Apr 19, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

How to Clean Your House
©April 19th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Want a clean home?

Snatch a dust pan and brush
Before the thought recedes,
Start The Beatles. Rush to it.
Revolver or White Album will do.

Start at the kitchen,
Then, stop.  A thought strikes.
(Dishwasher needs emptying.
What I’d do for some magic!
Put dishes away.  Sigh.)

After While My Guitar Gently Weeps,
Switch to Captain Beefheart.
Golden Birdies swoop(s) in,
Enters your soundspace, all crooked,
Fly irregularly around,
Like slashes of sun on steel.
Midway through dishes, remember
To gaze at the birds you love so much,
Fluttering magically, hungrily,
Outside the kitchen window.

Stop everything!  Stop!
Write a poem about birds.
Make sure you include the words
Magical and delicate – oh, and
Don’t forget exquisite!
(Scratch that – too overdone!)

Yes, they’re hungry chickadees.
Open up your bird-feed box
Scoop a couple of cupfuls
Fill up that bird-feeder –
There, a duty done, see?

Steal a moment to watch
Morning sun filter in
Through your circle of
Deep, deep blue glass, like
Still waters of a tropical sea
Flowing, still, on your window-sill.

Blue glass with crackling lines
So fine, you see through it to
The other side of perfection.
You see how the flaw
Is perfection, frail, passing.
The flaw sings beauty,
Opens wide like a chasm–
You fall in, enspelled.

Focus for a few moments
On nothing at all, so restful!
– And yes, something too –
That swing hanging from a pine branch
Out in the yard – which your daughter
And her best friend made
With a plank of wood and ropes.
Childhood has no end, save age.
And nothing’s impossible in the Now.

Let your eyes rest on the swing
Go side to side, back and forth.
Will your body onto it, while
You watch from within your house.
Feel your legs push through the air.
You are free, a child, for now.

Remember, your dog needs her walk –
Remind your spouse to take her.
In mid-mid-age, we (or he)
Can use the exercise.
(I’ll take her out later.)

Having sent away spouse and dog
(Remember, you’ve got cleaning to do!),
Sit down, bang out your poem –
Your meditation, a moral calling,
A daily practice, like breathing, or
Playing music, or eating – calls you.
Make music, make poetry, stay alive.
(And if someone reads, sing to her, or him
Of what makes you dream,
Offer them some of it.
If they go away, be not sad.)

Oh, and yes, fold that laundry
Start a new pile –
Clothes are so important!
And so annoying!

(Of course, I would like to
Run naked through tall, green grass
A slim, young dryad,
Attended by butterflies,
In the sunlight
And mischievous fairies at night.

I’d collect pollen
On my sun-musked body;
Help the dying bees.
I would enrich my earth.
I’d sing songs to the sun and sky
And shout in joy, as I fall
Headlong into silver streams
In the rain-glutted woods.)

But you wouldn’t.
Too shy, too self-conscious
Too aware of widening
Middle-age, too aware
Of what’s proper.
Damn!

But now, back to the present.
Pick up brush and dust pan.
Sigh! But, oh wait!
You have to sweep first.
No vacuum for the likes of you!
Too noisy, too cumbersome,
Too electrical, too … grey!

Sweep away dust from corners
Sweep the floors, the stairs,
Sweep away chaos,
Make a pile of dust and fluff,
In the living room sits
A neat, shapeless sculpture.
Circle it, admire it!

The telephone rings.
(Always answer the telephone.
Could be fortune or misfortune.
You don’t need to have a machine
Deliver that kind of news.)
On second thoughts, don’t!
Could be a robocall.
Forget it –  let it ring!

Add a few more lines, cut a few.
Then, rush outside to the garden
Before morning wanes –
Gaze your fill on brave daffodils
Surviving wild weather, defiant.
Recall Wordsworth, as you do.
Pleasure fills you.

(I awoke this morning from
A dream of dancing alone.
I was so young so light, and
Life was so free of dust!)

That reminds you …
Come back in, collect that pile
Leave no speck behind,
And drop it all with a sigh
Into the dust bin.

Good!  Put the broom away!
Wash your hands!
You’re done!

__________________________________________________

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo:

And now for our prompt (optional, as always)! Many years ago, “didactic” poetry was very common – in other words, poetry that explicitly sought to instruct the reader in some kind of skill or knowledge, whether moral, philosophical, or practical. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write the latter kind of “how to” poem – a didactic poem that focuses on a practical skill. Hopefully, you’ll be able to weave the concrete details of the action into a compelling verse. Also, your “practical” skill could be somewhat mythological, imaginary, or funny, like “How to Capture a Mermaid” or “How to Get Your Teenager to Take Out the Garbage When He Is Supposed To.” Happy writing!

