Things I always carry with me

 

Be it on my own, or on a fun spree
there are things I always carry with me.

My arrogance
my brilliance
my annoyance
my buoyance
my joys
and sorrows
hurrying and scurrying
like there are no tomorrows.
My passion, sometimes alienating
high spirits, sometimes dominating
humour, sometimes irritating
my kindness, sometimes  suffocating.

No matter how different I try to be
what I carry with me always, is ME.
I keep tripping and tumbling out of my bag
for  you, me and others, to see.

Poonam/11 March 2020

 

The We Are Worth It Brigade

 

Sleek shiny hair! I’m worth it! Dye it just the perfect shade!
I’m a paid up member of the We are Worth it Brigade.

Breakfast must be Brie, with Rose’s  marmalade;
little treats to start the day of We Are Worth It Brigade.

If only they had fewer kids they would not need our Aid;
we go for what we want at the We Are Worth It Brigade.

Designer goods and gourmet dining are so retrograde!
Meaningful experience for We Are Worth It Brigade.

Life-enhancing holidays, beautifully portrayed;
‘been there, done that’, mantra rules the We Are Worth It Brigade.

Turn off those TV shots of one more famine and air raid;
we owe ourselves compassion at the We Are Worth It Brigade.

Go diving with sharks, and feel deliciously afraid;
free our inner child and play the We Are Worth It Brigade.

I’m sure my hair tint will receive its rightful accolade;
I’m a paid up member of the We Are Worth It Brigade.

 

Poonam November 2019

On Plato's Republic

 

Plato’s Academy, in Athens City;
wars are fought; slaves are caught or bought;
idealist thought is taught.

Hear the air in the market-square
throng with Socratic dialogue.
I think and speak, but who will care
to hear a mere slave’s monologue.

An accident of birth determines our birth;
you stand  proud and free; how can you  see
my earthly bondage,  lowly, lonely outrage.

You talk of Truth, Goodness, Beauty;
is it reality, illusion, or collusion?
Is there really a place in your Republic for me?
Or is your dialogue deceitful delusion?

Poonam  June 2018 November 2019 Version 2

 

 

Pretty Girl

 

Oh for a straight nose and lashes that curl!

O how I long to be a pretty girl.

 

Mousy hair, eyes set too wide, crooked teeth,

ears  far too big; don’t make a pretty girl.

 

Feet too big and legs too small, skinny arms

and  scrawny neck, not quite the pretty girl.

Use this lotion, grandmother friend says, and this

herbal cream, will make you a pretty girl.

 

I crimp my hair, tweeze my brows, pinch my nose,

boys  still do not call me a pretty girl.

But when I sing, my nephew laughs, he thinks

I am the best; the mostest pretty girl.

 

My mates are always there for me, they don’t

give two hoots that I’m not a pretty girl.

 

I write, recite, I ski, surf, swim; I dance,

I laugh, have fun; more than a pretty girl.

 

She sashays out of fashion mags, pouts her

lips, sways her hips; now that’s a pretty girl.

 

She plays the harp? Or writes a play? No way!

It’s pretty pointless being a pretty girl.

 

So Poonam, do let your spirit unfurl.

There’s more to you than being a pretty girl.

 

Poonam March 19

 

Spinning gold

 Days full of laughter and fun

like endless golden sunshine

or a cheery dandelion.

The height of summer;

the florets withered,

some blown away by the wind, 

some I plucked

brutally

with the thoughtlessness of

one who has known no loss.

The gossamer remained.

I could not hold it,

watched 

helpless

as it floated

afar

in the gentlest breeze.

Now

days

stretch ahead

empty

long.

I stare

into the bare kernel

hopefully pluck

into the pores

search

for something

for some meaning

some straw 

to build myself

to clear the cobwebs from my heart

to spin gold from straw.

Poonam/August 20 (first version June19)

TRAVELLER

 

I crossed many borders

covered many miles

carved my path

on my own

yet not alone.

You stayed behind

yet by my side.

 

Today

I sit by your side

miles away

imagining a path to you.

 

Sep 19

 

 

 

To William Wordsworth

 

Lying upon the couch today
dancing with the daffodils
(as one does!)
there flashed upon the inward eye
a day
long long gone by.

Lying curled upon the lawn
looking vacantly
humming tunelessly,
all at once
 I saw
a blade of grass,
a single leaf
small
standing tall
to kiss the sky.

Its glistening green and lemon light
grinned,
called me to play.

With each breath of mine it swayed,
whispered,
told me a thousand stories
as though it were my fondest friend.

Together
we giggled
a  gleeful  greeting  to the sky.

Your daffodils are grand, Mr Wordsworth,
but today I put them away
in favour of an old friend.

I’ve learnt to dance
with a blade of grass. 

Poonam  August 18

THE PILGRIMAGE

The annual family pilgrimage, a time-honoured tradition,

worship the gods and ancestors, show them our devotion.

Connect with the divine,

visit the family shrine.

The pilgrim site, architecturally ornate,

village-size perimeter, tall iron bar gate.

Everywhere I see

monkeys roam fancy free.

Perching on poles,

dancing on domes,

vaulting off vehicles, 

rolling off rafters,

capering on canopies,

bouncing on balconies.

Funny, frisky, scavenging,

stinky, scrawny, menacing,

Why do monkeys blight this site,

I muse…

receive a cacophony of views:

They’re our cousins, we have common ancestors,

They’re here to remind us of our place in the universe.

Ugly little beast!

Steals our food for his feast!

To teach us humour, how to be kind,

things a bit lacking in mankind.

Lament our glorious temple dome

 built on the ruins of their ancient home.

Just ideas, all suspect,

nothing  put to test,

what you might expect

on a spiritual quest.

We hurry and flurry from deity to deity,

worry that each receive our piety,

dreary with devotion,

weary vexation.

Father and son pray, a stony distance apart,

swill silent chants, annoyance in their heart.

Mother and daughter stage a seething ritual,

slighted and sulking from the morning squabble.

In the sun a monkey grooms her mate,

I’m sure it’sa great way to relate!

 Others leap from crest to crest,

babies  glued to back and breast.

We open the family shrine, light lamps,

greet the ancestors with incense,

fruits, sweets, nuts, the prescribed prayer,

close the door behind us, and  leave, till next year.

A monkey comes, hungry, paws at my bag,

whining, bones jutting, skin like a rag.

Waving a stick I keep it at bay,

growling fiercely, shoo it away.

Poonam/September 19