December 6, 1992

Once upon a time
Not so long ago
They existed in peace
Separate, yet one
Sharing tears and laughter
Dreams of a better future
Separate, yet One

Then came the Holocaust
And brought with it
seeds of distrust, sowing
them in the minds of the unsuspecting.
Walls of fire broke down
walls of stone and there
grew in place of it
The Great Divide.

They were now no longer One
What had come between them
could not be broken down.
The tears in their eyes mingled
with their sweat
as they ran away into the night
leaving behind years
of pain and toil.
They were butchered, molested,
torn apart

And the red drops on the floor
were blood
Not rose petals.

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A long-ago poem (1993).
Published in the St.Xavier's college magazine (1993), online poetry websites and several newsletters in India.

Update

My poetry blog is now online. Be gentle.

Topical poetry, anyone?

A fellow blogger from the Writing In India egroup has begun putting her poems online. Take a look : http://poemsinmyhead.blogspot.com

She (along with Mr.R) has inspired me to start writing poetry fervently again. Watch this space!

Anniversary

Five long years have gone by
Five years so soon
We’re still hoping you’ll be back
Tomorrow or yesterday afternoon

Every car, every jeep
Every doorbell that rings
Late at night or early morn
Makes us sit up and think

Maybe it's you coming home
Maybe the day’s finally done
Now we can spend some time together
Now perhaps we can have some fun

But no doorbell rings late at night
No sound from you we hear
Days pass by, just like that
Another week, a year

Soon it’ll be another year
Another eleventh of Feb.
To remember those days , those years ago
When we didn’t think you would be dead

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written in 1997 for my dad for his 5th anniversary.Today, 10 years later, marks the 15th anniversary of his passing.

Contrary to what we are told...

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory ... that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.
- Marianne Williamson

Watching a house sleep

I walk through the house
listening to it
prepare for the night.

The road outside is quiet
in the gently falling rain.
Curtains drawn, the living room
fades into silence; the chatter of
the telly stopped.
I listen to the laptop
shutting down,
the familiar whirrs and buzzes
coming to a halt; there's one final
beep before it says goodnight.

The rain falls on
the kitchen skylight; it sounds
like hail in the quiet night.
The dishes are all cleaned and
tucked away, awaiting the
morning.

Walking into the darkened bedroom, I hear
you trying to breathe, your
fevered sinuses trying
to cope with this seemingly unending flu.
I run a hand over your warm
forehead, imagining my touch will
take away the warmth.

I hear water gurgling through
some pipes somewhere
and then
it is silence.

The house is asleep.

My turn now.

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The advantages of always having a notebook by your side. This was written at 11.30 pm in complete darkness. Moving out of bed might have woken Mr R up from his fevered sleep, so I resorted to scribbling with a pencil - it's surprising how loud the click of a pen sounds in complete and utter silence.

If you keep a steady hand and follow the page, it is amazing how you can write without scribbling over other words in the dark! Takes a bit of deciphering the next morning , but atleast the words aren't lost, along with your dreams. Try it!

The Joy (and Sorrow) of Socks

Some people just have the knack to see poetry even in the most mundane things. Take Wendy Cope, for example. I just love these two poems. You've probably felt the same way so many times about 'socks', but it takes a special eye to put verse to it.

Enjoy.
---------------------------------------------
The Joy of Socks ~ Wendy Cope

Nice warm socks,
Nice warm socks -
We should celebrate them
Ask a toe!
Toes all know
It's hard to everrate them

Toes say, 'Please
Don't let us freeze
Till we're numb and white
Summer's gone -
Put them on!
Wear them day and night!'

Nice warm socks,
Nice warm socks-
Who would dare to mock them?
Take good care of every pair
And never, ever knock them.

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The Sorrow of Socks ~ Wendy Cope

Some socks are loners -
They can't live in pairs.
On washdays they've shown us
They want to be loners.
They puzzle their owners,
They hide in dark lairs.
Some socks are loners -
They won't live in pairs

(I'm glad I'm not that kind of sock most of the time :) - MW

SCINTILLATE

I have outlived
my youthfulness
So a quiet life for me.

Where once
I used to
scintillate

now I sin
till ten
past three.


- Roger McGough

Thank You For...

We give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way.

