More tomorrow-

Galen

A truck passes me, squeaky-loud like a kicked dog
Urine spreading under every foot like liquid democracy
Puzzles of lepers missing pieces
My feet are a boil of itchy poison
A milion particles of a million people blowing everywhere
People of dust in mountains of peace
and the scent of open sewers follow from Agra to Dharamsala
like a blooming fever
Her young malnurished hair spotted copper like the orange-leafed Goldmore
tree
Roads, in every place, confused as to where they are going
Your heart is a fist of cows and garbage, love at first light, a dismal sun
Brahma bulls doze garbage, vehement and greedy as multinational CEOs
Every request agreed to, and so often, never comes true
Gods of a sort, neglected, worshipped by congregations of flies & mosquitoes
and every delay met with a friendly sharptoothed ju leh!
Confused, yet directed, a place of patterned order out of colored chaos
Fork-tailed kites survey their kingdom of taxis and buses farting
The Roof of the World & a shattered basement flooded with prayer
Circus colors among the backbone of half-erected visions
Ladakhi birds whistle out of univson like the conversation of horns in New
Delhi
Fuzzy puppies in the streets "like a Rez dog: if you pet it, it's yours,"
Linnea says
Solitary broken smiled woman circling prayerflags like trapped cars on a
Delhi round-about
Pink plastic bag tied with scavenged string catching the hopes of a
desperate child
Flirting with boys, then a leper pops into view
The fizz looks like rainbow bubbles overflowing my heart
My stomach tries to escape through my mouth
as I put the sour yogurt on my tongue

still a child, i beg
to be lifted, to cling
to your old volcanic breasts
a rock climber conquering past self.

- d. linnea decker

The light inside is aching,
spirit blocked by my boulder chest.
Time working its wear
to chistle the powder down.

-SM Decker

Temporary insanity, hah! Try permanent insanity. What a warped and twisted way to run a city -- run humanity! People stacked on top of each other -- fitting together like lincoln logs (by the way did you find that last piece for my reconstruction of George Wilhelm's manor house? I thought not). Whose sadistic and denigrated mind conceived of this? People shoving themselves, their children, their goods at your nose, into your face like a coke addict burying themselves in a new batch of their favorite remedy. Pure madness! Unable to take even a baby step without stepping on some poor wretch's leg -- real or not -- trodding with every movement on the dignity of these people, this city.
Indeed this city seems to be nothing but this heaving wave of people. Never-ending like an ocean, rolling over the poverty, the destitution breaks upon the shore of our wealth and Americanism. Stand up you sods! Salute the flag! Ten four and ten heel! Go on! Rape this world you sorry sons of bitches! Take this un-ending and unyielding populace, put it in a cage and bring your children to gawk and wonder in mild amusement. Ha ha! That's it, don't feed the beasts, that'll just tame and encourage them. We want them feral and wild to perform for our demented pleasures.
Dance monkey dance, squeal and yelp as I apply what pressure that I may -- crushing you under my thumb. Take this head, unscrew it from my neck and put it on backwards so I can count you with horror in your eyes until my cerebrum explodes with exhaustion.
God watches with waiting eyes, laughing at our foolish endeavours, striving for meaning out of this grand futility. Oh you sad people, oh you destitute, you over-acheiving, over-flowing every imaginable limit -- why have you forsaken me? This broken man sitting here against a rough polluted tree gasping for a drop of shade, a dollop of anything; he, this man with no teeth or fingers or hope, this man shall inherit the earth?
Insanity indeed.

I cannot take this drink, I must not
It is mysterious like the sandy path of a nomadic tribe.

No, no take this drink to forget
The tracks of your mind will be swept clean like footprints in the sand.

I will not take this drink, I will not forget.
My memory will keep me wise and protected as an owl hidden in an ancient cactus.

You must take this pina colada
Only then will you be free as a wily coyote choosing his prey.

I will not take this pina colada
That would be more dangerous than a sidewinder slithering to strike.

Drink, drink, drink the pina colada
Even the fierce hawk cannot fly free without confronting great danger

Very well, I will drink this pina colada
The delicate desert flower is fleeting and must enjoy the soothing nectar of life when it can.

Sloping cliff faces bump-up
against the sky, azure
as temple prayer flags
at Ahmelee's house
The Himalayas sprawl for me
They're almost crude, pronouncing
their presence

I lather sun screen on my white skin,
put sunglasses over my blue eyes
not made for this light.
Ahmelee's sienna skin is dark
as woodland bark hues of Mongyu.
I hide behind what must seem fragile.
This sun is mine.

By: Jennifer Maples

Impermanence
-A song about Chang

If you encur, you might get a slur
or your head will spin like the merry-go-round

I don't want to spin I want
to be like the mountain

Mountains change too
They just have a higher tolerance for the
disruptive intoxication

Why be disrupted? Buddha says
"Be present, life is impermanent."

If life is impermanent, then why not partake?
Drink, drink while you can.

