek Nepal
The Sacred Mountain
Early light creeps across crisp sheets of fresh snow.
Transparent tears drip to the heartbeat of the mountain.
Sheer scales drop from its twisted tail.
Chilled turquoise dances with purified alabaster before plunging into a yawning crevasse.
Crystal waterfalls cascade into deep glacial pools.
Ancient icy swirls emerge from frigid hollows.
Sparkling bubbles meander in braided streams of champagne.
Youthful surges splash and swirl between frozen pinnacles.
High above glistening flurries fold into a summit of sweeping drifts.
Frosted flakes lift the soul of the sacred peak in a spiralling plume of spindrift.
David Stott
August 2016
* In December 1980 we trekked in the Annapurna region of Nepal. Our ultimate goal was the Annapurna Sanctuary.
En-route to this high glacial basin our eastern horizon was dominated by the peak of Machapuchare.
This majestic mountain, also known as the 'Fish Tail', is revered by local Nepalese.
Machapuchare has never been climbed to its summit. The only attempt in 1957 by a British team stopped within 150 metres
of the summit. Since then the mountain has been declared forever sacred and is now closed to climbers.
Early light creeps across crisp sheets of fresh snow.
Transparent tears drip to the heartbeat of the mountain.
Sheer scales drop from its twisted tail.
Chilled turquoise dances with purified alabaster before plunging into a yawning crevasse.
Crystal waterfalls cascade into deep glacial pools.
Ancient icy swirls emerge from frigid hollows.
Sparkling bubbles meander in braided streams of champagne.
Youthful surges splash and swirl between frozen pinnacles.
High above glistening flurries fold into a summit of sweeping drifts.
Frosted flakes lift the soul of the sacred peak in a spiralling plume of spindrift.
David Stott
August 2016
* In December 1980 we trekked in the Annapurna region of Nepal. Our ultimate goal was the Annapurna Sanctuary.
En-route to this high glacial basin our eastern horizon was dominated by the peak of Machapuchare.
This majestic mountain, also known as the 'Fish Tail', is revered by local Nepalese.
Machapuchare has never been climbed to its summit. The only attempt in 1957 by a British team stopped within 150 metres
of the summit. Since then the mountain has been declared forever sacred and is now closed to climbers.
David and first view of Everest Nepal December 1982
Everest
Swirling clouds lift and fall.
Far below the Dudh Kosi swerves between frozen ice floes.
Climbing steadily the trail touches protruding spurs.
Breathing heavily through a slow motion landscape.
Eerily quiet except for the soft crunch of my boots.
Years of dreaming, yet clouds hang heavy in the Upper Khumbu.
Increasing brightness pierces billowing mists.
Dissolving crisp white frames surround deep blueness.
Eager cries plunge through sunlit rays.
Ama Dablam's majestic snow spire pierces its cumulus collar.
Nuptse's serrated ice ridge rises in concertina fusion into Lhotse's icebound summit.
Higher and beyond, broad and black, the world's highest rock pyramid strongly striated with fresh snow.
Staring in awe and wonder, dream accomplished.
First view of Everest infinitely etched across time.
Once again clouds descend to shroud the Himalayas.
David Stott
10th July 1983
* In December 1982 Lynne and I trekked with friends in the Solu Khumbu region of Nepal. Our aim was Everest Base Camp on the Nepal side of the world's highest mountain. Due to some members of our party suffering from altitude sickness we had to stop at Dingboche, within one day's hike from the base camp. We had agreed before the trek that we would remain as a complete group if several members of the group were to become ill because of the altitude. Nevertheless Dingboche is a spectacular location under the ice ramparts of Nuptse and Lhotse. After early morning clouds obscured the Himalayan peaks the sun finally burned through revealing Ama Dablam, then Nuptse and Lhotse and finally Everest. I had achieved my lifetime ambition of seeing Everest!
In May 2016 Lynne and I returned to Everest but this time on the Tibetan side of the world's highest peak. We ascended the moraine of the Rongbuk Glacier under the north face of Everest. It was an awesome experience enabling me to follow in the footsteps of my heroes of the 1920's British Everest Expeditions.
Swirling clouds lift and fall.
