TRANSIENCE

Everything passes
so I am told.

Seasons change
flowers fade
dew melts and dwindles
waves break
love is lost
hopes dashed
horizons dimmed.

I weep
cling on
let go
keep alive,
seeking points of certainty
through song, ritual
time honoured traditions.

Is it all in the mind?
Is the choice mine?

Flowers fade,
yet beauty endures,
a conviction, a memory,
a blossoming bud with fresher hues.
Dew dances with every dawn.
Waves rise and return
 with riotous strength and song.

Love lingers in the soul,
a sorrow
a kind of misty joy.

Hopes and horizons
dally and drift,
like a distant vision
a forgotten passion
suddenly springing into action,
into new creation.

Anger too may pass
to acceptance,
forgiveness,
or  resistance.

Is anything ever lost?
Is the river lost when it merges into the sea?

How do I choose?

I mourn the loss of each passing,
yet celebrate the gift of transience.

July 2018

Epicurean philosopher

(i)

Greek philosophers, I was told,
had a materialist view of reality.
I was intrigued by the idea, bold,
bursting with beauty.

Particles of matter
in boundless void
shimmy and shine,
devoid
of a divine
grand design.

Matter in eternal motion,
chance collision,
 formation
and separation.
A timeless dance
of creation
and destruction!

If matter and chance is all that is here,
where is the need for religious fear,
divine commandment, or punishment?
Simply live, seek self-fulfilment.

 (ii)

I’m here by chance,
so let me dance!
I’ve just begun
to have some fun!

Go nice and slow,
see bubbles blow,
sing you a song
to make you glow.

Go with speed
if there’s need,
If I’m lost
I’ll take your lead.

Be playful, strong, kind,
but use my mind,
I’ll pick your brain,
see what I find.

Phone a friend,
pick a fight,
try somehow to
put it right.

When there’s pain
shed many-a-tear.
When there’s joy
grin ear to ear.

Soar up and high
to touch the sky,
I may not make it,
but I’ll try.

Do no harm.
As if I would!
I’d do some good
if I could!

(iii)

I pause,
I ponder……..
as though in a trance.
Is my life, my will, my soul,
just a dance
of matter and chance?

Poonam August 18

Nail Polish

On a ‘volunteering’ vacation,
 I walk with the village nurse
on her home visits.
She briefs me on her patients.

Fifty year old, female,
abdominal cancer, terminal stage,
husband:  labourer on daily wage.

The muddy road, flanked by flooded fields,
leads to a cluster of houses.
I see your tall figure at the little gate,
staring into space,
or perhaps looking out for us.

Smiling in greeting
you lead us into a courtyard,
your humility and gratitude
leaving me embarrassed,
put out two creaky chairs on the cracked concrete.
offer tea, which we  politely refuse,
you bring out two biscuits on a plastic plate.

‘She has not eaten for two days…..’
Your distress
grates on my ears.

I hear moaning,
glance into the room within,
spotlessly clean,
paint peeling off the walls.

The wasted body lies on the bed
strategically placed
under the single whirring fan,
eyes half-closed
sunken into their sockets,
blouse half undone
to make room for the swollen stomach,
faded trousers pulled down
under the mound of belly.

‘How do you do this, day after day?’ I wonder.

‘I’ll drain her stomach’, says the nurse.
You know what that means;
 help her up,
humming,
soothing sounds,
soft,
almost silent,
on to a couch in the courtyard.

‘How do you do this, day after day?’ I wonder.

The nurse assembles needles and tubes.
You bring out a large grimy grey plastic bottle,
gently stroke her face,
coax each muscle to relax.
I look down,
squeamish about needles,
recoiling at the loss of dignity,
the invasion of privacy.

Grungy green fluid starts to fill the bottle.
You squat beside me,
eyes welling,
whisper…..
long round of charity hospitals,
dreaded verdict,
‘keep her comfortable at home’.

‘I have not worked for eight months,’
you tail off…
smile……
press tea and biscuits on me
press her palm…..

‘How do you do this, day after day?’ I wonder.

She is calm now.
You take away the bottle.
I stare at her fingers and toes,
crimson-red,
bright ,
beautiful,
bold,
not a brushstroke out of place.

You laugh,
‘I do this once in a while,
it makes her smile’.

This time
your smile reaches the eyes,
lights up the creases in your dark face.

Suddenly I understand,
with gratitude and humility,
with complete clarity,
how you do this, day after day.

I, Aung San Su Kyi

(This was written when the Rohingya crisis first caught the world’s attention, and Su Kyi lost her moral status)

I’d smile; my father’s gaze would beam
his love, his passion, and his dream;
his dream of true equality,
democratic  society.

Friends, family, success;
couldn’t fill my inner hole;
I waited impatiently
to go fulfil my role.

Once back, I thrived in isolation;
my people’s trust, their admiration,
my inner strength, will, glimmering hope,
these formed my wealth, they helped me cope.

The henchman of power came by stealth,
(history all over), he stole my wealth.
My father hears my silent scream
I’ve lost my Self; I’ve lost his dream.

The moon and I

The sturgeon moon smiled into the window.

I drew the curtains
Must sleep early start important meeting business deal

All night
there danced in my eyes
a shiny silver coin
given to the children every diwali,
a gift from the goddess of wealth,
not just money, we were told,
but all the riches
of wisdom
peace
generosity
truth
laughter...

All night
there smiled in my eyes
a shiny woman spinning silver lace.
'We were childhood friends, you and I,'
she whispered,
'we would leave all cares aside and share secrets
till you could keep your eyes open no longer .'
Was her smile tinged with sorrow?
I couldn’t tell.
What do you say?

June 20