STRANGER

 

You glance at me, and I see your face finds
 a strange fascination
 (or something else?) in my features.
Know that they thought me the most beautiful bride in the village.

You see my shapeless robe, with its bright threads.
Know that it was embroidered by my grandmother, passed down
to me, to wear, and to keep for my daughter.

You are amused that I step into mud to avoid stepping on an ant.
Know that we sweltered all summer because the single hand-pulled fan
had been taken over by a bird for her nest.

You frown  that I do not allow my sons to drink.
Know that my uncles beat their wives every night after drinking home brew.

I get lost in the streets, with their names and their numbers.
Know that the trees guided me home wherever I was.

Yes I never want to go anywhere, don’t want to see the sights.
Know that I travelled thousands of miles to find a home.

You raise eyebrows when my lips quiver silent prayers during the day.
Know that I prayed when there was neither food nor love to keep me strong.

Yes I smile and laugh for no reason.
Know that I learnt to be happy when all I loved had been lost.

I know this.
If you could know it too
I could be myself.
Perhaps then
you could be yourself too.

June 2020

 

R

 

I am R
rolling wide and far
revving a rickety  car

rowdy  bazaar
rumpus in the bar
rum and caviar
raucous guitar
recitation  bizarre
rancid cigar
rhapsodic sitar
rocking like a star
ready to spar

run through the reservoir
riot in  the abattoir
ruin the rare Renoir

raving  in full gear
 racket to the ear
rambling  with fear
raging king Lear
relieved to hear
rhetoric is clear

ripe as a pear
rude raunchy bear
racy underwear

ride to the fore
rant like a bore
retort with a roar
ramshackle door
rotting to the core
raid  the store
rob rupees galore
rap on the floor
relax and snore

I am R
rabid rabble rouser
ruling your browser

KEYS

I keep misplacing keys.

I search
house, car, handbag, shed, garden, street, pocket, office, sofa, back of shoe rack, café, under the bed, fridge…..

Where did I put them? When did I last see them? Why am I so careless?....
Can I replace them? Can I do without?

Shrug.
I’ll have to see,
hope they turn up.

I googled
how to keep keep keys safe.
This brave new world told me
I might have lost the key
to life, understanding, love……,
in short,  to myself.
Interesting idea.

I search
silence, stories, science, dialogue, monologue, genes, memes, religions, rituals, rainbows, moments, memories…..

Where did I put them? When did I last see them? Why am I so careless?....
Can I replace them? Can I do without?

Shrug.
I’ll have to see,
hope I turn up.

June 2020

APPLES

 We are apples,
you and I.
Tell me more,
you raise a sigh.

I’m the apple
 of your eye,
you’re hard to swallow
though I  try.

You keep bobbing
up and down,
I topple the cart
and go to town.

I am sweet,
you are tart,
you are wilting,
I’m state of the art.

You are rotting to the core,
THIS IS GETTING TO BE A BORE!

 june 2020

Painter’s puzzle

I paint my bedroom green 
and pink
he complains it is
clashing
as I puzzle over the joyful
discordance of azaleas and fuschias…..

Colour
my hook
to hang life on
confuses me
with contradictions……

Flaming orange robes
of Himalayan hermits seeking
calm detachment……

Black, boding bad luck
and the sexy slick sway of
my little black dress……

White, sum of all the hues
of the rainbow, and young
white-garbed widows
by the holy Ganges
yoked, for ever
to forbidden desires…..

I can not choose my palette.

May 2020

Misplaced

 Sometimes I misplace things,

a favourite jumper, books, keys, friends, glasses…..

I search
house, car, handbag, shed, garden, street, office, neighbour, stranger, café, phone, files, folders…..

Can I replace it? Can I do without?
Where did I put it? When did I last see it? Why am I so careless?....

I’ll have to wait,
hope it turns up.

I misplaced myself.

I search
silence, stories, science, dialogue, monologue, genes, memes, religions, rainbows, moments, memories…..

