Waiting for a bus at Armarnath Temple

by Ieuan ap Hywel
The Wriiter's Block
Third Place, April 2018
Judged by R.T. Castleberry


I take a bite from my pastie. A yogi, brown as betel
juice, stands next to me, near naked save
for an umbrella, people bow to the divine in him.

A bell tings from within the Temple, a tinge
of regret, I have no faith, I cannot conceive
of a pantheon made in the images of beasts.

A pretty girl flits like a butterfly
around vapour rising from a dung heap,
spotless in her lemon dress.

There is a queue for the kerbside barber,
he wags his head as Hindus do, he grins
as I caress my two-day growth.

My expresso comes in a cardboard cup, courtesy
of the bus stop coffee shop, a broken down van,
sans wheels, sans engine, a surfeit of rust.

Sahrinda comes like a floating white shawl,
to wrap me in tenderness, her camisole pulls
my eyes to the soft swell of her breasts.

Our bus looms out of the New Delhi smog,
a red double decker, shaking and puffing
like an aged Loch Ness monster.


A casual slice of Indian life (A yogi, brown as betel/ juice, stands next to me, near naked save/ for an umbrella, people bow to the divine in him.) as the poet lingers, sampling the street life (A yogi, brown as betel/ juice, stands next to me, near naked save/ for an umbrella, people bow to the divine in him.) waiting near the temple for a friend. --R.T. Castleberry

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