On Thanksgiving 2005, 5 Reasons to say thank you :

1. For a happy first year (almost) of married life.
2. For a husband who is (most of the time) in very good humour, is kind, generous and a great cook :)
3. For the opportunity to write and be published.
4. For the opportunity to travel and see places & things I've only read about.
5. For family, friends, books, music and work-that-I-enjoy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Thanksgiving 8000 calorie poem

May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
have nary a lump.
May your yams be delicious
and your pies take the prize,
and may your Thanksgiving dinner
stay off your thighs!
-Unknown

(That's an example of American humor, I think. Don't look at me like that!)

Warning

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

Man in Space

I read this poem once and loved it. A man wrote it and I am surprised by his perceptiveness. There are few men who can see the things he talks about.

It's really strange how two forms of one species can be SO different. Men and women must have originally come from separate planets - they couldn't be from the same place. Between all the talk and the seemingly intelligent conversations, there is a whole world of unsaid things floating about. You can sense it yourself at home, at work, while you travel; all those speech bubbles above people's heads, the conversations held back because so much more than lost words is at stake.

This is not about feminism, but about being aware of another's feelings and emotions, while dealing with your own. It is hard work, but fortunately the human race has managed so far. It is not hard for a woman to imagine, however, a planet that is solely populated by her own kind. And if you leave your wicked imagination at the doorstep, maybe you might see the logic behind it too ;-)



Man in Space
by Billy Collins

All you have to do is listen to the way a man
sometimes talks to his wife at a table of people
and notice how intent he is on making his point
even though her lower lip is beginning to quiver,

and you will know why the women in science
fiction movies who inhabit a planet of their own
are not pictured making a salad or reading a magazine,
when the men from earth arrive in their rocket,

why they are always standing in a semicircle
with their arms folded, their bare legs set apart,
their breasts protected by hard metal disks.

The beginning of the end?

There's something terribly wrong with this planet these days.

It started (noticeably) with the Tsunami last December and it hasn't stopped since. Like a bad Hollywood movie, the water just keeps rising. Looking at the devastating pictures of New Orleans and the suffering there, my heart freezes in fright and sorrow. We do everything humanly possible to avert destruction. Wars can be stopped, politicians ignored, famine-stricken nations can be inundated with food on our terms and democracy restored with bullets. But how do you turn away from a wall of water? Is this the beginning of the end, then?

Remember Robert Frost's poem Fire and Ice?

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Perhaps the water will turn to ice. There's enough hate around to ensure that it happens.

Perhaps it is time for justice and for judgement.
Perhaps there is a God after all.

The swan and the duckling. A modern fairytale

I spent this morning or part of it
watching swans glide by without a
care in the world.

A little duck floated by, furiously
paddling beneath otherwise calm
waters.

The swan moved without effort, regal
in its pristine colors, not a speck of dirt or
grease on the gleaming feathers.
It swam slowly, enjoying the breeze, the ripples on
the water, the spring sunshine not doing much
to warm up the place.

The duckling seemed to be on an adventure, far away
from the flock. It headed in a straight line
to an unseen,
apparently pre-determined point. And the swan,
in its gliding about
aimlessly, got in the ducklings route.
One would expect the duckling to
just divert its path and swim
around the swan. But here was
someone more stubborn than me.

The duckling, not more than a few
centimeters wide, decided
to take matters in his own hands, or rather,
beak. In one swoop, he
paddled closer to the lurking
great white swan and poked it in the side!

The swan must have just felt a peck, because
the duckling really was
very little. But she moved away graciously, perhaps smiling
at this madcap determined
to explore the waters. Perhaps
it reminded her of
when she was little (although I've never seen a 'little' swan!)

Nature often has a way of telling us things.
Ask a question and look hard enough. The answer is
swimming before your eyes.

For endless Monday Mornings

This weekend has been one of those where nothing seems to go right. Mr.R is still battling with the flu and looks like I might be coming down with it too. The weather outside is absolutely dreary - grey, dull and too much rain. For a moment I can easily delude myself that this is a rainy August day in Mumbai. It seems like a good time to snuggle up with a warm drink and catch up with all the reading that I've got. On the TBR list is Alice Sebold's memoir 'Lucky', Karen Joy Fowler's 'The Jane Austen Book Club' and an adorable compilation of '101 poems to keep you sane'.

