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Talks, sharing, painting and poetry at 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 Cambodia by Martin Bradley
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clouds in ten layers brought me inquisitively back to Siem Reap Languidly writing beside drying waters Strolling in heat drenched streets. I became kissed by brief rains Stroked by sun And finally deferred To salad jazz cafes Where Americans and Australians gather Watching motorcycle taxis. Charity hands give thumbs up Blind musician toots flute Anonymous cars pass In dust sprinkled streets Beneath Buddha smiles And sudden sun. We wrangle the difference Between Art and art Citing men who paint ants And men who don't Men who splash abrupt rainbows And men concerned with mimesis. Eventually the debate seems limp Like so many watches When listening to Edith Piaf Sparrow of Paris And seeing the birdless street Outside Srey Cafe. Cambodia you would haunt me Even without Colors Angkor French Cirque Children slipperless and smiling. It would have something to do with the pain The stoic resigned pain That you swallow like so many cold foreign beers.
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A fat man walked Searing heat Sweating Along Khmer river Drawn by gamelan Icarus like Moth like Singeing wings in fires of ethnicity. The large man Sandal clad Behatted Besotted with difference Plodded weighty foot After weighty foot Past sellers of bottled petrol Motorcycle pig passengers Pavement games of chalk and tile. Fishers but not of men Cast thin lines into brown waters in expectation. Motorcycle taxis tooted Cyclists whispered by Tourists lugged Zoom lens
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Weighty straps cutting into Sun reddened fair shoulders Dollars pulling pockets Guilt pulling hearts Offset by tokens of perfunctory generousness. The heavy man ponderous man Dragged his weight Along dust sprinkled roads thinking of Woody Guthrie Allen Ginsberg Jack Kerouac And every kind of Dharma Bum Past and present. The silence of the kingdom Brought thoughts of kamma and metta Saffron robes Hands waving incense Roasted insects French baguettes And delectable markets
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Cambodian sun kisses glistening pate drinks in hairy armed way talks of Kerouac Cambodia beer sinks below unusually white froth penultimate day absorbs Black Magic Woman (instrumental) rub shoulders with Jayavarman’s Angkor Orange robed monks flood from temple ease into brick built huts. Frangipani perfumes air water tank dank lone sketcher brushes paper with pen Walls reflect enlightenment sangam pink bag carrying students nestle temple garden tree gives shade.
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Rest in Buddha garden Drink deep of scents Watch children play red balloons Statues smile Trees listen five pm Temple bells ring balloon bursts guy in a white crimson t-shirt Passes It's Siem Reap
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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 K
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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
by Paul GnanaSelvam
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Love implanted, a seed of hope, a seed of kindling, from a forgotten mirage, reincarnate, of a twenty-three man years, rejuvenating, living, vivid, by an old clandestine affair, built of none but dreamstranslucent, luscious, enigmatic, fuelled, the night skies illuminated, dancing to the cosmic rhythms of Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma, elusively, stalking the foot-prints of Chola, Sailendra and Jayavarma. The moon stood to witness, of sudden dreams, from unbecoming, murkier and foreboding, perturbed at times, old and wavering, disturbed of unruly noises that stirred the forests, by marauding wars, shrill piercing and deafening, and hence, evaporating, dreams halting, and nightmares began. Drifting, floating, resting, the walls of Angkor, opened the fortress of living sandstones, brightened a cloudy night, welcoming, soft as the crickets songs of night, bequeathing, seditious apsaras at play teasing the court musicians, quenching a thirst unknown, dreams rallied, tenderly, charmed, comforted and chiming, chim-ching, chim-ching, chim-ching along ancient anklets and arm bracelets.
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Tickled and eluded, the garuda eyes, revealed sharply not of the prized jewel, but lands plotted 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 oxenfor, peace, nourishment and comfort, there was none any.
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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, for my eyes did not fail, to see and behold, happiness, content and faith, free and abundant. . Everywhere, intriguing smileshands raised, palms clasped, reverentlybenignly acknowledge the Brahman, say I am no differentI am humanpart of you-
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 forestmemories of pain and suffering gone forever for 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 Angkoronce 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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