By: Elizabeth Duke and Jennifer Maples

I am incredibly, undoubtedly, unfathomably lucky, blessed and thankful.
To be here, to see these amazing places and people.

Thanks for your smile stranger, letting me take your photo, it is not just my souvenir you live in my mind and I in yours, do not be mistaken. Perhaps this memory, this image lives in his mind too, of me, the white-haired American girl who took his picture, shook his tiny hand, thanked him and will never, ever forget him.

Thanks for making this trip possible mom! I love you.
Jen Maples

Naked feet and heads to ground
a geometric design leaves room for truth in prayer.
A tall dark staircase gives birth to eyes in search of the next step.
Cement hot as fiery coals, burns the soul as the pace quickens.
Cries for chipati fill the smog dense as desperation that enters
our lungs in deep heavy breaths.
Hidden in chaos is a hope for peace.
Spaubbling hands reach out for help
while women in a flurry of elegance bright pink as desire pass by.
Old women with tales told by wise wrinkles observe Delhi streets.
Like wondering mummies dogs leave questions of whether they are dead or
alive.
Are they breathing?
Children crippled by the hands of their fathers prove
human evil is passed down like a family name.
Toxic urine evaporates streets and
blue eyes are out numbered one to a million.

--Jamie Johnson

--Lauren Mann

Things here in Dharamsala over the past few days have been fantastic and dynamic.

McLeod Ganj has been abuzz with His Holiness the Dalai Lama's teachings, which are being offered primarily for the monastic community on the vinaya traditions of the Buddhist order. Their Holinesses the 17th Gyalwa Karmapa and Sakya Trizen are also in town for this event, which makes for some truly powerful people in the neighborhood.

We had the good fortune of attending an afternoon teaching and reception with HH the Gyalwa Karmapa yesterday afternoon, which was an excellent introduction to the traditional style of Tibetan Buddhist public teaching as well as the protocol of meeting rinpoches and high lamas. Before this, we spent the morning and early afternoon at the tranquil Norbulinka Institute, visiting the artistic workshops and galleries which produce and preserve such exceptionally fine Tibetan works of art.

This afternoon we will visit the Tibet Museum before having an afternoon discussion with Tenzin Choeying, President of Students for a Free Tibet, India. This will make a fitting conclusion to our guest speaker series here in Dharamsala, learning how, once back home, we can act on all that we have learned here in India about the Tibet and China political situation and independence movement. Previous discussions with local and prominent authors, activists, and former political prisoners, including Lhasang Tsering, Tenzin Tsundue, and Ama Adhe have provided an exceptional foundation for our new understanding of this complex situation.

Other activities here in McLeod Ganj and Dharamsala have included: visits to the Men Tse Khang Tibetan Medical and Astrological Center (for the new experience, a number of students and teachers had consultations with doctors and astrologers as well); a talk with Geshe Lhabdrak, Director of the Library of Tibetan Works and Archives; morning attendance at Namgyal Monastery, where we were able to see Their Holinesses the Dalai Lama, Gyalwa Karmapa, and Sakya Trizen on a couple of occasions; and ample time to explore McLeod’s many bookstores, clothing shops, and cafes.

Students returned from their homestays this morning, having again connected quickly and closely with these wonderful and welcoming families. Final writing assignments are being completed today, before group presentations commence this evening. After dinner we’ll then be driving to Pathankot, from where we’ll take an overnight A/C train back to Delhi. One more day for all the last minute things tomorrow, and then we go our separate ways.

It’s been a terrific time here in McLeod Ganj and Dharamsala and we’ll be in touch again from Delhi once we’re back down south in the heat.

-Galen

I've just returned here to the Likir House after seeing the group off at the airport, where their flight was scheduled to take off on-time.

We had a nice and low-key final day in Delhi yesterday. After arriving from Pathankot on the overnight train Shalimar Express, we returned to the guest house for some mid-day rest and relaxation. Final shopping excursions and trips to the post office took place in between wrapping up writing assignments and the packing of bags. Before our excellent dinner at Park Balochi, a decidedly non-vegatarian restaurant set amidst a zoo/arboretum park in South Delhi, the group had an afternoon reading here at Likir House over tea, biscuits, and lychees. All members shared a favorite poem or prose piece which they'd composed over the past two weeks. These literary works were absolutely amazing, and not only did each individual articulate her or his experiences in a profound way, but demonstrated a new way of seeing and thinking about our places in the world, influenced by all that we have encountered here in Ladakh, Dharamsala, and Hindustan. I look forward to reading and hearing more from everyone as time for further reflection presents itself.

Molly and I will be here in Delhi for the rest of the day, trying to stay cool under the A/C, and other than some final programmatic details to attend to and a visit to the dentist, it will be nice and quiet here in the neighborhood.

