Monthly Archive for August, 2011

The Mane Stone – David Buschman

So what, says I, I want the sonofabitch and I don”t need any fucking advice from you.

Buschman - Japan 1947The three of us had been trekking for 6 days from the Chinese road where we had been hauled in a elaborately painted truck featuring mostly strangely endowed women in what might pass for 1930’s bathing suits surrounded by lotuses and dhorjis. On the trail we were not roughing it, in addition to seven Sherpa porters, a cook and a guide, Nema Chorta, who spoke a sort of English and who assured us daily that, “we are not afraid”.

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Hailstorm in Vashisht Village

On the 29th May 2011  the village of Vashisht, near Manali in the Kullu Valley,  was hit by a freak hailstorm.

It’s amazing how quickly the weather can change in the Himalayas; at 2:00pm it was a beautifully sunny summer’s day.

At 2:30pm storm clouds gathered, the wind lifted & suddenly, without warning, it began to hail. At first the hailstones were small, but within a few minutes they had become, some of them, as large as golf balls.

The Vashisht apple  crop, the villager’s main cash crop, already damaged by frost earlier in the year, was almost obliterated.

This is the first post to show full HD video from our new video hosting provider Videopress.



Shivaratri 1979 by Ira Cohen

‘The tongue of a water buffalo is big & covered with straw’

Shivaratri 1979 by Ira CohenThis is a big poem full of tourists  & cameras set on tripods,
this is a poem seen from bamboo scaffolding of the Golden Temple’
a poem with one hand reaching up out of the earth counting on a rosary—
This is a poem of lost children looking for money.
a poem trying to hold a split bag of rice in a moving crowd,
this is a poem burning like charas in the pipe of a friend,
a poem of Shivaratri carried on staggering legs to see the king,
this is a poem striving towards the light sparked from the heart of Basudeb,
this is a poem which wants to tie itself around your neck like the skinny legs of The Man of the Sea—
this is a poem interrupted by elephantiasis,
this is a poem leaning against a temple wall drawing energy from the sun,
this is a poem smiling with no nose,
a poem reluctant to sing,
Ira Cohen in Kathmandu 1978-1979a trident of a poem aimed at your pineal,
this is a poem of pilgrimage,
an offering of struck bells to a dead dog in the river—
This is a poem looking down on pagodas,
this is a poem waiting for opium.
this is a poem of suicided sadhus
surrounded by trees in a foreign land,
anonymous as the voice on the loudspeaker,
this is an anonymous poem covered with birds….

(george farrow scanned the poem & wrote: “108 copies of this poem were published by Ira on hand made Nepali rice paper. I still have two copies given to me by Ira at that time”).