Night-Blooming Jasmine
April 12 2009


We arrive
pale
thick-skinned
squinting,
in unaccustomed sun.

Our home is austere, white, wind-swept
with cold sterile air.
Except for wood-smoke
held down at the surface;
eyes running
an acrid cough.

On the equator
the sun sets at six,
rises
precisely 12 hours later
— the wilting heat
almost immediate.
Concrete crumbling,
mildew
dripping down.
Things grow
like uncontrolled metastases —
giant leaves,
blooms of mould,
large carnivorous insects.
Tropical soils are thin, depleted,
despite the lush greenery
that occupies every open space.
And the humidity
corrupting everything;
so I can feel my body
slowly decompose,
clothing rot.

Sunset’s a relief,
despite the mosquitoes
buzzing, swarming,
boring into you ears.
Cool air descends,
the glare is lifted,
the invasion of plants
temporarily stops.

And night-blooming jasmine
permeates the world —
the fans
circling lazily,
the air
lightly stirred.
And our loosely fitting shirts
our thin brown skin;
the intoxicating scent
diffusing right through us.


This poem began when I heard "night-blooming jasmine". Something appealed to me about this. Perhaps the exotic oriental jasmine. Perhaps the mystery of blooming at night. So, naturally, I composed a poem that was green and tropical.
I think what this ends up conveying is the feeling of "going native". It begins with northern tourists -- moneyed, white -- who will dabble their toes in an ersatz paradise at some resort. Ultimately, though, it's the poor disadvantaged south that ends up lording it over them.
The most fun was the gradual accumulation of subversive words that slowly build up this sense of foreboding and threat: words like wilting, crumbling, dripping, metastases, carnivorous, depleted, occupied, corrupting, decompose, rot, invasion. Although in the end, it's the intoxicating scent of jasmine that rescues the narrator from being completely swallowed-up.