The Po Tree

The Po tree is not one but many trees

whose roots and trunks twine together

and give support to the group as a whole.

These trees are the symbol of strength

for the Thais and most wats have a Po tree

usually belted with a sacred, yellow, ribbon.

The Po is as big as an elm, if not bigger,

and its high canopy  provides shade for

a large area, maybe two tennis court’s worth.

It’s the day my wife, her mother and several

fiends bring food to a sort of lawn party

for this wat, which itself looks as if it is on

life support compared to nearby prosperous wats.

This giving food is all done to bring good luck,

which to a Christian sounds pagan and crass.

On the other hand the withering body

of Christ’s passion on the cross evokes

wonder in Thais at such an overt depiction of

violence in a religious context.  Religion is never

an insult, but to gentle Thai sensibilities more

accustomed to images of serene Lord Buddha or

the graceful Apsarasa, crucifixion seems unworthy

of depiction.

Under the Po tree around two o’clock a Bod Pat

cart begins to announce its presence to Lord Buddha

with outrageously loud music. The cart holds truck

batteries for amps which power guitars, keyboards,

mikes and enormous speakers.  A small crowd

of middle-aged women begin dancing

            – unapologetically –

and leading the group slowly around the Po tree.

There are two men.  A tall slim man who dances

in little mincing steps and looks like a field goal

judge with his arms straight up.  His hands take wing,

though, in graceful little flapping gestures.  The other

man zips backward, crouching like a figure skater

cutting out groups of females as he is about to leap

into some impossible jump. Most are drunk of course

but in a Thai wat the sacred, the profane, the childish,

the senile, the misbegotten, and the traveler all

mesh and intertwine and hold the human condition.

I’m sitting in a plastic chair.  My wife is standing

behind massaging my shoulders. She can feel the tension

in my body, but how can I explain that the cart

which has just appeared in front of me circling the

Po tree is the same size of the hand pumpers of

the fireman’s muster of my youth. I can’t.

In equal parts of joy and loss, and after

all I these years and worlds away I am weeping,

and I can’t explain this either. 

FG 12 05 2013

Oddly enough, I've recently seen a photo of the D. A. Taggart on the We Grew Up In Goffstown (NH) website

Apsarasa is the girl bringing water – you see her all over Asia.