Travel

 

 

There are places in my mind I will not go to,

perhaps a void

or a place of pain,

of unbridled longings,

even a fistful of sunshine,

or surrender to some secret gods.

There are places in my mind I will not go to.

 

Flying over the Hindukush mountains

with the soft bloom of apricot valleys,

acrosss rivers, ravines and ridges

through deodar forests,

past ancient monasteries,

beyond icy passes and snowy peaks,

perhaps to a point of no return.

 

 

 August 21

Snoozedance

 

Dance, to keep old age at bay,

they keep saying, since my last birthday.

 

You hate skiing, and you hate swimming,

your mind and body’ll start ageing.

 

Here’s some reggae, they say, just sway,

sashay your hips, it’s fun, like play.

 

Foxtrot and tango? I could, I would,

but a snooze on the sofa is just as good.

 

 August 2021

Under one sky

 

the weekly street sweeper

--faded tattered dress

fresh black eye--

rattled our garden gate

to refill her water bottle

 

‘he got drunk again’

--flat tone

straight back--

avoiding the insistent gaze of blue marks

peeping through my silk scarf

 

august 21

 

 

SHADOWPLAY

 

there is a battlefield of shadows
just beyond me

sparrowhawk and sunbird duel in the whirlwind
buttercup fields  smile, shrouded by a pair of empty eyes
light and dark tangle in a necklace of joy, then pull apart
the future, a dreadful fear, dances timeless destruction
teardrops pound soft mud into diamond
my limbs are caught in the crossfire

tall bare branches escape a square hole
reach for the sun

 

 June 2021

 

It’s a small world?

 

‘It’s a small world’, I’ve often been told
It’s not what I’ve found, as I grow old and bold;
the world keeps opening, fold after fold
giving me treasures more precious than gold.

Yes it’s a small world
if I build a close wall,
keep face down and crouch
fail to see the sprawl.

If life throws us together
when we had been so far
it’s the thousand steps we took
the doors we kept ajar.

It’s a huge world to search
when I lose something held dear,
I meet a kindred spirit
and find yet one more sphere.

My mind is a world, an infinite space
of countless beings and thoughts to embrace
scaling mysteries I come face to face
with courage, compassion, joy and grace.

 

 March 2021

 

Thieves

 

Thoughts
ever greedy
for more
and more

rake roots
scour for deepest desires
scan skies
seize mystery, majesty
fearless fancy
flight of frenzy

scuttle,  steal
the wanted
and the unwanted

hue of rose
whiff of sandalwood
sting, venom
ingest, digest
sundrop on frost
sacred in silence
hurt, healing
love, loss
peacock plumage
of oil spillage
on still waters

stun guards
sail through gates
light as air
thick as thieves

Feb 2021

 

Bread and milk

 

My mother’s ultimate comfort food,
soft spongy white bread
soaking up the milk like
fluffy marshmallows
melting in the mouth
warmth and sweetness oozing through;
scraped knee
spat with sister
schoolgirl crush,
all sobbed away
into a bowl of bread and milk.

I tried this remedy for lockdown blues,
spent a good few weeks in a blissful snooze,
then, bored, decided to switch to booze,
got nicked on the tube for trying to schmooze.

 

May 2021

Sculpting a pandemic

 

I collect stones,
adore the textures, the contours
the shades and shadows,
cup in my palms,
caress with my cheek,
press close to my heart
like a personal god,
its  pattern and poetry
a unique piece of possibilities.

I carry a pile in my chest,
each stone covering a hole
where a life had been,
a life breathing into me,
each stone a unique pouring of glowing lava ,
flame orange dancing upon ash gray,
epitaphs shining through in silver and gold.

 

May 2021 (written during the second wave in India)

Beachy Head

 

(Beachy Head is the highest chalk sea cliff in Britain, close to Eastbourne, along the East Sussex Coast. It is a popular tourist attraction, with many walking routes, and is also one of the most common suicide spots in the world.)

Born of the ooze of the deepest ocean
then lifted through its sunlit surface,
I stand with the skies,
 waters separating me from myself.

Seams of flint etched upon chalk
knowledge before knowledge
before perception
before thought.

Sight, sound, all sensation,
the breath of each ancient one
become my memory, my wisdom, my intuition.

You explore my shores and hills
and the landscape of your being.

Your sadness
always the weight of your sadness
weeps down every crevice and crease
seeps down every column
even in the occasional ripple of your pleasure.
Each flint digs a deeper stab of pain.