Far below the Dudh Kosi swerves between frozen ice floes.
Climbing steadily the trail touches protruding spurs.
Breathing heavily through a slow motion landscape.
Eerily quiet except for the soft crunch of my boots.
Years of dreaming, yet clouds hang heavy in the Upper Khumbu.
Increasing brightness pierces billowing mists.
Dissolving crisp white frames surround deep blueness.
Eager cries plunge through sunlit rays.
Ama Dablam's majestic snow spire pierces its cumulus collar.
Nuptse's serrated ice ridge rises in concertina fusion into Lhotse's icebound summit.
Higher and beyond, broad and black, the world's highest rock pyramid strongly striated with fresh snow.
Staring in awe and wonder, dream accomplished.
First view of Everest infinitely etched across time.
Once again clouds descend to shroud the Himalayas.
David Stott
10th July 1983
* In December 1982 Lynne and I trekked with friends in the Solu Khumbu region of Nepal. Our aim was Everest Base Camp on the Nepal side of the world's highest mountain. Due to some members of our party suffering from altitude sickness we had to stop at Dingboche, within one day's hike from the base camp. We had agreed before the trek that we would remain as a complete group if several members of the group were to become ill because of the altitude. Nevertheless Dingboche is a spectacular location under the ice ramparts of Nuptse and Lhotse. After early morning clouds obscured the Himalayan peaks the sun finally burned through revealing Ama Dablam, then Nuptse and Lhotse and finally Everest. I had achieved my lifetime ambition of seeing Everest!
In May 2016 Lynne and I returned to Everest but this time on the Tibetan side of the world's highest peak. We ascended the moraine of the Rongbuk Glacier under the north face of Everest. It was an awesome experience enabling me to follow in the footsteps of my heroes of the 1920's British Everest Expeditions.
Hac Sa
Muddy breakers fold heavily onto seething black sands.
Curving oscillations crumple into foam.
Retreating brine sucks through ebony granules.
Screaming cicadas echo the imploding motion of spray.
Decomposed granite boulders paddle amongst tidal swirls.
Coastal vessels silhouetted chug between distant islands.
Whistling casuarinas enfold Coloane's shoreline.
Delicate chargrilled aromas drift down from Fernando's.
Darkness envelops the South China Sea.
Hac Sac submits to the stars.
* We were staying on the island of Coloane during a week-end visit to Macau with friends. Macau was a one-hour jetfoil journey from Hong Kong. Hac Sa is a black sand beach. Hac Sa is Cantonese for 'famous black sand'. The local waters are always muddy because of the influence of the Pearl River Estuary. Fernando's remains one of Macau's most popular and established restaurants.
** Photo courtesy of Adrian Ho
Muddy breakers fold heavily onto seething black sands.
Curving oscillations crumple into foam.
Retreating brine sucks through ebony granules.
Screaming cicadas echo the imploding motion of spray.
Decomposed granite boulders paddle amongst tidal swirls.
Coastal vessels silhouetted chug between distant islands.
Whistling casuarinas enfold Coloane's shoreline.
Delicate chargrilled aromas drift down from Fernando's.
Darkness envelops the South China Sea.
Hac Sac submits to the stars.
* We were staying on the island of Coloane during a week-end visit to Macau with friends. Macau was a one-hour jetfoil journey from Hong Kong. Hac Sa is a black sand beach. Hac Sa is Cantonese for 'famous black sand'. The local waters are always muddy because of the influence of the Pearl River Estuary. Fernando's remains one of Macau's most popular and established restaurants.
** Photo courtesy of Adrian Ho
Now!
Now!
Now my ink flows onto silken paper.
Now your eyes follow my words.
Now your now is my future.
Now is writing at my oriental desk.
Now is words echoing amongst my treasured books.
Now is the blossoming star magnolia swaying against the black bamboo.
Now is my expanding memory of wanderlust.
Blackstone Edge, millstone grit piercing snow blasted peat.
Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau, corniced peaks dazzling.
Isfahan, turquoise domes aglow.
Everest, soaring over ice shattered Nuptse.
Great Wall, undulating across dragon ridges.
Machu Picchu, rising over the waters of the Urubamba.
