The Endless East: A Collection of Poems
Russell Bogue
University of Virginia, CLAS ‘16
Jefferson Global Seminars: Hong Kong
I Looked Down on Mountains
If by mountains you meant those
misshapen, God-shapen things that
the ceaseless millennia regard as
stubbornly permanent and steadfast
in the capacity to make oh and
soul-wonder—then no. I did not
look down on mountains.
But if by mountains you meant
a city of men and industry
that towered on the banks of a
salty harbor like a droplet of steel
cohering, bulging unnaturally;
or a blanket of grasping concrete roofs
that pricked God’s creation and His
underbelly; or a world predominated
by the vertical that hid the horizontal
dealings of a people not yet certain
whether best is east or west, whether
to speak or to listen or to draw lines
in the air; or a vision of the modern
humanity that sang of great things
to build, to conquer, to systematize
and render pleasingly efficient; or the
breaching genius of mankind groaning
in the tropics, in the paradox of wanting
and not yet having, in the gentle scorn of
assuming, begrudgingly, new identities;
if by mountains you meant all that,
then, yes—I looked down on mountains.
(Victoria’s Peak, Hong Kong, China)
wo bu yao
shilin means a continuous exercise in chutzpah to shrug away the prodding persistence of a
person prêt à subsume the now unfamiliar contents of your undersized wallet.
thrust of unpleasing paraphernalia.
wo bu yao, xie xie.
one begins to ponder, whilst exploring, that the definition of the word “assault” might benefit
from a further entry outlining the various ways in which one’s nostrils can be affronted by
smells that should not have a genesis nor a receiver, but unfortunately claim both in abundance.
ill-advised eye contact with a food vendor.
he approaches aggressively and laden with
unidentifiable fried substances.
wo bu yao, xie xie.
but damn the prices here are cheap, and who doesn’t need another oxford? bargaining might
translate into something wearable at home as long as no one asks to see the label, which, given
the state of western society, is certainly not guaranteed not to happen.
it will be discovered in a few hours that the
shirt does not fit anything resembling a human.
wo bu yao, xie xie.
just ahead, an infant sleeps on his father’s shoulder, blissfully asleep in the midst of this noisy
birthing capitalism, ruddy cheeks bulging from a fat he didn’t earn himself, a panda at peace.
the babe wakes, notices the world, wails.
wo bu yao,
wo bu yao.
(Shilin Night Market, Taipei, Taiwan.)
Forbidden City
Gaudy in the penumbra
of modernity’s compulsions,
it stands—containing multitudes.
Engraved repeatedly on stone,
paper, clay, disc, web, recorded
and perpetuated for perpetuity
and sentiments vaguer still. I
wonder if the men who stood
here once, divine or snipped as
they inevitably must have been,
could have predicted the trampling
feet of the world’s millions who
would coddle their traditions in
plastic headsets and glossy
pamphlets that say “era” when
they mean four hundred years of
colluding monks and rapt children
whose whispers would not be
so unfamiliar to us, I don’t think.
If anything in this low world may
merit the somber awe of the ages,
perhaps it is to be found in
these ancient hearts, throbbing
to burst as stone never will.
(The Forbidden City, Beijing, China)