Can I? Can I?
Where, when, why?....

I’ll have to wait,
hope I turn up.

May 2020

Distance

Looking out in the distance

I see shapes
feel them
floating
familiar
in the darkness
the shapes of my sadness

The shapes
fascinate
hold an allure
like a lost friendship festering like a sore
grandma’s tales which are now folk-lore
a dream that I work hard to ignore
a faith that lifts the soul no more
like an old lover I want to know again
understand the joy and also the pain

The shapes come close
and closer still
all around me
move inside me

We float together
me and my sadness
through dark depths
each accepting the other
to a restful place
no distance between us.

May 20

  

My house

 

In my house there are many mansions

 

Light and airy

Vibrant like a Van Gogh

Playing with light and dark like a Rembrandt

 

Pitch dark, scary, suffocating, fascinating

Perhaps a hint of a window?

 

Strong.

Flimsy, rattling with the wind

 

High ceilings, room to fly

Narrow ceilings, closing in

 

People live in these mansions

I am welcome in them all

I wander from one to another,

rest awhile, talk,  grow restless

move on, as I choose..

 

Do I choose?

 

An endless journey through my house.

august 2020

Guava Grove

 

It was a long walk home.
Hungry and cranky,
I whinged and whined
dragged my feet
nagged at grandma
tugged her hand,
pulled her dress.

Resigned,
she sighed
carried me
to a nearby alcove of trees
to rest.

The keeper,
or perhaps the owner,
out of generosity,
or perhaps to break the monotony,
offered us the freedom of the woody grounds.

The day suddenly changed colour.
I ran ahead, into a guava grove
leafy dark, magic,
circles of sunlight sparkling on the ground.

We gorged on guavas,
crisp and sharp
squishy and sweet
oozing  juice,
licked our fingers
 wiped on Grandma’s scarf.

She washed my hands and face
with water we pulled up from the tube well,
taught me to cup my palms to drink,
let me wash her feet,
squealed when I soaked her,
stood straight and sang,
hands wrapped round my wrist,
as I danced around her in the sunny circle.

Today
I visited grandma.
Old, bedridden,
she mumbled,
in diseased accents,
about
guavas!

She is confused,
they all muttered,
concerned,
tired .

Only I smiled.

September 2018

The Man God Debate

 

Introduction:

Dear reader, in front of you today,
Man and God, will in turn have their say.
Here prejudice is rife,
often leading to strife.
Be reasoned. Do not simply join the fray!

Man:

This business of God is just his game,
played through thousands or a singular name.
He really does not care
how, when, why and where
we all live! Oh his story is so lame.

God:

You gave me the names, you wretched beast!
Could you not keep them simpler at least?
You think I should care
how badly you fare?
You’re joking! Go talk to your priest.

Man:

God’s an image in a frame, just a name,
struts the great hall of fame, keeps us tame.
When there’s fire or a flood,
I’m being dragged through the mud,
He’s nowhere near  as powerful as his claim.

 

God:

Don’t blame me for your famine or your feast.
It’s a ploy, used by you and your priest.
You gave me a name
to pass on your shame.
Name-calling will not hurt me in the least.

 

Summing-up:

Dear reader, keep the spirit of debate.
Don’t be baited to quarrell with your mate.
This lame, tame, fame, claim,
 name, shame, blame, game…
No matter! We are here at any rate.

 

June 20

Dancing bells

 

She stands at the temple gate;

budding life,

statuesque,

palms cupped together in devotion,

eyes half-closed,

lips quivering a silent prayer.

 

Is she offering herself to the mercy of the gods,

beseeching them for a special gift?

Or, through her prayer,

calling up her own sacred centre

 of strength, faith and hope?’

 

Nestled between her palms,

bunched together,

small metal balls,

red cord.

A dancer’s ankle bells!

 

She moves,

head bowed, lips still moving,

across the yard, over the threshold,

into the temple precinct

to the dancing deity, 

kneels,

lays the bells at his feet.

