Ramo Sami
Was quite the figure
To behold
As he surveyed the grounds
Of the great park.
His dark brown skin
Swathed in the purest of white
Flowing robes
With a matching turban.
Several
Simple gold rings
Adorned both his
Fingers and toes.
He set up for his performance
Just outside of a cafe
Where they served a strong punch
Charcuterie, fresh bread, olives and cheese.
He marked his stage area
With a colorful thin wool carpet
That he brought from back home.
Ramo Sami looked past
The shadows
Of some wire walkers
Performing
In one of the gardens
Focusing on the details
Of an ornate
Hot air balloon
As it ascended
Into the early evening sky
With pleasure seekers and lovers
Intent on
Having an exciting view
Of the South Bank
Of the River Thames.
A grand Turkish tent
Was to his immediate right
As he faced out from the cafe.
Resplendent
With immense tapestries
Rugs and pillows.
It was an inviting refuge
For the amorous
And the prostitutes
That frequented the park.
This was an ideal location
For him to set up
Because of the continual
Parade of pedestrian traffic
That meandered
Along the paved promenade.
It turned out to be
Quite the pleasant autumn day
After all.
The whispery gossamers
In the surrounding
Well-maintained
Shrubbery
Or perhaps
Floating in the air.
The scenery tonight
Reminded him
Of when he performed
On the veranda
Of the Shepeard’s Hotel
In Cairo, Egypt.
His profession
Was regarded as noble
In his native India
Dating back hundreds
Of years.
He performed
For many crowned heads
Throughout Europe.
Here
Most regarded his trade
As simple entertainment
Or
As to a few elitists
As some shameful kind of pandering.
But it was a living
In England
And the establishment
Paid him well.
He was a conjuror.
A manualist.
Instead of deceiving the eye
He thought of his art
As pleasing to the eye.
Ramo Sami was one of the world’s
Greatest jugglers
Orbiting
Four hollow brass balls
The size of oranges
Between his hands
Then
Pausing
Them on the top of his bare feet
Or resting them
In the crook of his neck.
He could volley
The balls
Behind his back
As well as in front.
He looked around
At the formal gardens
And exhibit halls.
The roof of the conservatory
In the distance.
Dusk was falling.
The flickering glow
From gas lanterns
Streetlamps
And candles
Warming the park’s interior.
He put on display
His tall wicker basket
Of swords
Of varying lengths
And widths.
For inbetween juggling
He would swallow
Swords
To the audience’s excitement.
He laid out his card tricks
On the carpet.
Mere distractions.
He set up his dinner.
A plate of dry tow
A pepper box
With ground sulpher and rosin.
Of which he’d light the tow
And with a knife and fork
Proceed to eat
An inflamed dinner.
Ramo Sami
Prepared
One of the simplest
And one of the most elusive tricks
Right there on the carpet
In front of everybody.
The East Indian Needle Trick.
A feat that showed him
Putting a handful of needles
And a circle of thread
In his mouth
Only to pull the needles out of his mouth
Entwined every
Several inches
Or so
Like a clothesline.
He could feel it.
The time was now.
It was perfect.
There was energy in the air.
The mystery of reality
Meets night magic.
He began
His performance.
He had an hour
Until the fireworks
Began.
He was a master.
It began with four
Hollow brass balls.