Uluru, whispering creation through glowing sandstone.
Dochula, revealing crystal horizon of endless summits.
Kanchenjunga, its fiery snows at dawn.
Himeji, castle of the 'Flying White Heron'.
Inari, frozen reflections of luminous rippling aurora.
Plain of Bagan, smouldering myriad of temples at dusk.
Now is a lifetime of distant places, dramatic journeys and awesome adventures.
Now my ink flows onto silken paper.
Now your eyes follow my words.
Now your past connects with my future.
* Looking out into our garden from my writing desk. Now momentarily we converge across time.
My now is your now.
Now!
* I wrote this poem to celebrate my love of travel and writing. The places are just a brief selection of some of the incredible places we have been fortunate to see on our travels. I love writing my journals with my fountain pen. I usually sit at my writing desk looking out at the magnolia and black bamboo. Around me are shelves of books about the Himalayas, Mount Everest, travel and poetry.
Now!
Now my ink flows onto silken paper.
Now your eyes follow my words.
Now your now is my future.
Now is writing at my oriental desk.
Now is words echoing amongst my treasured books.
Now is the blossoming star magnolia swaying against the black bamboo.
Now is my expanding memory of wanderlust.
Blackstone Edge, millstone grit piercing snow blasted peat.
Eiger, Monch and Jungfrau, corniced peaks dazzling.
Isfahan, turquoise domes aglow.
Everest, soaring over ice shattered Nuptse.
Great Wall, undulating across dragon ridges.
Machu Picchu, rising over the waters of the Urubamba.
Uluru, whispering creation through glowing sandstone.
Dochula, revealing crystal horizon of endless summits.
Kanchenjunga, its fiery snows at dawn.
Himeji, castle of the 'Flying White Heron'.
Inari, frozen reflections of luminous rippling aurora.
Plain of Bagan, smouldering myriad of temples at dusk.
Now is a lifetime of distant places, dramatic journeys and awesome adventures.
Now my ink flows onto silken paper.
Now your eyes follow my words.
Now your past connects with my future.
* Looking out into our garden from my writing desk. Now momentarily we converge across time.
My now is your now.
Now!
* I wrote this poem to celebrate my love of travel and writing. The places are just a brief selection of some of the incredible places we have been fortunate to see on our travels. I love writing my journals with my fountain pen. I usually sit at my writing desk looking out at the magnolia and black bamboo. Around me are shelves of books about the Himalayas, Mount Everest, travel and poetry.
Jokhang
Devout wide-eyed pilgrims shuffle deep within the Jokhang. Drifting wood-smoke softly fuses with clouds of floating incense. Humming, undulating vibrations reverberate within the purifying veil of juniper fumes. Flickering yak butter lamps shimmer across mellowed stone. Shining prayer wheels rubbed to burnished gold revolve to timeless flicking hands. Darkened interiors reveal jewel encrusted silver dragon pillars rising amongst smoke encrusted beams. Mumbling chants echo throughout the labyrinth of enlightened chambers. Awestruck amongst silken offerings devotees approach the gilded bronze Sakyamuni Buddha. Radiating its sacred essence into eternity the spiritual heart of Tibet pulsates over the Roof of the World. * In April 1985 we travelled to Tibet. We had originally planned to journey along the Silk Road by train however when applying for travel permits in Shanghai we heard that Tibet was open to independent travellers. We immediately changed our travel plans and secured permission to go to the 'Roof of the World'. On our first day in Lhasa we joined pilgrims at the holiest site for Tibetans, the Jokhang. It was a truly amazing travel moment! In May 2016 Lynne and I returned to Tibet. It was incredible to go back to the Jokhang Monastery in Lhasa after 31 years!
|
|
Kanchenjunga Dawn
Black velvet ridges sliced through star pierced ebony.
Indigo Gangtok sprinkled by random pre-dawn lamplight.
Violet essence transpiring skywards from diminishing darkness.
Purple tinged altitude ascends above the foothills of Sikkim.
Red embers within icy ramparts glow in craggy shadows.
Pink rose flushed crystals fuse into blushed glacial incisions.
Gold luminescence glimmers amongst pristine precipitous ice-fields.
White summit snows explode in a radiating flash of serrated spindrift touching the void.
