While riding for over 2200 miles across the middle top of the US map, I had a chance to read a version of the Chinese classic Monkey, or A Journey to the West. The story concerns the adventures of Monkey--as you might have guessed--a magical being who has adventures and learns about Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism. The stories are frequently allegorical and peppered with pithy aphorisms and proverbs. He's bellicose, a braggart and a bit Rabelasian. Eventually, he achieves enlightenment. So he's got that going for him. The book has been described as an episodic folk novel. At any rate, I've been interested in Monkey for a while, and it was great to get to know him a bit better. Thus, we have the following, tender and new, poem. Not an ecopoem so much, but it does take up my games project that I can seem to get away from.
The Monkey King doesn’t know how to ask
to play the game, but the woman takes it down
from the shelf anyway and unfolds the board.
He reaches into the box to set out the pieces,
but they are glass and he is cut, several times.
He is never sure of the rules, keeps scratching
and she keeps pushing his hand away.
The telephone rings then is silent. It rings again.
Monkey holds cards in his calloused paw,
can’t decide if they’re money or demands.
He jumps up, chattering, and she walks out
into heavy green spring. Alone for a moment,
Monkey studies the board with its hammers
and paintbrushes, skillets and peelers,
diapers, pets and boxes and boxes and boxes.
He scratches, looks around, scratches again.
Who brought this game down? He searches
the box for directions. What does winning mean?
He hears ringing, smells flowers. Skies darken.
He cannot fold the board. It refuses to be put away.
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