Tags: #CaptainBeefheart, #CleaningHouse, #DidacticPoem, #Dust, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheBeatles, #Wordsworth

Apr 18, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry, Ramblings and Musings

The Sounds and Words of Home
©April 18th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Shuklam Bharataram Vishnum
Shashi Varnam Chaturbhujam
Prasanna Vadanam Dhyayet
Sarva Vighna Upashaanthaye

The words and the voice pull aside
Heavy curtains of sleep
And I stir to the warmth
Of M.S.’s voice
On a Sunday morning.

Clatter of stainless steel
Pathirams in kitchen-time; the
Bright glow of my mother’s
Pure voice singing along with
The ancient vedic chanting of the
One Thousand Names of Vishnu;
The sounds of filter coffee
And dosai being made
Plop, hiss, crackle, slap, turn
Sizzle of oil, or ghee.

Seated before the gods,
My father prays, bare-armed,
Clad in a white veshti, with
Sacred thread across one shoulder.
Sandalwood pasted daubed on
Upper arms and forehead, he
Chants mysterious prayers
(I never ask what they are).
Incense and camphor twine
Lovingly aroumnd the sudden
Cling-ting-gling-gling of a
Brass, hand-held bell,
Whose tongue is loud
And punctures the morning air.

Out, beyond the compound wall around
Our house, the low, grumbling moos
Of cows and buffalo in the sheds
Run by displaced milkmen
Plumb-spang in the midst of city-bustle
Make a droning background
For a new day in Tamil country.

And traffic stirs sluggishly awake,
Buses and cars and bullock-carts
And rickshaws, and the ding-ding of
Bicycle bells, as they plough and plunge
Through a chaotic morning.
Sunday it might be, but the city
Never stops, the work grinds on.

Edho madhiri aiduthu
(It’s become like … something!)
My mother would say
Sorrowing over some dish that
Came out not to her satisfaction.

Oru chottu uppu venum
(Needs just a jot of salt)
My grandfather would say, and
She’d agree, ever the
Connoisseurs, the artists
Of food in all its forms.

Kacha-muchanu vekka kudadu
(Don’t put it higgledy-piggledy!)
She’d admonish someone
If a straightening-up wasn’t straight  –
She’d do it herself,
Ever the perfectionist.

Surusuruppaga valaiya va!
She’d say, exasperated,
When we lounged around,
In teenage sluggitude.
Be brisk, be surusuruppu!

Porum-porumna aidithu!
She’d sigh, when the work
Got out of hand, when her patience waned:
Things have become enough-enough for me,
And we chuckled, heartlessly.
(Sympathy came much later!)

Konam-Manama irruku
She’d observe about the
Parting I’d make in my hair,
Or about the lines around
Her mouth and chin, later.
It’s all crooked-wook-ed.

Meanwhile, my father, irrepressible
And irresponsible, punned happily
In three languages to our delight.
And all of us, helpless with laughter,
Forgave him his lapses.

Alas! I wish I could remember
What he said, how he said it.
I remember his voice, his smile,
His Jovian presence, his courage
In the face of pain.
And I cannot remember his words.

Ottha kal-la nikhadengo,
My mother would say
To my stubborn father,
Or to her stubborn children:
Don’t stand on one leg!
( When he lost his left leg
Years later, she wept, when
He joked about his leg:
Paaru!  Ottha kal-la nikkeren!
Look!  Now, I can stand on one leg!)

He laughed and almost-cried
And we cried and laughed,
And I wish, I wish, he’d heeded
Her words to us us:

Medhuva, nidanama pannu,
Pada-padaanu pannadhe.
Molla nada, molla nada.

Do it slowly, do it calmly.
Do not hustle-bustle.
Walk slowly, walk slowly.

_____________________________________________________________

The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day eighteen:
(This was VERY hard for me!)

Tags: #Childhood, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram

Apr 17, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

Une Vie En Musique
©April 17th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Susurrando, susurrante,
A voice from another world
Speaks to me in honey-tones
Leaning seductively, caresses
My dream-state, and says:

Conduct yourself well
And tune to the bourdon-hum of life
Play your life-song rubato,
Steal from Time:
Steal all that you can steal
From the hours that crawl by
Seducing you with sweets.
Be not a slave to punctuality*,
And strangling parameters of
Suburban ennui.

