The Jungle

The Jungle, the Work of an Unknown Author, edited by David Swarbrick & Max de Silva.  Whether or not the original text of The Jungle included a dedication can, sadly, only be a matter of random speculation given the passage of so many  hundreds of years, but for my own part I would like to dedicate my contribution in its publication, the Preface and Notes to MM.     I secrets        Nothing yet            does the jungle give,  however long you wait   or watch;      it is eternal,            it does not age.     Its appearance is scarcely a hintof all that is hidden -  tight-lipped, dark green; ceaselessly undisturbed, untouched, unconcerned even; indifferent to what begins where,or how, or why  - as if it could knowthat it will allsimply return. Actually,it is a great wall,  limitless, its ends unreported,holding closethe smuggled secrets          of this day and tomorrow, of one millennia to the next, filtering the sun like a censor, carrying forward its confidential cargos in low capacious vaults. Listen now;          stop, and listen. It speaks in ciphersthat have no key,yet picks out imperfectionsbetraying themlike a spy to an enemy, dipping, dipping into nameless valleys and up the steep sides of unforgetting hills. II island The songs that have enduredare merely words,the tunes themselves long lost; the texts are somewhat incomplete, but what survivesis that perfect island,          presented in the way a child might dream of an island          set in a great sea,                     rising up from forested beaches                     to a centre of mighty mountains                    that disappear into clouds.   Immense riverstumble back down. In the villagesthe old dances are still young;                    new babies          are fed on milk          dipped in gold          before their horoscopes are taken. Numbers rule the universe. Boys touch the feet of elders; householdsprepare their daughtersto come of agewashed in water with herbs,           the girl concealed          until she is presented           with her own reflection          swimming in a silver bowlbeneath her face. The gems later looted from their antique tombswere not even from the island -          diamonds, emeralds,even amber, to mixwith their own stones,           pink sapphires and rubies, garnets, topaz, aquamarines;rose quartz fine enough to see through. Carpenters inlaid furniture with ivory and rare woods; crafted secret chambers, hidden drawers. Fish sang off long sandy beaches. And along the rivers stretched parks,warehouses, jetties, mansions. III bounty  Later,they measured that happiness,when happiness was a choice,          recalling a time of bounty, an embarrassment of great cities,of shipping lanes that converged on southern ports. The safe shallow waters of the Lagoon welcomed visitors. Kings ruled,          father to son,brother to brother,daring to do all they thought, There were brindleberries and fenugreek; lemongrass, mangos;          the coconuts fruited;                     frangipani bloomed, ylang ylang, ,even kadupul flowers, queens of the night. High wooden watchtowers rose protectivelyover wide courtyards,          and gardens grew cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, vanilla. Waters rippled in great tanks built by kings like inland seasto flow to fields and homes. Kitchens prepared milk riceand new disheswith ginger and kitel, turmeric, tamarind. In the shade of palace buildingsfrescos were painted, statues carved,           the talk was of new trade routes,marriages, miracles. Tomorrow is tomorrow -                               Here I picked a flower, and this is for you. Mangosteen ripened in orchardstheir seeds, fragrant, fluid-white,strips of edible flesh. It was like eating sex. Within the stupaswere thrones and begging bowls,          and relics won in foreign wars. From northern templesgreat chariots were hand pulled through the crowded streetsby thousands of worshippers. Fortifications, moats, rampartsguarded the borders;           the realm was not made for defeat;           and the fishermen flung their nets with ease. IV underfoot  Somewhere, rotting in its red earth

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