Three Poems
The Settlement
There, at the Portuguese Settlement,
after being told by the restaurant owner’s wife
that their Chinese shrine was dedicated
not to the usual gods, but to two brothers,
spirits from the nearby islands, and,
being Roman Catholic, that she doesn’t understand
why someone could be possessed there,
by the spirits there, right there, at the shrine
in the half of the restaurant that’s vacant,
open to the patio, after that we entered De Mello’s, the village bar,
its walls hung with crests of those Lusitanian noble clans
that landed and conquered, their men marrying locals,
hung with scarves of Benfica and Porto, those football tribes.
And there in a corner is a yellowing newspaper cutting
about Andrew’s country-and-western band,
famous in Penang in the nineties, Andrew who objects
to his mother-tongue being called Kristang: ‘It’s Malaccan Portuguese!
I can speak with anyone who comes here from Lisbon,
and they will understand. Even the former President of Portugal,
now Secretary General of the UN. He was in my bar
and we spoke together.’ Andrew de Mello, who years ago
was notorious for sometimes dressing as a Sioux chieftain
and who is now in red vest and matching jeans,
his rockers’ haircut seventies-style. Face lit by
his laptop screen, he’s crooning obscure ballads
to a poppy backing-track, being timeless, Portuguese,
and at home.
Please Register or Login
Register now for full access to News and Events, Web Exclusives, Blogs and Comments.
If you've already registered, please login.