I do not know
what you seek
in my contours, my calligraphy.
The perfection of Plato’s forms?
Some  mathematical  truth,  with no room for doubt?
Distraction,  escape, meaning,
your place in time and space
in the tangible world
and in the other?

I do not speak.
Your mind can show you what you need
as you stand
poised upon my crag.

I only stand,
in absolute attentive presence,
 with what is,
beyond examination,  explanation, or answer.

January 2021

Song to Suffragettes

 

I

I wrote a song to suffragettes,
honour a debt,  pay my respects.
Everywhere mocked for their wish for equality
they risked their status, security, prosperity.

Picket lines, marches, militant agitation
met prison, force-feeding, brute confrontation.
It won my adoration, this brave new vision,
this new kind of freedom, personal moral decision.

II

I did not see that they were white.
I only saw that they were right.
Till I saw long voting queues,
black men and women, their abuse.

Rules, rapes, lynching, beating,
instilled fear, obstructed voting.
Victorious white suffragettes
saw no more cause for protests.

Past protests were shocking in their hate
Black savage vote before us!  and a shameful bait.
‘Women’s vote will give you a base
to keep your nigger in his place.

Uncultured mammies, without education,
aspire to our cause, forgetting their station.
Let us admit them, they make such a fuss,
to back-of-the-march, from back-of-the-bus.’

My inspiration, suffragettes,
white dresses, sashes, and rosettes!
Why, oh why, did you forget
that black women were owed a debt?

Why do I feel that I betray
my idols, show their feet of clay?
An icon deep inside me rips,
my song freezes on dry lips.

September 2020

When the mind is still

 

Mistakenly, I sought
 to cut out outside sounds
for the mind to become still.

Only when the mind is still
do outside sounds speak
their message clearly.

Only when the mind is still
do I hear the stillness
behind the sounds.

When the mind is still
the revving of the motorbike is
the same as the hermit’s chant.

When the mind is still
all is sacred.

August 2020

 

Parminder

 

we know a brilliant accountant
into property development
is he into embezzlement?
no! not his style of management.

extravagant
flamboyant
not a bit arrogant
exuberant
 observant
pretends to be  delinquent
but  surprisingly gallant

efficient,  intelligent
but  a logic discrepant
object of endearment

does not have the refinement
that’s needed for retirement

his diet causes puzzlement
his humour, bewilderment
his exercise incessant
gives me a torn ligament

he’s such an odd oddment
that there is no  replacement

acts like an adolescent
causes embarrassment

a bit of a mixed compliment
who’d have  him any different?

He’s sixty today.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

August 2020

Translation

 We are lost in translation

 

colonisation

civilisation

christianisation

economic  consideration

 

democratisation

 

sexual  orientation

behaviour modification

 

transportation
concentration

one world one nation

cultural liberation

secularisation

gender fixation

 female objectification

beautification
emancipation

abolition

immigration

naturalisation

windrush generation

 revelation

redemption

moral obligation

 segregation

assimilation
integration
anti-discrimination
non-radicalisation

Help me
to free my imagination
find self-affirmation
actualisation

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

 june 2020

Surprise

 

i imagined the sky would fall
myself the heroine of a greek tragedy
my life an endless vale of tears

the storm came
and went

i am still here
i still smile

everything has changed
everything remains the same

the sky has fallen a little
all the easier for me to reach

 june 2020

After all this

 

When all this is over I mean
to tango all summer with the

sun spangled weeping willow, rescue
from scrap heaps more mini liquor

bottles for twig arranging. I mean
to still listen, through hushed Buddhist

bells, as the dark side of the
moon whispers to me. I mean

to STAY AT HOME more, PROTECT MYSELF
from an old disease, FOMO.

March 2020

 

 

 

Christmas

 

poetry workshop
i am asked to write
about favourite christmas foods
christmas songs
favourite gifts

i write
do as I am told
my lines have no meaning
do not pull at heartstrings
leave me cold
leave me hamstrung
inept

my pen freezes

then it dawns
I am different

i sit awhile
listen quietly
to the dialogue
of difference
discomfort
acceptance

pen flows warm and free
diwali sweets
lanterned streets
swinging skirts
fireworks
waiting by the phone
hope turning to stone
reflections
regret
empty nest
empty darkness the only witness
greeting
receiving
receiving
hope renewed
gathering
giving
missing
gratitude

universality of festivity

dec 2019

My favourite nephew, on fencing

 

I am learning to fence;

the rules make no sense.

The offense,  the defense?

What silly nonsense!

 

What grip? What glide?

I just want to hide!

I giggle in a bout,

at the referee’s snout!