* This poem was inspired by seeing an awesome dawn transform the summit snows of the world's third highest peak, Kanchenjunga, from Gangtok in Sikkim in 1994.
Kanchenjunga Dawn
Black velvet ridges sliced through star pierced ebony.
Indigo Gangtok sprinkled by random pre-dawn lamplight.
Violet essence transpiring skywards from diminishing darkness.
Purple tinged altitude ascends above the foothills of Sikkim.
Red embers within icy ramparts glow in craggy shadows.
Pink rose flushed crystals fuse into blushed glacial incisions.
Gold luminescence glimmers amongst pristine precipitous ice-fields.
White summit snows explode in a radiating flash of serrated spindrift touching the void.
* This poem was inspired by seeing an awesome dawn transform the summit snows of the world's third highest peak, Kanchenjunga, from Gangtok in Sikkim in 1994.
The Dochula
Sighing breezes caress sub tropical shadows. Exhilarated breaths sweep over the Dochula. Invigorated prevailing flows percolate distorted pines. Liberated mantras enter realms released by faded wind-horses. Snapping winds vibrate bleached calico stretched against weathered darchor. Undulating turbulence surges and sighs over rippled ridges descending un-travelled ravines. Surfing beyond fractured foothills blasts scour perpetual icebound snows. Rarified elements encircle Gangkhar Punsum's frozen summits sculptured by screaming plumes of spiralling spindrift. Eternal Land of the Thunder Dragon forever in the mountains of my mind. |
* In October 1995 we travelled to Bhutan known as 'Land of the Thunder Dragon'. On our journey between Thimpu and Punakha we stopped on the Dochula Pass. At 3150 metres above sea level it gave us a breathtaking view of the entire Eastern Great Himalaya. The ridge was covered with 'lungta' prayer flags often called 'wind horses' and 'darchor' prayer flags which are set on vertical flagpoles. |
Floating
Silently we slipped into the gliding waters of the Jarahi.
Zagros coolness enveloping hot parched skin.
Swept along the strong eddying currents scour the meandering artery
sliced deep through ancient alluvial sediments.
Floating downstream amongst transient bulbous hyacinths suspended
above muddy depths.
Slowly spinning, swirled around, spiralling undercurrents eroding the
steep hole-peppered riverbanks.
Finally sparkling silt laden gravels enable shallow egress below
the dusky pastel haze.
We ascend the precipitous track dripping into the cracked
fissured soil.
Emerging into the distorted desert horizon we resume life within the
rippled mirages of scorching midday heat.
* On a hot day in 1978 a Lebanese friend and I went for a swim in the Jarahi River. The title reflects the amazing experience of floating downstream surrounded by hyacinths. The river was close to the town of Bandar Mahshahr in the province of Khuzestan in the south of Iran. The Jarahi flowed down from the Zagros Mountains, across the flat desert plain, before entering the Persian Gulf. We were teaching at the Bandar Mahshahr International School. We escaped the Iranian Revolution in January 1979.
* photo courtesy of Wikipedia
* photo courtesy of Wikipedia
Lamayuru Light
Lamayuru light drenches faded prayer flags bleached high on the Fotu La.
Light glistens amongst distant snow-fields shattered beneath serrated ridges.
Light illuminates hessian tributaries of the Indus gouged through Himalayan rock.
Light intensifies sharp lunar shadows tumbling juxtaposed through craggy pinnacles.
Light diffuses flashing headlights as horn blowing rainbow tasselled trucks slowly meander
behind grinding military convoys.
Light dazzles verdant greens irrigated by sparkling waters bubbling down ancient channels.
Lamayuru light glints amongst pure whitewashed walls edged ochre-red in a cascading cluster of
crystallised blocks.
Light glances dappled folds of maroon that disappear into darkened doorways.
Light beams illuminate tantric pigments radiating from earthen plaster walls enlightened by suffused
sacred mandalas.
Light filters through dust laden air.
Light reveals cobweb strewn dulled turquoise and coral encrusted silver shortens.
Light softened yak butter dimness reveals silken texts their knowledge stacked reverently
against the walls of time.
