stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 14342
    [post_author] => 4
    [post_date] => 2012-02-03 19:29:43
    [post_date_gmt] => 2012-02-03 19:29:43
    [post_content] => The prodigal leaves return to me,
Rewind into the breasts of a rain-tree.

Repose.  I’m an amnesiac –Malacca, Malaga;
Oh, what’s in a word?

Not to say I am forgetful.
I liked cinnamon.  I loved a boy

once.  He was brown and wore a sarong.

Lived in a stilt-house by the rocking-chair sea.

He proffered a Kris,  then a fish-scale moon. 

I had them smoked, licked them

like a delicate
Hashish.

They rode the furling breadths of

poppies on me, eggshell-extracted to find

themselves in a Mandarin’s

cup. Or in a man, chewing his

rice, himself. 

Opiate was I. 

I thought I was
a river, presently a rhythm.

 

And now?  I am ancient -a withering hymn.

A girl from a distant island,

suddenly insecure in a dust-and-eternity market.  

I  have heard the red liveries, the Union Jack,

the cross erected on the sand.

I know Christ, and I know Paul -but who are you?

 

Call me Exotic, eternal, I tell them.

I am fragile, wilting in the hands of pale Fish.

I know your impotence, your semen.

As well as the fingers of a Javanese God.

A thousand years and the gold-haired tourists

scuffing my shores have not erased me,

and neither will you-

not for all the tea in China.
    [post_title] => The Monsoon Speaks Her Defence
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => the-monsoon-speaks-her-defence
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2015-11-26 13:08:07
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2015-11-26 13:08:07
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=14342
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2012
            [wpcf-summary-description] => Glyn Maxwell says: In the hands of Joshua Kam the Monsoon itself is a proud, glamorous, slightly plastered old beauty looking back at her life from an eternal late-middle age, recounting ancient conquests in some tropical watering-hole, like an oriental Wife of Bath: ‘Not to say I am forgetful./I liked cinnamon. I loved a boy/once.’ The stanzas trail off admirably into distinct silences: ‘Oh what’s in a word?’ [shrug] ‘a delicate/Hashish…’ [sigh] ‘presently a rhythm…’ [maybe downs her gin sling before adding:] ‘And now?’ When she tells us ‘A thousand years and the gold-haired tourists/scuffing my shores have not erased me,/and neither will you…’ we feel seriously told.
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Dramatic Monologue Challenge 2012
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 13669
            [forename] => Joshua
            [surname] => Kam
            [title] => Joshua Kam
            [slug] => joshua-kam
            [content] => Joshua Kam is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Dramatic monologue' poetry challenge.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 13669
    [forename] => Joshua
    [surname] => Kam
    [title] => Joshua Kam
    [slug] => joshua-kam
    [content] => Joshua Kam is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Dramatic monologue' poetry challenge.
)

The Monsoon Speaks Her Defence

Joshua Kam

The prodigal leaves return to me,
Rewind into the breasts of a rain-tree.

Repose.  I’m an amnesiac –Malacca, Malaga;
Oh, what’s in a word?

Not to say I am forgetful.
I liked cinnamon.  I loved a boy

once.  He was brown and wore a sarong.

Lived in a stilt-house by the rocking-chair sea.

He proffered a Kris,  then a fish-scale moon. 

I had them smoked, licked them

like a delicate
Hashish.

They rode the furling breadths of

poppies on me, eggshell-extracted to find

themselves in a Mandarin’s

cup. Or in a man, chewing his

rice, himself. 

Opiate was I. 

I thought I was
a river, presently a rhythm.

 

And now?  I am ancient -a withering hymn.

A girl from a distant island,

suddenly insecure in a dust-and-eternity market.  

I  have heard the red liveries, the Union Jack,

the cross erected on the sand.

I know Christ, and I know Paul -but who are you?

 

Call me Exotic, eternal, I tell them.

I am fragile, wilting in the hands of pale Fish.

I know your impotence, your semen.

As well as the fingers of a Javanese God.

A thousand years and the gold-haired tourists

scuffing my shores have not erased me,

and neither will you-

not for all the tea in China.