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image for The Taxi Buddha
Original photo by COLLWYN CLEVELAND

The Taxi Poems:

The Taxi Buddha

A poem by Chris Mooney-Singh

He is bald and chubby
at the wheel—a Buddha
among dashboard deities.
I’m just a pocket of mean coins
eyeing the meter.

How long you been driving,
how many children, Uncle?
25 year, says Happy.
Detachment is not just an idea anymore.

Did he get this state of poise
from the gods, blue-tacked up front—
soapstone, plastic, crystal, wood,
or the zodiac icon with brushstroke eyes
that galloped all the way
from the Year the Horse?

The happy taxi
has black rubber prayer-wheels.
Take the Middle Path, they hum,
Keep to the centre lane.
Pass through the megalopolis—
downsized factories,
stress corporations,
rising cancer, sterility, AIDS.
It’s all a trade-off,
instructs the Prosperity Pig.
Drive with faith, says Kwan Yin,
Lady of Mercy in miniature.
And keep a light heart,
giggles the Taxi Buddha
without saying anything at all.

Low earnings? No complaint.
Cab company more these days.
Get fare—you share.
No fare—don’t care.

Yes, his struggle is over—
2 son, 4 daughter
All married. Lucky ah!
Shakyamuni very kind
.
He smiles.
and the grandchildren
are dropping like fragrant pears
into the family fruit bowl
every other year.

These are his sweet hours
a chime tinkling on the rear-view mirror,
white prayer silk
flapping in the air-con breeze,
an ironstone buddha
who came in his dream,
then prayers of blessing
in a Thai temple.
How many years back?
Still sitting near the ashtray,
not facing the cab interior
like I-look-at-you
you-make-me-happy-happy-worship.

No—he’s looking out—
the lodestone monk,
the Solid Presence,
the Driver steering the driver.

The Laughing Buddha Cab Company
is guiding me home
with one of its own
and I get out refreshed
as from a lake in the far mountains
or the immortal Deer Park.
Alighting at the bank of the river of tar
I pay the ferryman
who takes my currency
in the begging bowl of his hands.
Thank you Sir, bowing, bowing
as if I am the one who has served him.
Then he blesses me
with subtle current
through the small-change coin,
pressed into my palm.

Copyright 2006 by Chris Mooney-Singh

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Chris Mooney-SinghChris writes:
In Singapore, I take a lot of taxis. There are more than 20,000 in this small island city-state at the bottom tip of Malaysia. I continue to be fascinated by the brief capsule of interaction that taxis offer passenger and driver—like this evening, I was picked up on the way home from our monthly Singapore Slam at Zouk, Singapore's top nightclub. There are a large majority of Chinese in Singapore, along with lesser percentages of Malays, Indians, Europeans, and Eurasians. Most taxi drivers place religious iconography before them on the dash.

Chris Mooney-Singh (b. Australia,1956) is the founder of Poetry Slam in Singapore. Of Anglo-Irish descent, he adopted Sikhism in 1989. He has published four poetry collections, co-edited a poetry anthology, The Penguin Book of Christmas Poems, and has three spoken-word CDs, the latest being Living in the Land of the Durian Eaters. Programme Director of Word Forward Limited, he facillitates poetry workshops in schools and colleges, and with his co-Director Savinder Kaur, has formed the National Youth Poetry Slam League and the Asian Slam League. Mooney-Singh was a guest at the Austin International Poetry Festival, 2003, and the Hong Kong Writers Festival, 2004.

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