 

But after a while

I’ve become more agile;

with my foil I prance,

enjoying the dance.

 

When all is said and done,

I’m having some fun!

 

April 19

 

Samaritans Conference 2019

 

 

It was the SAMS conference,

I thought I’d go along;

with a refundable deposit,

it was going for a song.

 

A bunch of delegates,

called the Harrow Reprobates,

caused discernments and debates

amongst the non-initiates.

 

Oh the stories we shared!

The flesh and souls that we bared!

We were shocking at times,

but always we cared.

 

The Harrow Reprobates!

Dare I call them my mates?

An amazing confluence

of weird incongruence!

Not a calming influence!

 

Do you wish to know more?

The details, the gore?

Come along next time;

see what lies in store.

 

 

March 2019

The sturgeon moon

 

The sturgeon moon smiles

into my window,

like Grandma’s face,

round,

creased and crinkled,

weaving tales

of the old woman with a loom

who lives in the moon.

 

I’d gaze into the night

with wonder ,

watch the old woman

weaving her veil of silvery silk.

 

Grandma’s creases

turned to deeper crevices;

I told her that

Man had reached the moon;

the grandeur, the glamour, the glory!

 

She frowned,

scolded,

chided me for living in fantasy.

 

With the disdain of youth,

I neglected the old woman;

lost sight of the loom.

 

But she didn’t forget ;

sometimes she teases,

gives a playful glimpse

through her silvery silk veil.

 

The man on the moon

too

walked away;

faded into the distance,

no longer thrilling the soul as before,

but sometimes looks back,

smiles

and waves.

 

Today

I feel blessed

as I bathe

 in the magic of the sturgeon moon.

 

September 2018

 

Letter to an Indian soldier serving on the Western Front in World War 1; from his mother, living in a small village in Punjab province.

My dearest son

Many  blessings. My eyes see nothing else, just you, only 22, so handsome in your cotton khakis. I was so proud when you became a sepoy in Punjab’s regiment.  ‘But why do you have to go and fight in a foreign land?’ I kept asking.  Your eyes shone. ‘If we help English people’s war, we will get freedom.  And just think, 11 rupees a month! And some land of our own!  We can pay off the debt from grandpa’s influenza and funeral’.  

‘What is freedom?’ I keep thinking.

‘Don’t worry that you haven’t had a letter from your son, old Ma’, Harjit from next door keeps reassuring me, ‘Sometimes the sepoys can’t find anyone to write for them; and when I was on the front, once the ink froze in the pot!  Also, if the Army doesn’t like the letter, they don’t send it’.

Harjit got maimed four times before they sent him home -the butcher doesn’t let the goat escape so easily! Raghu came back within a month – he lost his leg.  His mother thinks she is lucky. They both just lie there, weary like bullocks after ploughing.

 ‘Our uniform felt really cold there, old Ma’, they tell me. ‘White soldiers had coats. We took some off the dead soldiers to wear; felt cosy like fresh warm chapaatis.’ They think Indian sepoys will also get coats soon.

They say that the hospital in Brighton was grand, and the white doctors were very clever, and kind to them, although white nurses were not allowed to treat them. The hospital had barbed wire around it, like a large prison; to protect white women. I have only seen two white men; one who came to talk about taxes, and one about their God.  I hear they call you black pepper, and that black pepper stays ahead of red pepper. What does all that mean?

My friend Mandeep’s son wrote that shells fall like monsoon rain, and afterwards the bodies look like mounds of harvested corn, or like a carrot and turnip field turned upside down.

Don’t worry about the field. I am strong and am helping your father. The rains have been good this year. Your father is well. He doesn’t talk about you, but his tears singe my skin like that Diwali when you dropped a lamp and the paraffin dripped down my arm.

Nasty gossip travels fast, like whispering wind. It seems that two men from Joshapur village were caught cutting their own arms. The Army shot them.  I know you will never commit such sins. Keep the Holy Book with you always. It will protect you.

Bhola, who now goes to town to work, says history is being written. Must it be written in the blood of my son, on another land, that I will never see?

When your letter comes I will make hot sweet halwa for Bhola. He says he will read it to me as many times as I want.

May you live long, my son, and with God’s grace, be home by the harvesting.

Your loving mother.

 

Approximately 1.5 million Indian troops served overseas in World War 1, in Africa, Europe, and the Middle East.  At least 74,187 died. Dozens were awarded a Victoria Cross.  It has been acknowledged that the British "couldn't have come through both wars [World War I and II] if they hadn't had the Indian Army”.