Shift tempo now, do it suddenly
– make your life a rondeau.
Play it subito –
Hark back to your
Days of happy childhood,
Circle back to the present
Return to a later unhappy past,
Keep circling to the recent
Present, to the near-future.
Here’s a shadowed corner,
You can linger here, for now.
Sing of saudade, feel the
Longing sweep over you.
Are you done, now?

Good!  Go live allegretto
Avoid the lure of tenebroso
For too long;  just a touch
Makes one lacrimoso, – Enough!
That’s one tear too many.
Keep them for another day.

As you go through the hours,
Accelerando, then decelerando.
Why be predictable?
Consistency is the demon
That will kill.
Keep circling and return
Ad libitum to the start of it all.

I listen to the voice,
And heed its message.
Smiling, I lean into the darkness,
And whisper back:
Make my life a fermata.
And now, come, Messenger,
Come to me now, and
Piano, pianissimo,
Take me away!

___________________________________________________
Note:  I used The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Music (online) to come up with the musical terms in my poem (although I knew most of them, already).
* Reference to Oscar Wilde’s quip (which I must have certainly internalized as a young pre-teen): “Punctuality is the thief of Time.”

Here’s the prompt for Day 17 from NaPoWriMo:

And now for our prompt (optional, as always). Today, I challenge you to find, either on your shelves or online, a specialized dictionary. This could be, for example, a dictionary of nautical terms, or woodworking terms, or geology terms. Anything, really, so long as it’s not a standard dictionary! Now write a poem that incorporates at least ten words from your specialized source. Happy writing!

Apr 16, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

Almanac-Poem:  Phoenix-Song
©April6th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Rising on wings of flame,
The phoenix sits atop a mango tree
And sings a lonely song
Calling my name.

A white-hot sun rains down sweat
And curls the ends of brinjal leaves
While busy caterpillars chew on a
Drumstick tree, where fat pods
Hang down like rain.

Incense, and prayers chanted in an
Ancient tongue wrought from myth
Snake out of open windows
And the boy next door
Gazes with open, foolish pre-teen
Longing over the fence, as I go
Sailing by on a red bicycle.

On the balcony, where I alone
Court the future, stands a girl of nine
And recites poems.
An unseen audience – future children –
Listen and learn, and float through
The air shimmering before her,
Like shoals of fish, translucent
And agape, bubbling soundless words.
And I, that girl, waving a frond of coconut tree
Or a leafy neem branch
 Which spills onto the flat, endless
Terrace above our house,
Conduct their attendant wonder.

All of nine, I stand
Dreaming of faraway worlds,
And teach, and speak in
Poetic utterance, part of the spell laid
On my young tongue.

Bell-bottoms, gypsy blouses,
Two tight plaits, fatly braided,
Ribboned in black, and dust-colored
From riding in the streets,
Stern-faced, duck-like,
Determined, she teaches –
She who I was, once.

Somewhere, a cow lows longingly
Dreaming of rich grass and hay,
As she roots among the rubbish troughs
On the side of the road,
In a South Indian city, her tail
Swatting greedy flies which torment, daily.

And a posse of street dogs howl
As an ambulance sing-songs
Down the road I knew so well,
And which I ruled on my red bicycle,
They run alongside,
Tongues hanging out, tails aloft,
Grins on their snouts,
Full of dog-shout.

Pigs gambol and snort among
Food-scraps and leaves, and sanitary pads
Thrown higgledy-piggledy into
The troughs where the stray cow searches
In vain, in vain. 
But they are kind, animals are;
They share space, as animals do –
Courteously, impassively.

Crows watch from telephone wires
Interested, ready to swoop, their
Black, beady eyes taking in the entire world
Looking for shiny things,
And tasty things.  They fear none –
None, but pigeons, who rule the cities,
And terrorize all with little ruby eyes.

At fourteen:  Flinging my fresh-washed,
Heavy hair back in a slow-motion
Spray of glittering diamonds
In the white-hot noon of a Tamil summer,
I stand sometimes at the water-pump
Near the well, and pump, and sing
To the still, trembling air.
And the crows on the mango trees answer me;
Crows and girl in harmony.
We take turns, the crows and I,
And listen well.  There is a joy
In simply being there, with
Every cell alive.  Every nerve sings.