Light pierces hallowed space beyond the weathered door igniting ancient images delicately
painted a millennium ago.
Lamayuru light flares skywards bathing its gompa in chiselled radiance.
Light etches upon memory as Lamayuru evaporates behind the shattered rocky spur.
* This poem was inspired by a visit to the ancient Buddhist monastery of Lamayuru in Ladakh in 1985. We had just crossed over the 4108 metre Fotu La Pass on our spectacular two day road journey over the Himalayas from Kashmir to Leh.
Grit
Approaching the Pennine crag its dark boulders cloaked in ancient dreams. I touch the granular conglomerate stone its millstone grit echoing forgotten estuaries their muddy deposits frozen through time. Deep beneath the blackened cliff within its shadowy underbelly whose overhang my fingertips reach to grasp the final quartzite hold. |
* My childhood haunts included the millstone cliffs and boulders of Blackstone Edge near Littleborough in Lancashire. I loved climbing and jumping between rocks while admiring the windswept views across the Pennines. |
Stones of Venice
I open the door
and enter.
Filtered sunbeams
illuminate
floating dust
across the palazzo's past.
Beyond velvet drapes
the 'Stones of Venice'
crumble
into
sparkling waters.
Scattered faded sketches,
distant domes,
gargoyle gables,
fan out
of the battered writing case.
Its gold embossed
JR
dissolves within its
travelled leather.
Close by
the delicate well worn
passport folder
lies open.
Its documents anxious
for the journey home.
The gondola awaits.
* This poem was inspired by John Ruskin's study at Brantwood situated above the waters of Coniston in the Lake District. The room was full of memorabilia from his life, scientific work and travels. He was particularly fond of Venice and its magnificent architecture. I was drawn to his battered leather writing case and passport holder. We spent a week in Venice in the spring of 2013.
I open the door
and enter.
Filtered sunbeams
illuminate
floating dust
across the palazzo's past.
Beyond velvet drapes
the 'Stones of Venice'
crumble
into
sparkling waters.
Scattered faded sketches,
distant domes,
gargoyle gables,
fan out
of the battered writing case.
Its gold embossed
JR
dissolves within its
travelled leather.
Close by
the delicate well worn
passport folder
lies open.
Its documents anxious
for the journey home.
The gondola awaits.
* This poem was inspired by John Ruskin's study at Brantwood situated above the waters of Coniston in the Lake District. The room was full of memorabilia from his life, scientific work and travels. He was particularly fond of Venice and its magnificent architecture. I was drawn to his battered leather writing case and passport holder. We spent a week in Venice in the spring of 2013.
Revolution Friday
Condemned,cocooned,
beside the croaking dube
a shadowy figure
crouches
praying.
Billowing, undulating,
a dark menacing mass
flows
black chadors
sweeping.
Dulled, thudding,
gunfire reverberates
above innocent faces,
rising anger,
crying.
Crackled, concise,
remote embassy voices
whisper
"keep a low profile"
reliable as fear
it's another Revolution Friday!
* In late 1978 and early 1979 we were caught up in the Iranian Revolution. We were living and teaching in the far south of Iran on the Persian Gulf. Towards the end of our time in Iran there were regular demonstrations in the streets around where we lived and also near our school.
A 'dube' is the name of the concrete rainwater channel at the side of the road. Most of the year they were dry but when the rains came the sound of frogs in the dubes was amazing!
Condemned,cocooned,
beside the croaking dube
a shadowy figure
crouches
praying.
Billowing, undulating,
a dark menacing mass
flows
black chadors
sweeping.
Dulled, thudding,
gunfire reverberates
above innocent faces,
rising anger,
crying.
Crackled, concise,
remote embassy voices
whisper
"keep a low profile"
reliable as fear
it's another Revolution Friday!
* In late 1978 and early 1979 we were caught up in the Iranian Revolution. We were living and teaching in the far south of Iran on the Persian Gulf. Towards the end of our time in Iran there were regular demonstrations in the streets around where we lived and also near our school.
A 'dube' is the name of the concrete rainwater channel at the side of the road. Most of the year they were dry but when the rains came the sound of frogs in the dubes was amazing!
Trek Kettle
Shining
amongst sooted clouds
my battered shell
summits
the woven basket
to climb
the Annapurna Trail.
