Grapple

The champion awaits!
The champion awaits!

Your class means little

When you enter

The circle marked

With stone benches

And two roofed enclosures

For voyeurs to peek.

Make sure you are wearing

Your hat with the black

Side panels and blue

Or red dome from which

A pointed spire

Draws upward like

A stupa except that it

Contains your holy relic.

Your jacket is too small

And covers not your chest,

For once there was a

Cunning woman who

Proved more troublesome

Than her demure appearance

Would have you believe.

Bend at the knees in your

Pointed boots

And hit yourself three times

On the sturdy trunks

That support your frame,

Before you run forth.

An old gentleman removes

Your hat after you

Glide around him with

Wings outstretched in

One way then another,

Pay your respects,

And grab the person

Standing across from you.

The operative words in

This struggle is cunning.

Remember your class?

It means nothing.

Everything can be used

Against you, or exactly

What you think will

Bring you down

Will do just that.

A loss in your books,

But fear not,

For your partner has

A red banner on his hat,

You note,

As you pass under his arm,

He to glide around

The red and blue flag

Before scattering bread

To feed the wind.

It’s over, and you remove

Your jacket and hat,

And don the wardrobe

Of your past and simple life,

Leaving as it rains,

Dirt and sweat still

Wedged in your boots.

Composed 07/06/2012

Author’s Note: A poem about Mongolian wrestling.

Previous Posts

Naadam: Wrestling (Prose)

Little Girl (Poetry)

Next Posts

Naadam: Archery (Prose)

Men of the Bottle (Poetry)

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