Li Pon Noisy Monk Turning Left

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

“When you write, you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Li Pon leaped on my bed

made himself quite comfortable,

and played a pan pipe.

“Foolish poet!

Solstice day, time to play!”

I was in a surly mood and

wanted to spend the day writing.

“Get away from me monk! I’m

writing – I can’t be bothered

by your foolish chatter.”

“Indeed! You’re writing, careful

what’s on the left!” he laughed

so hard he fell off the bed.

“I have something far better

than your silly scribbling.”

“Leave me alone monk! No one trifles

with a poet in the midst

of making love with a muse! Not even Li Pon.”

I slammed the door behind him.

“Damn noisy monk!”

I heard more silly giggling

in the background.

Now back to the story I was writing:

I followed the journey which began

with a dream, I was in Marrakech

in Djemaa Al Fna and

knew this by the astringent smell

of leather dyes, cumin, coriander, spices

from the markets mixed with donkey shit…

I took the hidden entrance that faces south to the mosque, there are no names to the streets, they’re referred to as the House of Saiid Al Hadid or some other person who lived there in centuries past or even now – if you wanted to find someone’s house—Mohammed the baker whose brother is the tinsmith—otherwise you had no business going down that street. Not a street for tourists, they were consumed by the yawning mouth of the souvenir, carpet and tchchka shops. Flutes and the oued rose upwards from the inner sanctum of the Medina and I followed the thread of the music, the winding coil that lead to the center of a chambered nautilus. Down an alley so tiny, a man could easily touch each house and a fully loaded donkey could scratch the walls with its load. Centuries peeled back. I followed the music like a snake enchanted by a flute playing faquir. A woman in a face veil from Essouria appeared with a child in tow, a soccer ball rolled down the street and I kicked it back, smells of fresh cumin, coriander and fried onions filled my senses, and I came to a small square that opened to the ruddy snow covered Atlas mountains. I was lost. To the right was a café and a noisy crowd, and one loud squeaky voice singing a Mandarin Chinese love song in reggae rap, approximately translated as: “Me love ya/ Me Love ya/ because your/ backside so wide/ me love/ me love/ po po love/ po po love.”

There could be only one source of such absurdity.

In the middle of the tavern, a bubbling fountain of giggles surrounded by a Moroccan ska band, as Li Pon looked up at me and winked.

“Did I imagine you again?” he said to me. “When you write you have to be careful about turning to the left.”