Remembrance Of Old Mandalay Poem by James Walter Orr

I went out to shop in the Sunnybank Hills
in a market just off of the track.
A purchase I made there still gives me the chills,
in the midst of Australia's outback.

I found this old barstool, all tattered and tall,
with a ring where a man puts his feet,
and when I sat down, I could hear a voice call,
saying words, softly spoken, but sweet.

'There is an old bottle that sits on the floor,
and the label says 'Old Mandalay';
it holds the one key that can slam shut the door
on the spell that has sealed me away.'

'Oh, long are the years and so hard is the trail,
and so lonely my life has become.
The barstool and bottle can tell you the tale,
that can send me back where I came from.'

I sat there and listened, my head in a spin,
and a strange buzzing sound in my ear.
Yet all I could feel was the chill on my skin,
and paralysis brought on by fear.

I paid for the barstool and bottle at once,
for I wanted to listen alone.
It goes without saying, I felt like a dunce,
who has tripped out and had his mind blown.

With unsteady walk, I went out to my car,
to put my strange objects away,
when once more the voice, like it came from afar,
said 'We must go to Old Mandalay.'

I worked like a slave, shedding blood, sweat and tear,
while the pence in my pocket did grow.
The days fled in sequence to make it a year.
I earned what it would cost me to go.

The passage I booked on a small sailing ship,
required that I work as a deck hand;
allowed me to save all my cash for the trip,
an advantage we all understand.

I won't make the effort to tell you of each
of the times that a sore blistered hand
clung to the hand-holds I found within reach,
of the crow's nest as I looked for land.

At night, in the darkness that shielded my bunk
from a ship-mate's inquisitive eye,
I spoke to the bottle, I hid in my trunk,
but my answer was always a sigh.

While working for passage, I hoarded my pence,
Till we landed on Burma one day.
I hoped, in my heart, I could end my suspense
As my road led to Old Mandalay.

Each step that I took was a new source of pain.
Each new passing face posed a danger.
My evil old ship-mates had found me again.
A threat lived within every stranger.

The blood from my footprints defined that long road;
The hardships my lasting impression.
The weight of my cargo defined my whole load;
The bottle, my lasting obsession.

I lost six good teeth in defense of my goal,
and a scar marks the loss of one eye.
My only defense was a small oaken pole,
and commitment to do or to die.

The miles and the years had depleted my strength,
but the sweet voice I heard urged me on.
I spoke to my bottle each night at great length,
while my body would warm it till dawn.

At last I limped in with a crook in my back;
My gray hair hanging limp from my head.
I found the bazaar at the end of the track:
A bronze Buddha stood just where she said.

A candle burned dimly behind those bronze eyes
changing fast with the flickering flame.
They glowed with an odd sort of reddish surprise,
and a weird dispensation of blame.

A voice with a note far more deep than a drum,
came to me from a cavernous throat;
It spoke with a menace that turned my tongue numb:
'Listen close, you must say this by rote! '

A strange incantation that I soon forgot,
but at that time was burned in my brain,
delivered a message my tortured mind caught,
with no reason that I can explain.

My hand on the bottle, my eyes tightly shut,
and a cold, icy trail on my spine,
the grip of a monster was felt in my gut,
way down deep, where the sun doesn't shine.

The bottle exploded, while tendrils of steam,
formed a nebulous cloud, in the room.
The form of a maiden, as strange as a dream,
blossomed forth, like a flower in bloom.

Dreams hold not the beauty I saw in her face,
or the visions of passion and love.
No fantasy speaks to the strength of her grace,
from her soles to all parts up above.

There was no superlative, adjective, noun,
to assume such formidable task,
as write a description deemed fit for a crown,
or a footstool, if she had but ask.

My heart burst with pride as she stepped to my side
and so gently took hold of my hand,
with actions of love like the truest young bride
she spoke words I did not understand.

'The first time I saw you, these five years ago,
when I pleaded that you take my quest,
your face had no lines and sweet laughter did flow,
and your smile eclipsed all of the rest.'

'Back then when I met you, those five lonely years,
when you first heard my voice in the dark;
no cuts scarred your face, and the sum of my fears,
is your battles extinguished our spark.'

I looked at the surface of beauty and grace,
and I saw there was nothing within.
My own bloody footprints had left not a trace,
in her heart or the smooth of her skin.

The dreams that I carried, the battles I fought,
like my youth, dissipate in the air.
The fantasies built and the years spent for naught,
disappear like the words of a prayer.

Some things are remembered and some things forgot,
as one wanders along one's life’s way.
My blood, sweat and tears are the coins that once bought,
the remembrance of Old Mandalay.