 

Shiva.

The Lord of Dance.

Manifestation of the Cosmic Dance.

 

Stance of energy, elegance, ecstasy.

The sun and the moon whirring

in hair fanned out in wild abandon;
body adorned with potent symbols:

fire, drum, river, snake ,demon, third eye;

speaking of cosmic rhythms,

of rythms of daily life;

and of the overcoming of

ego,

Illusion,

ignorance.

 

Head bowed, palms cupped, eyes closed, lips moving.

It seems a lifetime.

Will she not move

until she feels Shiva smile upon her,

feels his Dance course through her?

 

The bells sparkle,

each little bell lovingly polished,

threaded on the well-used cord.

 

She rises,

holds out her palms

to receive from the priest

the sanctified bells,
wrapped in banana leaves,

fresh, lush, auspicious;

smeared with sacred paste

of sandalwood and vermilion,

sprinkled with holy water.

 

This blessed gift

she cups close to her heart,

dew dappling on her lashes.

 

I watch her retreating figure.

 

‘Art becomes true only when the ego is let go’,

my teachers had often said.

I had nodded,

barely understood the clichéd mantra.

 

Perhaps they had not understood either. 

 

 

Poonam May 19 

 

 

Christmas sonnet

 

The Christmas lunch is ready to be served;

The family’s late as usual, what a pain!

I had not wanted this in any case;

And now! The sky looks as though it will rain!

 

I do not like eating this fancy fare;

I can’t abide this pretentious mulled wine;

Fried eggs and chips with mustard on my plate,

Or cheesy baked potato would be fine

 

But through the kitchen window I can see

The willows graciously embrace the sky;

The squirrels spoiling food put out for birds

For one mean moment make my spirit high!

 

I too could graciously embrace the day;

But no! I’ll spoil it in my surly way!

Jan 19

A whore of two cities

 

I am a whore.

A whore of two cities .

 

I was a whore there,

not a bar girl

 or go-go girl.

Hips too skinny

breasts  too small.

No, I did my trade

on the streets.

Street meat,

they call it here.

 

After a meal,

meat

potatoes

bread

carrots

cake,

why do I see myself

in my  father’s hut,

on a mat,

slurping from a bowl

licking up the last drop?

Lush green hills do not fill the belly.

 

An easy exchange

I know.

New land

new life

comfort

security

safety,

even affection, yes,

in return for

giving the ’girlfriend experience’,

being the ‘traditional’ wife.

Biddable, beautiful, beddable,

they call it here.

 

Why, then, in this land of plenty

do I see myself running,

always running,

through the hills, back

to my father’s  hut?

His cruel beating

falling

waking

seeing him

crouching by me,

tears in his eyes.

 

I slap my daughter, for wearing

bikinis and skimpy tops,

for revealing

what I so wanted  to keep for myself.

This is the fashion, I am told.

It seems I have a dirty mind.

Once a whore, always a whore.

 

I see her with her father

laugh,

show her  homework,

share her hopes.

I am jealous

then ashamed.

Jealous of my own daughter!

That is shameful, even for a whore!

 

The neighbour smiles

I freeze with fear.

Does he want to deal with me?...

After all, I’m just a whore.

 

My father died.

I did not cry

send money to my mother

write to my sister.

I am a selfish heartless whore!

 

I might cheat

on the side.

I might steal,

I might leave.

What do you expect, of a whore?

 

I read the dictionary.

A whore…..

Someone who sells one’s body

sells sex

sells oneself

one’s abilities

one’s beliefs

in a way which does not deserve respect

for money,  mainly.

 

Biddable, beautiful, beddable;

when memories flash and blind

I scream and harangue.

Just like a whore.

Or,

more often,

I slap down the monsters which are me

deeper into myself

push down the rising vomit

smile

sweetly.

Always the whore!

 

The truth,

the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth.

This land

that land

land of poverty

land of plenty.