Encamped
canvas clusters
flickering flames
my steam
released
amongst frozen breath.
Stubble
terraced dust
stirred
as my bubbling raksi
loosens
Sherpa chatter.
Rising
the glowing dawn
scours
perpetual snows
my wood-smoked tea
brewing
above dancing flames.
* The trek kettle was always on the campfire on our trek to the Annapurna Sanctuary in 1980. The Sherpa call of "Morning!" outside our tent, in the darkness before sunrise, meant the arrival of a welcome tin mug of wood-smoked tea. in the evening the kettle bubbled on the campfire heating up the raksi rice alcohol to accompany the Sherpa songs and dancing.
Shining
amongst sooted clouds
my battered shell
summits
the woven basket
to climb
the Annapurna Trail.
Encamped
canvas clusters
flickering flames
my steam
released
amongst frozen breath.
Stubble
terraced dust
stirred
as my bubbling raksi
loosens
Sherpa chatter.
Rising
the glowing dawn
scours
perpetual snows
my wood-smoked tea
brewing
above dancing flames.
* The trek kettle was always on the campfire on our trek to the Annapurna Sanctuary in 1980. The Sherpa call of "Morning!" outside our tent, in the darkness before sunrise, meant the arrival of a welcome tin mug of wood-smoked tea. in the evening the kettle bubbled on the campfire heating up the raksi rice alcohol to accompany the Sherpa songs and dancing.
Ganga
Sooryoday . . . . sunrise
Ganga
spurts to trickle
within darkened icy depths
her deep glacial blue waters
spewed
into the crystal light.
Madhy subah . . . . mid morning
Ganga
surges south
crashing amongst colossal boulders
between rippled foothills
releasing
her tumbling waters
onto the Indo-Gangetic Plain.
Dopahar . . . . noon
Ganga
gathers humanity
as she meanders
seeking solitude
across baking lowlands.
Samdhya . . . . sunset
Ganga
sighs as she floats
across
braided mangrove channels
her brackish waters
unaware of the approaching
monsoon deluge.
* I have always enjoyed our travels in India. I am fascinated by the River Ganges and its journey from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal. I was inspired by the stages in the life of the Ganges being compared to different times during the course of a day. I hope my attempts at Hindi are correct!
* photo courtesy of indiaexchange.org
Sooryoday . . . . sunrise
Ganga
spurts to trickle
within darkened icy depths
her deep glacial blue waters
spewed
into the crystal light.
Madhy subah . . . . mid morning
Ganga
surges south
crashing amongst colossal boulders
between rippled foothills
releasing
her tumbling waters
onto the Indo-Gangetic Plain.
Dopahar . . . . noon
Ganga
gathers humanity
as she meanders
seeking solitude
across baking lowlands.
Samdhya . . . . sunset
Ganga
sighs as she floats
across
braided mangrove channels
her brackish waters
unaware of the approaching
monsoon deluge.
* I have always enjoyed our travels in India. I am fascinated by the River Ganges and its journey from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal. I was inspired by the stages in the life of the Ganges being compared to different times during the course of a day. I hope my attempts at Hindi are correct!
* photo courtesy of indiaexchange.org
Buddha's Light
Pale pre-dawn light creeps across the rippled waters of the South China Sea.
My lonely figure outlined against the western sky high on Victoria Peak.
Dark island silhouettes slice through silken coastal waters.
Tall grasses sway below in the humid breeze.
Windows of cerulean blue alternate with drifting banks of mist.
Fine nebulous curtains drawn reveal distant ships at anchor.
Chilled overnight air releases freshness over the island's undulating backbone.
Beyond physical presence my inner journey imminently manifested.
Bursting out a streaking beam of brilliant sunshine pierces the wooded spine.
Simultaneously banks of damp vapour are instantly bathed in bright magnesium radiance.
Dazzling light illuminates washed airborne tints to create a truly perfect circular rainbow.
Astonishment as my shadow appears within its floating disc.
The dawn of the eighth day of the fourth moon.
It is the Buddha's Light!
