Woman on the other side who
coughs like a sick cat. Stale
rain & fish-paste, frying
chilli through the broken
window-frame, true dreams
imbibed in needless sleep.
Burmese cleaner who knocks
on the door—temple dancer make-up,
a single beauty spot, spunglass hair
in a net, does the toilets twice a day,
been here a thousand years. He chews
betel always & has a catalogue of smile
that outlasts the marketplace. Some
kind of Buddha, they say.
When the rain starts again, there is
no window to close. From the street, talk
of someone who has
never left.
whispered lineage 
Hi Martin. I picked up news of you from Flis on Facebook. Nice surprise. And a poem in return:
Some kind of Buddha
inspires
today,
an old friend
slips
unobtrusively
into my life
again
poems woven
in a new name
but still I recognise
him.
Richard Morrow
Hello Richard, a happy surprise likewise! I’m in course of finishing a PhD. in ethics, having taken seriously (two decades ago) yr throwing out the gauntlet as a possible future gambit. This poem is very Li Po, for which gratitude. Feeling cryptic, I might say that it seems ‘insight still comes, on the back of the hand.’ A koan I’m still trying to answer. Feel free to write to gangetics@gmail.com with all yr thoughts. MK