Land of whoredom.

Whoreland!

March 19

 

 

The missionary position

 

In spite of the delight

we undoubtedly find

in….

umm

a bit of variation,

I make a humble plea

for the missionary position.

 

I like the missionary position.

Where else can I run

with sweet abandon

through the mustard fields

into the gentle breeze?

 

The missionary position…..

my magic carpet,

on which I drift away…

to meet my best mate for a brew

to give the perfect interview,

to be a saint, or suffragette:

Joan of Arc, Millicent Fawcett.

 

Be other women with charisma,

like Gamble, fighting Darwin’s Dogma

Marie Curie with radiation

Bessie Coleman with aviation

Cleopatra, Boudaccia

Nurse Mary Seacole of Crimea

Harriet Tubman, Harriet Stowe

striking slavery blow by blow

Lise Meitner studying Gamma

Rosa Parks of Alabama.

 

I like the missionary position.

Where else can I scale

the notes of Maria Callas

and sneeze on the SOB who said

I couldn’t carry a tune!

 

I have exercised my right

to  take a fair bite

of  the world’s best erotica

to whet the appetite.

Kamasutra, the tantra,

the blissful union mantra;

the straddle, the squat,

climbing turtle, what not!

Oh! The exotic gymnastics,

defying the principles of physics.

 

Only in the missionary position

do I meet the stranger from long ago

whose even casual touch did make

me fly to a rapturous state

the likes of which I can not fake!

 

I like the missionary position.

Only here I have the space

to thank my mother

for telling me

my name means the full moon,

gleaming and whole;

and to thank life

for teaching me

that the moon wanes

to nights of utter darkness.

 

All ye women!

Even as you delight

in boots, belts, balls, breeches , braces,

vibrators, suspenders, mirrors,  

and  any other device

far beyond Ann Summers,

heed my sisterly advice!

 

Do not abandon

the weekly magnificence

of the missionary position!

Feb 19

 

Final frontier

 

Pain digs creases into my palms

deeper than the lines which tell my fate

 

i clench tight

close my palms

hold the pain in

hold it prisoner

deep and dark

 

it courses through limbs

wafts out of pores

turning into steam

into clouds

engulfing

suffocating

 

head thrashes  violently

to break free

free of the pain

 

exhausted

i rest

breathe in the pain

softly

give in to it

gather into myself

love it

own it

let it weigh me down

like the heaviness of sleep

an infant round my neck

 

my final frontier

to  love

to  accept

this pain

mine 

a child of my womb

always with me

may wander away

play awhile

and return

always mine

 

june 19

Grandchildren of the Raj

 

We are the grandchildren of the Raj;
a grafting of two nations,
one a golden bird,
coveted by the other
to be the jewel in her crown,
an ignoble flourishing
and
an inglorious falling,
breathless broken branches
sickly stumps.

From these we come;
sprouts and suckers
seeking the light.

Saplings still so tender it hurts;
we see the warped twisted roots
and rage
at the four million dead in Bengal
the Jalianwala massacre
the cannon fodder of the world wars
the callous division of land and people
the distorted telling of history.

We see other roots too;
the feet of the golden bird,
a web of shame and glory
vedas and violence
wisdom and weakness
chivalry and misogyny.

The language of our mothers
grieves it can not give us
all her riches.
We hear the language of the Other,
that of Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley
make it our own
infuse with our spirit
empower with our prayers and our protests.

We take for sustenance what we will
and grow.

August 20

HEALING

 

looking for a place
to hide
away from questions and comments
 stares and sympathies
i stumbled
into a temple
song fell upon ears
words meaningless

numb
stiffness travelling limbs
i sat
motionless

she quietly handed me a foot cushion
our eyes did not meet
a tear pricked
i sat
motionless

with sense of place and protocol
i picked a prayer book
fumbled the pages

she quietly handed me an open book
our eyes did not meet
i sat
motionless

i stepped  out
smiled tentatively at the sky

June 20