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Talks, sharing, painting and poetryat the Colors of Cambodia charity gallery in Siem

Reap

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a new look for the Colors of Cambodia charity gallery

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Four Poems for

Cambodiaby

Martin Bradley

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clouds in ten layers brought me inquisitively

back to Siem ReapLanguidly writing beside drying

watersStrolling in heat drenched

streets.I became kissed by brief rains

Stroked by sunAnd finally deferredTo salad jazz cafes

Where Americans and Australians gather

Watching motorcycle taxis.Charity hands give thumbs up

Blind musician toots fluteAnonymous cars pass

In dust sprinkled streetsBeneath Buddha smiles

And sudden sun.We wrangle the difference

Between Art and artCiting men who paint ants

And men who don'tMen who splash abrupt

rainbowsAnd men concerned with

mimesis.Eventually the debate seems

limpLike so many watches

When listening to Edith PiafSparrow of Paris

And seeing the birdless streetOutside Srey Cafe.

Cambodia you would haunt meEven without Colors

AngkorFrench Cirque

Children slipperless and smiling.It would have something to do

with the painThe stoic resigned pain

That you swallow like so many cold foreign beers.

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A fat man walkedSearing heat

SweatingAlong Khmer riverDrawn by gamelan

Icarus likeMoth like

Singeing wings in fires of ethnicity.

The large manSandal cladBehatted

Besotted with differencePlodded weighty foot

After weighty footPast sellers of bottled petrolMotorcycle pig passengers

Pavement games of chalk and tile.

Fishers but not of menCast thin lines into brown

waters in expectation.Motorcycle taxis tootedCyclists whispered by

Tourists lugged Zoom lens

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Weighty straps cutting into Sun reddened fair shouldersDollars pulling pockets

Guilt pulling heartsOffset by tokens of

perfunctory generousness.The heavy manponderous man

Dragged his weightAlong dust sprinkled roadsthinking of Woody Guthrie

Allen GinsbergJack Kerouac

And every kind ofDharma Bum

Past and present.The silence of the kingdomBrought thoughts of kamma

and mettaSaffron robes

Hands waving incenseRoasted insects

French baguettesAnd delectable markets

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Cambodian sun kisses glistening pate

drinks in hairy armed waytalks of Kerouac

Cambodia beer sinks below unusually white frothpenultimate day

absorbs Black Magic Woman (instrumental)

rub shoulders with Jayavarman’s AngkorOrange robed monks flood from temple

ease into brick built huts.

Frangipani perfumes airwater tank dank

lone sketcher brushes paper with pen

Walls reflect enlightenment sangampink bag carrying students nestle

temple garden tree gives shade.

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Rest in Buddha gardenDrink deep of scentsWatch children play

red balloonsStatues smileTrees listen

five pmTemple bells ringballoon bursts

guy in a white crimson t-shirtPasses

It's Siem Reap

I sit peacefully.

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much hard work by students and teachers has paid off

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the gallery has been re-painted and re-hung to great effect

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everybody chipped in

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art talk by Martin Bradley

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artworks by teacher Honey Khor (aka Pei Yeou Bradley)

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artworks by teacher Honey Khor (aka Pei Yeou Bradley)

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poetry and song by writer Paul Gnanaselvan

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art discussions by top Cambodian artists

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A Cambodian Affair

byPaul GnanaSelvam

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Love implanted,a seed of hope, a seed of kindling, froma forgotten mirage,reincarnate,of a twenty-three man years, rejuvenating, living, vivid, byan old clandestine affair, built of none but dreams- translucent, luscious, enigmatic, fuelled, the night skies illuminated, dancingto the cosmic rhythms of Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma, elusively, stalkingthe foot-prints of Chola, Sailendra and Jayavarma.

The moon stood to witness, ofsudden dreams, fromunbecoming,murkier and foreboding, perturbedat times, old and wavering, disturbedof unruly noises that stirred the forests,by marauding wars, shrillpiercing and deafening, and hence,evaporating, dreams halting, andnightmares began.

Drifting, floating, resting,the walls of Angkor, opened thefortress of living sandstones,brightened a cloudy night, welcoming,soft as the crickets songs of night, bequeathing, seditious apsaras at playteasing the court musicians,quenching a thirst unknown, dreams rallied, tenderly,charmed, comforted and chiming,chim-ching, chim-ching, chim-chingalongancient anklets and arm bracelets.

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Tickled and eluded,the garuda eyes, revealed sharplynot of the prized jewel, but landsplotted and stretched,squared and parched, browning paddy fields, winding dusty roads, lonely,empty, desolate, barren.

Your children- grieve,those that loosened your earth, ploughed your fields and worked your oxen- for,peace, nourishment and comfort,there was none any.

You gave me breath, awakening,the dream within dreams, immersed in the warmth of your breasts, suckled the tits off your sweetness, the amritha,the elixir the gods had labored to churn,and lifted my spirits, formy eyes did not fail,to see and behold, happiness, content and faith,free and abundant.. Everywhere,intriguing smiles- hands raised, palms clasped,reverently-benignly acknowledge the Brahman, sayI am no different- I am human- part of you-

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part of this cakerawala.

Do not despair, do not lose heart. For now, I hear the heavens open, ready to unleash the soft petals of hope, and bring forth the rains of change.

Then, look up to the north, your children will play again in the thickets of the forest- memories of pain and suffering gone foreverfor they will stay,never sold or bought.Then,look to the west, kernels of rice will bow Look to the south,Tender sea breeze will soothe your weary soul.

And, at first sunlight, when the morning mist lifts,infused with the blooming champaii, look to the east, for I will come, and dwell with you, within the walls of Angkor- once again.

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Colors of Cambodia Gallery

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buy the book, the calendars or artworks and support this vital charity in Siem Reap, Cambodia

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