From the last mentioned book, here's a poem for Monday. This is for all those moments when you wonder where the weekend went and for the times you spend wishing that Friday was here already. How can you not be distracted?! :)

I Meant to Do My Work Today
by Richard LeGallienne

I meant to do my work today-
But a brown bird sang in the apple tree,
And a butterfly flitted across the field,
And all the leaves were calling me.

And the wind went sighing over the land
Tossing the grasses to and fro,
And a rainbow held out its shining hand-
So what could I do but laugh and go?

ONE WAY JOURNEY

I'm looking for a book called "Marathon Training for Dummies" - part of the Books for Dummies series. I've read the book and I'd love to have a copy for myself, so if anybody out there has one, I'd be happy to take it off your hands, for a reasonable price, of course.

Also finished reading 'Marigolds grow on platforms' - an anthology of poems about the railways - such a variety of poetry from the 18th century to the last one. Does anybody have any poems about Indian trains, travelling by national trains/locals in Mumbai? What about feelings associated with train travel? Perhaps you remember meeting/seeing off someone at the station? How about sending me something similar? Maybe we can compile our own Indian railways anthology!

Here's one poem (of many) that I liked. It's called 'One Way Journey' and for some reason, it reminded me of the night I left home to come with Mr.R to England after the wedding. Although it was the not the first time I had left home or even made a long trip abroad, this time it was different. There was something irrevocable about this trip.Nothing had changed. Yet everything had. This poem, although written about a rail journey, reminded me of my flight instead, proving that sentiments stay the same even though the vehicle might change. This one is for my mum.

ONE WAY JOURNEY by Peggy Poole

Preperations for leaving
went smoothly, cases were packed
last farewells made, friends
at the same stage gathered
to wish each other luck.
Untried adult stances were adopted
childish things put away
in biblical style.

We travelled south
by train together
controlled and positive -
the last extension of the thread.
Suddenly you held out
your ticket as if it was
obscene, and panic-stricken said
'A single ticket!'

My reply was designed
to reassure but my heart
could only tremble as you
glimpsed reality.

Now years later you speak
from distant lands, accomplished
in new skills, yet at times
that desperate note still sounds
'A single ticket!'

Beloved daughter, even love
cannot issue a return.

Spring is here.....

How the days have gone by.Mr.R and I are back after our sprint home. Life goes on as usual. The days are getting longer with sunset at around 730. Today is bright and sunny. And cold. But it's still better than being dark and cloudy. Temperatures however still hover around the 11-13 deg c mark. Mr.R started work at his new job yesterday. And this morning, we finally finished assembling our 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. I can now reclaim the dining table.

----------------------------------------------
The trip to Goa was a whirlwind of activity - beaches, Holy Week services, friends, families, some familiar faces. There's never a dull or quiet moment! I even got a chance to see two movies at the new Inox in Panjim. I saw 'Ray' and 'My Brother Nikhil' (more on that later).We also managed to pack in day trips to two very quiet beaches in South Goa. Clean, not many people around, clear (better than any other beach I've seen in Goa or Mumbai) water and good food.
In all it was a very nice trip. Short but sweet.

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MY BROTHER NIKHIL
One of the nicest movies I've seen in a long time, My brother Nikhil is a must-see for anybody and everybody. It's a Hindi movie set in Goa and is the story of Nikhil, a state swimming champ (played marvellously by Sanjay Suri) whose life changes drastically when he is diagnosed with HIV. The movie is told through the eyes of Nikhil's family - his sister played by Juhi Chawla, mother (Lillette Dubey) and father (Victor Banerjee). The story weaves back and forth Nikhil's life - his glory days as a medal winner, to how he is treated when he becomes the first known HIV patient in the state. It is a story of how our health system treats patients - with known or unknown diseases. It is a story of communities who withdraw their affection. It is a story of fear, of dealing with the unknown, and of sticking by your family inspite of it. A sensitively made film, it gets a message across without being preachy. You're likely to leave the theatre with a lump in your throat (if you haven't wept silent tears during the movie already.)
A must-see. You'll enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For some peculiar reason, this ancient (I think we learnt it in primary school!) rhyme keeps popping into my head these days and it's stuck!!

Spring is coming, spring is coming,
Birdies, build your nest;
Weave together straw and feather,
Doing each your best.
Spring is coming, spring is coming,
All around is fair;
Shimmer and quiver on the river,
Joy is everywhere.

Antarctica was here.

