One Night in Bangkok
6:00 p.m.
One night in Bangkok—and this searching man
From Georgia must explore its fevered dreams
And garish hues. The sun sets neon red.
This close to the equator twilight falls
Just after six. And that’s when nightlife calls.
Ignore the jetlag… he has just one night.
He leaves his room to see each novel sight—
A tropic city rich with life and splendor,
Both brash and tranquil. Stepping out, he sees
A craftsman carve a saintly apparition—
A bodhisattva of Buddhist tradition.
7:00 p.m.
The man now hungers both in soul and flesh.
The sidewalks swarm with vendors selling food:
Grilled squid, fresh coconut, shrimp fried or stewed,
Plus rice and noodles steamed in iron pots.
Night-merchants set up stalls to loudly hawk
Tattoos, massages and bright yellow shirts—
The color worn to honor Thailand’s king.
The foreign man then sees a stunning thing:
Before each home there is a Spirit House—
A small shrine on a pole which augurs peace
With offerings so good luck might increase.
8:00 p.m.
The fever starts—he can’t miss how the streets
Are packed—exotic, fascinating, new.
The faces: petals stuck on wet bamboo.
The square throbs like a heartbeat with a crowd
Of laughing women, men who leer out loud.
They want you in their clubs; the barkers shout
The lure: “See pretty girls!” The music calls—
A techno-beat that drones and fills the ears
With pounding which is meant to stir the blood
Of tourists. Sudden thunder booms and roars
As tropic lightning strikes and fierce rain pours.
9:00 p.m.
The Bangkok night is full of steam and storm.
The thunder shouts then stops and once it turns,
The night perspires and the throng returns,
Joined by a sultry breeze from off the river.
The man now rests and eats a red-bean bun,
Exhausted though the evening’s but half done.
A Buddhist temple beckons with the drone
Of monks in orange robes whose chanted prayers
Intrigue him and yet soothe his heart as well.
He vows he shall return to see this sight
One day when he sees Bangkok in the light.
10:00 p.m.
He steps inside a Thai-themed cabaret
And soon percussive bells and symbols play
As folklore dancers now begin their art:
A stately stylized form of tableau dance
With mindfulness of every crafted pose.
The feet are bare, the faces glow with pride.
The costumes—antique Siamese—all shine.
He claps and then returns out to the street
Where silks are bartered in the nighttime heat.
He buys a yellow shirt—a royal fling—
100 baht in honor of the King.
11:00 p.m.
The frenzy’s in full-swing… there’s flesh for sale,
As Bangkok vaunts wild nights which leave no trail.
The foreigner is curious. Though shy
He must see for himself what sin is nigh.
The red light district titillates and shocks
With offers made—astonishing in scope—
For those pursuing sexual seditions.
The foreigner can overhear strange words—
From what he grasps, the terms are being set:
Endearment and engagement for a tryst.
But not for him. He moves on through the mist.
12:00 Midnight
How strange the world seen through a stranger’s eyes!
Exhausted by the neon and the sighs,
The foreign man walks back to his hotel.
He checks to see the time back in the States,
Then telephones Atlanta just to know
That the familiar still exists. And so
A short long distance call: “I love you too.”
And then a long time staring out the glass
Into this night of quiet breath and heat.
Amazed by all, his prejudices crumble.
One night in Bangkok makes a sure man humble.
A Rubaiyat of Chiang Rai
The tropic mountains beckon green—
A grandeur I have seldom seen
As vines encloak an ancient shrine
Which lushly crowns this sacred scene.
I’m here because I need a sign
That what I fear will yet be fine.
My soul is chained to anxious dread
Of forces savage and malign.
But Chiang Rai offers peace instead;
Deep awe attends each step I tread.
Here worries are not all they seem,
And in this Eden calmly shed.
How life abounds here! See it teem!
Great elephants traverse a stream
As waterfalls spray cooling steam.
What’s real is here. The rest’s a dream.
Brian Yapko is a retired lawyer whose poetry has appeared in over fifty journals. He is the winner of the 2023 SCP International Poetry Competition. Brian is also the author of several short stories, the science fiction novel El Nuevo Mundo and the gothic archaeological novel Bleeding Stone. He lives in Bradenton, Florida.
The quatrains of Chiang Rai are quite lovely, and since they are as clear as crystal little needs to be said about them. It is a good poetic instance of a troubled soul going to a calming and soothing “locus amoenus” to get peace of mind.
The seventy-seven lines of “One Night in Bangkok” make for an ambitious narrative in stanzas. Seven hours in the life of a foreign visitor turn out to be something of a psychological revelation — not just of what the visitor sees and hears, but also of his personal desires and reactions. He wants food, he wants souvenirs, he wants to see the sights, he toys with the idea of sex, he is entranced by the noise around him, and he seems genuinely curious about the symbols of Buddhism and Thai culture everywhere. But he also is a little scared, and his phone call home is a kind of protective talismanic act for him. It’s a long way from Bangkok to Atlanta.
A Western male traveler alone in Bangkok inevitably suggests sex tourism — the city is infamous for that business. The 8 PM and 11 PM stanzas deal directly with this possibility, but visitor does not take advantage of the easy availability of commercial sex. We are not told why. We are left to think about it, and wonder. The fact that he was once a “sure” man but is now a “humble” one suggests a learning experience that was not rooted in simple pleasure.
Sustaining interest in a narrative for seventy-seven lines is not easy, and the division of the poem into “hours” was an excellent device to make things go smoother. I can imagine this narrative continuing at greater length, with more exploration of the visitor’s reactions and thoughts.