November 16, 2017

Two poems by Chris Wardle


Perhaps no more than four or five,
this Nepali child frowns nervously
up at the ping*'s rope and Bamboo frame,
unsure if the watchful smile
on his Father's face,
is one of joy, or madness!

But freedom slowly dawns
on his opening mind and
tentatively loosening his body,
he leans back, swinging
into a wide, grinning arc,
full of Dashain* delight.

Accepting this flight
of temporary freedom,
he looks admiringly anew
at his Father's face,
and shares the confident smile
he just inherited.

Ping — Nepali word for swing 
Dashain — one of the great festivals of Hindus


Standing in the carriage foyer,
two artists.

A cellist,
eyes closed in practice
on her instrument case.

And a poet, lost
in the music
of her silent rapture.

Finding his voice late in life, Chris Wardle has his heart firmly attached to South Asia and is currently halfway through a year-long volunteer placement in Kathmandu. This grateful British-Australian nomad or 'malang' (Urdu term), development worker and student of Permaculture is constantly surprised and delighted by the people, places and things inspiring his poetic outpourings.

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