Smog Mother

By John Wall Barger

In Smog Mother, John Wall Barger asks: What is a poet without a home? Over and over he finds answers in the joy of duende, the goblin spirit that, as Lorca says, “will not approach at all if he does not see the possibility of death, if he is not convinced he will circle death’s house.” Ranging from an anti-government rally on the streets of Bangkok to a train trip on the Trans-Mongolian Railway, Smog Mother is the strongest collection yet from a poet writing at the height of his powers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palimpsest Press
• Release date: Sep 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990293221

John Wall Barger

John Wall Barger is the author of five previous books of poetry: Pain-proof Men (2009); Hummingbird (2012), finalist for the Raymond Souster Award; The Book of Festus (2015), finalist for the J.M. Abraham Award; The Mean Game (2019), finalist for The Phillip H. McMath Book Award; and Resurrection Fail (2021). He is a contract editor at Frontenac House, and teaches in the BFA Program for Creative Writing at The University of the Arts in Philadelphia. See: johnwallbarger.com

Book preview

Smog Mother

The soul is silent.

If it speaks at all

it speaks in dreams.

— Louise Glück

I stand before a large ceramic jug

at the Siriraj Medical Museum,

Bangkok. There’d been a fire

at a cinema, 1970. A boy,

instead of escaping with his family,

climbed into a jug of water.

That made sense. Then

the water grew hot, boiled.

They found him curled up

in the shape of the jug.

I

Thai volunteer protester of faithful bones

You stomp the immense thoroughfare

One hundred thousand souls

The Democracy Monument is wrapped in black

The sharp wings of it are cloaked

O gentle offended ones

Which like clouds have no face

When your heart marches out to die

When you march out to kill

The crowds are crawling waves

I don’t know what is next where to be

The further one travels

The less one knows says Lao Tzu

I walk write eat applaud

I weep scrutinize destroy

A military junta has taken the country

The National Council for Peace and Order

Protest leader Sutin Tharatin was shot dead

Tharatin was giving a speech

Now Cambodians are fleeing Thailand

Sutin Tharatin! Sutin Tharatin!

The crowds sing his name

His corpse sprouts stories

One book under another sprouts

From that sudden corpse

The world says this is Thailand’s business

Who gives a fuck about them anyway?

Who cares about them

Their whores and cockfights

Anyway?

We clap and clap and clap

We cannot get enough clapping

Loudspeakers bleat slogans

Ideology is rampant in the streets

You can cut doors and windows out of nothing

You can make a room out of nothing

You can slash an idea

You can electrify an idea

You can shove shit into the mouth of an idea

This turns to hate

Better to claw at empty space

Soon there will be nothing

Nothing for all these winds to play on

In the wake of a mighty army

Under so brutal a sun

You must walk unhurried or collapse

O tourist open your wallet of glimmering gold

O tourist at this wat of barbed spires

O tourist you stop to watch the marchers

Your face Christ-haunted frightened

The crowds are singing Sutin Tharatin!

Monks glide among the protesters

Theravāda monks in loose orange robes

Some monks look calm amused even

Among them Khruba Siwichai giggles

Dead seventy-five years but still he giggles

He drifts under a billboard of the king

Beloved King Bhumibol Adulyadej

The king peers down upon us

O frail god face bland unsmiling

Khruba Siwichai giggles

Beware the newly rich

Beware the devourers of corpses

Vagabonds stagger through the crowd

Vagabonds in black rags skin grimy as sadhus

They trudge against the bodies

They wade the human tide

Stomachs hard and hollow as wood

These are household gods

They have never heard tell

Of The National Council for Peace and Order

One is holding a broken machete

One has plastic bags for shoes

He sleeps in a cardboard box beside the ATM

The one in his Spider-Man underwear

He sleeps in the alley beside my guest house

I follow a three-legged dog off the wide boulevard

She hops to a marshaling yard

Emaciated chickens stand in bamboo cages

A family is huddled silent by a fire

The fire a goblin spits spits

The dog wags her scabby tail

She trots into a labyrinth of shanties

Ramshackle