That's all for now-

Galen

Old Woman at Likir Monastary

A face like clothing worn long and worked hard in,
threadbare, dark, and familiar
wrinkles like radiant star beams,
teeth gone on to make more room for smiling.
Om mani padme hum!
Emphasis on the last syllable,
Walking clockwise around prayer wheels and westerners,
looking us straight in the eye
and teaching us how to be compassionate.

El Cockroachie

We stay in an El Cockroachie Inn,
Indian style, air conditioner growling
so loud I can't hear myself
sweat.

So it won't be until after Agra
that I remember the way
my dad laughs,
mustache bristling,
when he tells stories
about old Forest Service buddies,
homebrew in hand--

and the way my mom
takes just a taste of beer
and tells Dad to chop less peppers
for the stir fry tonight
while Garrison Keilor shares
the news from Lake Wobegon--

and the way they keep their eyes open
for travel-stained lodgings,
keep them open
(like my roommate in Agra does)
for cockroaches in the shower.

Namaste-Jullay-Tashi Delek: Ben, Bill, Ellie, Jamie, Jenn, Kate, Lauren, Linnea, Molly, Pam, and Sarah-

I hope you all have had a smooth and sleepful flight over to London by now, and that the next stage of your journey begins with a promising flourish.

Molly and I have been wrapping things up here at the Likir House today, and in between a visit to my dentist in south Delhi and a reunion with Peter and Amit tonight, I've been thinking more or less non-stop about our past two weeks together.

I've been wanting to write, but the necessities of packing bags and paying bills have thus far precluded such an opportunity. However, the pen will start soon, and just so you know, I truly meant what I said last night-in that it was inspiring, day after day, to be with the eleven of you on such a literary journey.

It was a pleasure for me to introduce you to a bit of the ways of India during the course of our time together, and on behalf of Global LAB, I’d like to sincerely thank you for being a part of our amazing group, for making it all happen.

I

In Norbulingka begins the pulse
of water under prayer flags, bamboo and
tropical figs. Even air holds
its breath steady listening to thin syllables
raising the consciousness of the stream.

Doves quicken thick leaves, their
throat-songs on the edge
of Babel, insistent. Love me. Love
Me. Light slides like a silk sleeve
over the water buffalo shoulders of rocks,
carved in the four-colored keys—
Om mani padme HUM--and the hungry traffic
of the world dissolves. Peace
and the flame-toned lily spreads its six tongues
to a shifting sky.

II

Why does the heart take
so long to arrive
in any place, days
even weeks after the body
with its sonambulent tastes
unpacks its luggage, forgets
home?

III

A white-cheeked bulbul flips
upside-down, clowns
in a mango tree,
and I no longer imagine his antics
are just for me,
as time clicks its worry beads, flickering
through all of us.

IV

What is the nature of longing but the body
disappearing like wet silk
disintegrating in the rush of current
over stone? What
begins water or the tensile strength
of spider webs caught on my skirt?

V

This far gone, home is more heart
than bone, than stucco,
windowpane or sandstone
strewn by design in our front yard.

What I don’t miss—the niggling
tongues of newscasters
playing the old stick game
of disaster, the on-going argument
that sends thousands
away from home to roadside bombs,
to the broken metal teeth of Iraqi streets,
the blood-smeared deities of conquest
in the Bardo of civil war.

VI

Sun strafes Himalayan peaks, speaks
something like Shangri-la, distills
to serene wine in this slow garden, where
blue-headed magpies fan the long elegance
of white tail plumes through
a jungle of heat-deflecting leaves.
Even random dogs are polite,
don’t bite when offered a vulnerable hand.

VII

Just up the hill, the Dalai Lama chants, his voice
old and deep as whale-song, instructing
monks in the art of peace. Namgyal monastery is misplaced
along with the survivors and their memories
of torture and extermination in Tibet, where
high ridge after ridge razors blue air,
where Chinese settlers swarm, inexhaustible
as colonies of ants, and where the songs of birds
and dzos are driven across snowline.

Two red dragonflies mate
As I whisk black ants
from their task of cartography,
charting my body’s intrusion
into their ancient trade routes. Negotiating
treacherous folds, they skitter
across the turquoise terrain
of my skirt. Is their intent
less passionate than mine?

VIII

In Norbulingka, monks in blood-
red robes glide past like
contemplative poppies among tourists
staring at intricate Tibetan boxes, tangka paintings
and boxcar-sized bronze sculptures
of Buddha in this place remade
from the broken bones of home.

No barb wire or cattle prods, no Chinese
tanks rattle these refugee streets
where the main commerce is meditation
and healing—the miracle is that
the heart persists, intoned dusk
and dawn, in the spin of gold prayer wheels
above gold carp who for centuries have
learned water’s changing moods,
learned to adapt to wild current thrash
and sullen backwater.

I admire these weightless filmy ghosts
disguised as fish. What do they see
through bulging sun-colored eyes
but my distorted shadow blocking their sky
and the way I disappear completely as any bird wing
or common leaf blown
across the transported face of water
that is constantly leaving.

Pamela Uschuk
Dharamsala, India