The Most Beautiful Girl...? ? ? Poem by Ian Bowen

Where rice grows
in Irish sounding fields
and American bullets
lie rusted in jungles,
I journeyed for knowledge,
looking in awe
at this foreign splendour;
though
so very different
and funny strange.

My exploration
had dried my tongue.
A small noisy bar
at the bamboo edge
of the heaving town,
drew me in with dreams
of ice...the unknown.

Then she sidled up,
red silk saronged;
split to the hip.
Her hair blue-black.
Features exact, the like
I'd never seen before.

The scent of sweet
fresh blossom
hit my senses.
Her voice, the opposite
of harsh, whispered
through perfect teeth.
I watched the movement
of her lips, as he offered
an hour of her life;

like any respectful
mother's son.