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
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
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
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 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”.