* This poem celebrates an amazing natural phenomenon I experienced in May 1990. At the time I was working at Bradbury School on Hong Kong Island. As we lived in Fo Tan in the New Territories I had to leave home very early to avoid the traffic jams in the Harbour Tunnel. Some days I was so early that I had time to drive up to the Lookout near the summit of Victoria Peak. It was a time of reflection and meditation. That particular morning a shaft of brilliant sunshine from the sunrise behind me hit the moving thick mist directly in-front and below me creating a perfect circular rainbow. I was awestruck when I realised the head and shoulders within the circle was my own shadow! In China this experience is called the 'Buddha's Light'. Even more incredible is the fact that the next day we read in the South China Morning Post that Buddhists in Hong Kong had been celebrating the Buddha's birthday on the very day I witnessed this awesome sight!
* Image courtesy of Chinese Meteorological Department
The Leaf
Cool grey dankness envelops my twisted roots firmly moulded against mossy boulders. My leaves delicately moistened by the swirling humid mist. Twisting earthwards towards the dampness I gently settle amongst my fallen comrades. Day passes into night with the glowing city hum below radiating up through the darkness. Destiny looms as dawn breaks under leaden skies. Approaching footsteps . . . . Sensing the brief awareness of a momentary downward glance I become aware of my fragility. Yet silence returns lingering within the fine mists of this floating world. Footsteps return . . . . Scooped gently upwards I feel the warmth of caring fingertips. Entering a world beyond my dreams I become the chosen one. It was meant to be! I am a symbol of the journey that is yet to begin. Years pass by . . . . I remain a treasure within this lifetime of memories. I was there at the beginning. Once more a leaf falls through the drifting drizzle. |
* This poem was inspired by a walk on Lugard Road, a footpath high up on Victoria Peak, on Hong Kong Island. I picked up the leaf from the 'white wood incense' tree known as 'Pak Muk Heung' in Cantonese. It is from this fragrant tree that Hong Kong got its name 'Fragrant Harbour'. It was Friday 18th November 1988. I had walked past the leaf by nearly half a mile when I felt the desire to walk back and find it! It was the catalyst for my lifelong spiritual journey that continues to this day. This precious leaf is now preserved in the sketchbook I used during the late 1980's in Hong Kong. * photo courtesy of Intercontinental Gardener |
Aurora over Inari
Snuggled within the undulating frozen shoreline of Inari
isolated Nellim settles into the creeping glow of the Arctic twilight.
Winter darkness envelops the desolate lakes and forests on the edge
of the Vasari wilderness.
Silently the frigid lake waters empty out into the meandering Paatsjoki
gliding northwards to the barren wastes of the Barents Sea.
Emotions intensify as without warning breath-taking bands of luminous
neon greens multiply and stretch across the velvet blackness.
Celestial starlight penetrates glowing swirls of solar wind hanging high
above the earth.
Dense wooded riverbanks intercepted by ghostly islets of silver birch
divide sliding icebound reflections from the ethereal dance.
Far out across the silent snow laden ice a faint hint of glowing
paradise wings beat smoothly above the western horizon.
Eerily ascending over the star studded dome swathes of incandescent gossamer
merge into a symphony of auroral enchantment.
Beneath the sparkling diamond vault glowing flames dance in a halo of Sami
firelight amongst the dark lakeside firs.
Plunging cold intensifies penetrating the petrified landscape with a floating
haze of motionless ice dust.
High above the astral dance sweeps across in nebulous braids of pulsating light.
Roaring synchronised energy powers our convoy of glistening
snowmobiles homeward bound into the biting depths of the polar night.
Icy stillness returns to the frozen expanse of Inari.
* In February 2014 we spent an exciting week in the isolated village of Nellim, beyond the Arctic Circle, in the far north of Finland. During the day we were cross-country skiing, snowmobiling, snow-shoe hiking, husky sledding and ice fishing. However we spent the evenings aurora spotting! We were so lucky to see the 'northern lights' over several nights. They were truly awesome! The highlight was snowmobiling 25 km out onto the frozen Inari Lake to watch the aurora in the crystal clear starlit skies above. Our Sami guides then lit a campfire in the deep snow of a clearing amongst the firs. It was magical!
© 2016 David A Stott All Rights Reserved