From Laos

 
From green plant grove, a niche of leafy stalks,
the young man spoke, his yellow face, dark hair
and Asian eyes peering through tall shadows, squinting into light,
then dipping deep.
 
Each word came halt, his face half-twisted, wry,
with foreign tongue half-mastered and half clear.
 
Five hundred shifted, haunch to haunch, shuffled,
sighed a hovering, traveling cough, polite
and bored – a patient, inattentive class.
Soft-spoken, but fearless, simple, firm, sincere,
he gave directions “…through the jungle here.”
 
But the leafy stalks were lilies,
and the niche an altar piece,
from candle stands the shadows,
and the leader was a priest.
                         ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

An hour ago the red-faced captain spoke,
under his fringes reaching for a handkerchief,
mopping the sweat from glistening, nodding head,
 – sarcastic smiles, simpering sighs, and shouts …
like a music master, phrasing tones
 
in microphones (one hidden on his chest),
his veteran note: “The jungle’s always there.”
 
Five hundred shifted, shuffled, bored politely then,
bored but – with painful, dumb amusement,
like captive children at a faded show,
watched and thought, “He’s got a point, you know.”
 
They thought they heard the captain,
but he spoke to deafen prayer.
It was the slight guerilla fighter
who knew the real warfare.
                         ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
 
 (The Laotian priest came to America to study and lived as visiting priest in a parish, sharing the regular duties. The poem compares his sermon with the pastor’s, and the reactions of the congregations  –  1960s)