For a moment it seemed as if we awoke on another continent.

This morning,the view outside the balcony window seemed more like Antarctica than South East England : pristine white snow peppered liberally over the road, roof-tops, steps and bare branches of shivering trees. Sometime during the night, we had a heavy snowfall and the world indeed looked different.

This seemed like an ideal day to stay indoors, to look at the flakes as they fell, to feel warm and cozy... Reality however reminded us that we had an 8 am appointment for car servicing which could not be cancelled in view of our impending move out of the area.So off we went, Mr.R and I, warmly bundled up, crunching into the snow. Surely a little blizzard couldn't stop us Indians from making the most of an unexpected snowfall.

After making our way through crawling traffic and handing over the car, we deliberated what to do for the next two hours till the car was being looked at. Our original plan was to trek back home - we figured that it would make a nice early morning walk. Of course, that plan was before the flakes started coming down with a fury. As the snow stung my eyes and bit through my carefully moisturized skin, the voice of Julie Andrews echoed somewhere in my brain singing "...snowflakes on my nose and eyelashes...." from 'These are a few of my favorite things'. I was enjoying myself thoroughly.

Mr.R and I then did the sensible thing. Instead of walking home and then back again to pick up the car, we walked to the superstore nearby and had a leisurely breakfast. That done, we browsed through nearby shops and then decided to take a little walk through the snow just to see where the road led. It was fun walking on the footpath, watching the snowflakes come down hard, covering grass, road, humans and vehicles alike. No discrimination there.

It was like being in one of those little glass snowdomes that are popular souvenirs - the kind which you shake and it snows on whatever place is being depicted inside. For a moment it was surreal, this morning. And I was glad to be out there enjoying it.

The snowfall has stopped now, as I write. It's about 5.30 and dark already. The days are getting longer though. The weather forecast predicts that it'll get worse toward the weekend before it gets any better. Bring on the snow, it doesn't scare this Indian. Not yet, anyway :)
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I hear Mumbai and Goa are having a cold spell too. Stay warm, folks. Poor Kashmir is inundated with snow too, I read, killing many people. Either nature or bullets, life's not easy there.

Well, winter will be over soon. The spring-summer collections are already out, reassuring us that the seasons WILL change. Like everything else.
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Whosoever wishes to know about the world
must learn about it in its particular details.
Knowledge is not intelligence.
In searching for the truth be ready for the unexpected.
Change alone is unchanging.
The same road goes both up and down.
The beginning of a circle is also its end.
Not I, but the world says it: all is one.
And yet everything comes in season.

Heraklietos of Ephesos

Invictus

A special poem for my e-friends; fellow bloggers who I know only through comments, tag-boards, rare emails. Miss V, PO, Andy and Boo, this one's for you.

Invictus
by William Ernest Henley


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

What's not broken...

Whew! That's done. Managed to repair whatever seemed to be the problem. I still don't know what was wrong, but never mind....

-----------------------------------------------
Found two interesting compilation of poetry in the library yesterday. 1) 101 poems that could save your life and 2) All the poems you need to say goodbye. Both books had some unusual poems that I hadn't read before and I enjoyed spending time just browsing through them both. Here's one I especially liked.

Mr.R, this one's for you. Happy Valentines Day.

THE CONFIRMATION by Edwin Muir

Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,
What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,
A well of water in a country dry,
Or anything that's honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world seem bright. Your open heart,
Simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea.
Not beautiful or rare in every part.
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.

Anniversary

Years and years ago (1997, actually), I wrote a poem for my dad's death anniversary called 'Anniversary'. It is one of my few poems which rhyme, which strengthens my belief that my best rhyming poems come at moments of great joy or great sorrow. I find it difficult to rhyme 'impromptu' at other times and prefer to write blank verse.

Anniversary

Five long years have gone by
Five years so soon
We’re still hoping you’ll be back
Tomorrow or yesterday afternoon.

Every car, every jeep
Every doorbell that rings
Late at night or early morn
Makes us sit up and think

Maybe it's you coming home
Maybe the day’s finally done
Now we can spend some time together
Now we can perhaps have some fun.

But no doorbell rings late at night
No sound from you we hear
Days just pass by, just like that
Another week, a year.

Soon it’ll be another year
Another eleventh of Feb.
To remember those days , those years ago
When we didn’t think you’d be dead.