The Hand of Tong Bao Lin

A little Chinese Gothic...

I stood in front of the guillotine

And paled at the sharpened blade,

The motor hummed as my mind went numb

And my body shook and swayed,

The sweat poured into my open eyes

And blinded and burned like sin,

But I had no choice, I had to be free

Of the Hand of Tong Bao Lin.

 

I'd worked in China for seven years

In the city of old Qingdao,

If I hadn't been such a hero, I

Would still be working there now;

But I got involved in a scuffle there

When a woman was being attacked,

He'd snatched her bag and I snatched it too,

So he turned on me, and hacked.

 

I'd heard of the mean Hand-Chopper Gang,

Just petty crims on the whole,

They stole whatever was not nailed down,

Just handbags, wallets and gold,

But they carried machetes under their coats

For the woman who fought like mad,

If she wouldn't let go, they'd chop off her hand

And carry it off with the bag.

 

I stood in shock, and stared at my wrist,

While he took off, scot free,

My hand still clutching the shoulder strap

But it wasn't attached to me,

I bled all over the pavement there,

Collapsed in a bloody heap,

I only discovered my hand was gone

When I woke from a troubled sleep.

 

The doctors there were marvellous,

They tidied it up no end,

But it isn't much consolation when

You can't shake hands with a friend,

I'd just about been resigned to it

When in walked Doctor Chu,

He was something to do with the government,

Said - 'I need to talk with you!'

 

'Let's say that it's just an experiment,

Long odds, but you may just win,

Get you a working hand again,

Though one with a yellow skin.'

I signed the form with my one good hand

And put myself in his care,

If I'd known back then what I know today...

I'd have put an axe through his hair!

 

They took me away that very night

To a place both dread and grim,

To one of those Chinese Prisons where

You're dead if they let you in.

They housed me there in the hospital

And treated me better than those,

The walking dead in the prison beds

Who all wore the orange clothes.

 

The prison was only for murderers,

And those with a capital crime,

Whose fate was lead in the back of the head

It was only a question of time.

I heard men scream as I tried to sleep,

And many a Chinese curse,

But they filled me full of some sedative,

And this only made it worse.

 

I dreamt as I slept there fitfully

Of a man who was chained to his bed,

As the surgeons sliced at his body there,

His screams still ring in my head;

His face contorted, he looked at me

And managed an evil grin,

As they surgically took his hand, he said:

'You be sorry... I Tong Bao Lin!'

 

The fever lasted for days, I think,

I thought I'd never wake up,

But then one morning my mind was clear

And my arm was bandaged up,

Slowly, slowly I felt the hand

That they'd grafted onto my wrist,

I should have been grateful then, I know,

But I slowly became obsessed.

 

It healed at last, took many months,

But it worked, and didn't feel strange,

I carried the hand of a dead man now

But then it began to change,

I found it reached for a woman's purse

In a shop where she'd dropped it there,

And it gripped it fast when she snatched it back,

It was more than I could bear.

 

I fled outside in confusion, and

Made tracks for a backstreet den,

I had no idea what drew me there

But found it was opium;

They lay around with those long, clay pipes

And the hand, it reached for one,

I knew right there I would have to share

My life with Tong Bao Lin.

 

The hand, it reached into pockets when

I walked on my usual beat,

It seemed attracted to shiny things

And fondled the girls on the street,

It drew me into the thickest crowds

Did things that would bring me shame,

And I'd thrust it deep in my pocket then

For the sake of my own good name.

 

The hand was marred by a strange tattoo

A serpent with wings, on the thumb,

When traders saw it they veered away

And one of them pulled a gun.

I stayed at home and I locked the door

And I slowly became depressed,

The hand would pound on the wall, the floor

And the lid of a rosewood chest.

 

A Chinese man came to call one day,

Bowed low, and I let him in,

In broken English I heard him say:

'I lookin' for Tong Bao Lin!'

He stared on down at the yellow hand,

And looked at the old tattoo,

'Bao Lin!' he pointed, 'an evil man!

You know what you have to do!'

 

And so, I stand by the guillotine,

The sweat pours into my eyes,

It takes two buttons to start the blade,

There's a demon to exorcise.

I place my wrist on the cutting line

And the man says, 'Let's begin!'

I push the button, and so does he,

The brother of Tong Bao Lin.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[roarke]

I marvel at how you direct the story and rhymes to go. this is the kind of folklore story telling that enlightens the present through tales from the past. These are tales born of long journeys and long nights and shared adventure or hardship. It seems Mr. Paget, you are merely the medium, clairvoyant channel for these saga's. Ah, I suppose there are a scant few better positions, at least your muse, though shaded, has wit and panache.

[David Scott]

Your writing shows that you actually spent a long time in China. You have a story few "round eyes" could imagine. A treat!

[Silent Kim aka mizmetap..]

True to your styke interesting, entertaining and creative. Could you imagine, yes you did. Makes you wonder about transplants. Good work.

[Aspiring Angel]

Your story telling ability in rhyme is amazing! What a wonderful story. I am sorry this read request went so long without being answered.

Blessings,
Lesa

[C.T. Bailey]

What a great story! You have so much life experiences to write about. I remember you telling me how you frequent China. What a rich environment to glean your writes from. This piece is epic. You continue to amaze...

Todd

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Once again, this is an engaging poem that captured me from beginning to end. The joy is in the journey, not knowing where you're leading, but knowing that it's somewhere grand. While it reminded me of the movie, "The Hand," with Michael Caine, I find your story far more engaging.

Your quill writes the poems of a great storyteller.

Linda Marie Van Tassell

[Wildfleour]

You know, as an English teacher I am always looking for a deeper meaning. But your poems create mini-epic stories and I simply have learned to go along for the ride.

[Norma J. Jessee]

Fantastic tale, one that has left me shivering at the thought that things of this nature could possibly have truth in it. I have heard tales of heart transplant patients starting to like foods that they originally hated and doing and feeling things that were not normal for them only to find that the person whose heart they had liked those foods or did those things etc. They are printed or documented as the truth but who knows. It does make good stories though, and who better to write them than the MASTER of story telling.
And your metere is impecable as always.
I wish just once there was something out of sorts that I could pick on you for. Even a mispelled word would work. lol

[Valentine]

David, I think you must dream tales even when you sleep..how in the world your mind can hold in all of these thoughts to get them down on paper before they slip away is amazing..you are a tyruly gifted man,..Lol and God bless you both,, Valentine

[papaed]

A marvelous story... I was pulled right to the end. I wonder if genetic memory drives more of our actions and feelings than we know. Good cadence and rhyming scheme. Thanks for sharing.

You might be interested in my "The Story of Tally the Seaman." and the Acrostic that came before it. I love to tell stories and to rhyme also... as in many of my pieces.
papaed