In the west she'd be locked away, edited

[ellajam]

Hi, cloudy,

I haven't read the original yet, but I can't come up with any suggestions on this, I like it just the way it is.

Great title, and I like that you bring up your western mindset to come back to it. I read an interesting piece once suggesting that meditation was too risky for the western mind. One reason given was that if one slipped over the edge and didn't return western society would not tolerate you the way eastern societies might.

That could be an aspect you could bring in if you were of a mind to, crazy woman as enlightened. But honestly, I like your poem as it is.

It's been a while, but I came back to it. Original post here.

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A spectre in mossy green and layers of brown
feet cracked and dusty, sandals slip
on and off.

She ambles through egg vendors,
boys screaming at their goalies,
and the local station de police.
Her chatters and mumbles don’t stop
going from spider to howler in an instant.
She must have been educated
before the psychosis set in;
her French, accompanied by saliva darts,
is better than mine.

I saw a man offer her bread earlier.
I hadn't seen her before his arm outstretched,
so I guess it's spider day.
She didn't seem to understand the gesture;
maybe she just wasn't hungry.
At first I thought he was someone important
to her, a caregiver, uncle, confidant.
I've often wondered if she has anyone,
but that's just my Western brain,

I think. Because then I remember her wiry hair
tied up with that kind of plastic rope
they string dried figs onto.
She shifts it back onto rough chopped gray
from its flower power place.

There's never a fly too far off.

She is as scenery in this place,
and I’m the only one the least bit phased
by her accusing stares.