Open Writing

All over Bali the crying of cocks rises like wispy wood smoke and steam
through wet forests, green palms; across still rice paddies,
green lakes intricately ascending , winding upward through days and years;
and patient kites wait on the afternoon breeze to float above the whirring ‘kipas’.
the muffled woof of listless dogs a counterpoint.
But down where the tourists swarm:
dusty streets and open gutters and littered lanes
and hungry hens scratching for scrawny chickens in the rubbish heaps:
and glorious jewelled cocks crammed into rattan cages
and guides and vendors and cameras
and the tourist’s grandma’s lift their children up, above the heads of the crowd,
to view the last hours of the public corpse;
the immolation aided by the technology of butane gas.
Who cares about the nearest and dearest?
For the cost of scarcely a breath the tourists buy
dazzling batik saris, carved stone pots,.
sparkling silver, hard wood worked by patient hands like softly fluid clay,
chess sets; garish paintings; and, it is said,
young girls for the equivalent of 50 cents.
Forget about blue seas and towering green volcanoes,
Surf, and glass-bottomed boats,
Luxury hotels and upmarket restaurants…
You smell hunger on Bali, I am haunted by it.
You buy your water in bottles.
The dogs are mangy and thin.
The shrivelled cats lurking in the undergrowth
Eat dry bread and bones that have already been sucked dry.
The fruit is contaminated.
People work whole days for the price of a handful of rice.
And it hurts that the life of the cocks
and that of the young girls too
are both forfeit to the gambler’s dollar