Poem by Dennis Dinopoulos

The British had left them hidden,
grateful to the thick jungle,
relieved that it had entwined itself
around them – temples the lot of them!
Such “unmentionable” monuments,
huddled together like newly hatched,
depicting in exquisite details
the delights of love.
Here was love’s triangle fused
into one explosion, with
differentiating lines blurred,
with matter suspended and torn
by desire for deliverance
from earth’s embrace.
Here was the sexual act turning
the skies into an open thoroughfare,
for spirits released from love’s energy.

Our guide was very matter of fact,
pointing out the elaborate techniques,
the group sessions, the ways release may
be achieved, taking great delight at
certain angles, accuracy or depth.
In Khajuraho, she said, Love’s Labours
are never lost.

Toured the village in the afternoon;
women cooking on open fires,
thick grey smoke spiraling to an
evening sky, open gutters, community taps
for fresh water; kids playing cricket
with a rubber ball, no stumps,
“caught and you’re out” their only option,
shrieks of the crouching fieldsmen
filling the sky.