Sometimes, guitar in hand, I lie back
On the terrace, and watch the yellow flowers
Drift down like a dream from a nearby tree,
And the honey of them makes me yearn,
And the stars are crowded like rice
In a violet-inky sky.
I dream of romance, and everything
Feels like silk and fire, like
Blood and gold, like pomegranates
And mangoes dripping juice
Down my chin.
Sometimes, being fifteen
Can be lovely.

Older me:  Walking down the street
I spot a dead rat, flung
Carelessly on the side of the road,
Empty eyes gazing at a yellow sky
In mute accusation.
I flinch, avert my gaze, move on.
A sudden grief seizes me.
So much life wastes away
In a heartless world.
Who will weep
For a dead rat?

And still, the phoenix sings,
Her lonely song rising up in
Shimmering waves of heat
And her song is for me alone,
The girl who flew away.

Still later:  Once, in another life
I went to the home of someone
I remember not.
And as I passed the wall of his
Mysterious house, stone-still
In hot sun, I saw a pearly
Snail, sunning itself on a stone.
Fat and pale, on a slimy track,
It sat, with perfect, curled shell
Sitting on its back, like a spring onion.

And the snail looked at me.
I looked back.
Recognition swept through us:
Acknowledgement, perhaps, apprehension.
The snail was the realized one,
I realized this simple fact.
Humbled, I bowed to her/him,
And went my way, filled with
Simple transcendence.
I was on snail-time.
And life slowed to a standstill –
All was well.

A remembered postcard from Brunei,
Makes sadness bloom,
And the words:  “Missing my family.
Stay strong.  It’s beautiful here.
The city is beautiful.  Wish you were here.
Practise your sitar. Study hard.
Obey your mother” are lemony-sour.
No mention of when he would return.

Another moment:
My sitar-teacher’s teacher visits,
And I, fat-braided, earnest, demure
Get my picture taken with The Great Man.
Behold:  Ravi Shankar and Tam-Bram girl
Sixteen, and sure of herself.
Knows where she’s going,
Sure she’ll get there.
No doubts, despite her father’s
Crippling debts, uncertainty, loss of home.
She knows one thing:
Music and language are hers.

There was a border somewhere,
But I didn’t walk to it,
And I didn’t hear the insidious plans,
That someone might have made
To take over the entire universe.

There was an alley once
And when I didn’t reach it,
I didn’t find the
Promised pot of gold.
But a rainbow that had bent
Kindly over me all the way
As I walked to its end,
Lifted and vanished, and I?
I felt suddenly golden.

What do I fear?

This is what I fear:
I fear the perfect worlds of
Goodnight Moon, its mouse, and clock and mittens.
I fear the aching sweetness of Big Red Barn
I fear for the future of The Quiet Farmer.
I fear for Owl Babies fearfully awaiting their mother
As the night deepens and she
Takes her time coming home with food.

This is what I fear:
Blindness to beauty,
Deafness to truth,
Loss of mind to anger, or sadness.

But I do not fear the receding past,
Or the rushing future,
Which speeds towards me
Like light-cars on a
Galactic highway.

I fear leaving my people
Behind when I go.
For, I wish to know that all
Their stories are written with
A happy ending.

I do not fear Death.
Death is my friend
Death is peace,
Death is fire and ash,
And the hush that settles
On a sunset world
When the dust settles
And the logs have died out,
And only the shape of
A body that once was,
Remains.

And I, the phoenix
Will still sing atop the mango trees
Dreaming myself in and out
Of this life and the next.

____________________________________________

Here is the prompt for Day Sixteen from NaPoWriMo:

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, I challenge you to fill out, in no more than five minutes, the following “Almanac Questionnaire,” which solicits concrete details about a specific place (real or imagined). Then write a poem incorporating or based on one or more of your answers. Happy writing!

Almanac Questionnaire
Weather:
Flora:
Architecture:
Customs:
Mammals/reptiles/fish:
Childhood dream:
Found on the Street:
Export:
Graffiti:
Lover:
Conspiracy:
Dress:
Hometown memory:
Notable person:
Outside your window, you find:
Today’s news headline:
Scrap from a letter:
Animal from a myth:
Story read to children at night:
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find:
You walk to the border and hear:
What you fear:
Picture on your city’s postcard:

Tags: #AlmanacPoem, #GrowingupinSouthIndia, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Phoenix

Apr 15, 2016 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

Photograph of Vijaya Sundaram, ©Warren Senders, 1990

Split-Image
©April 15th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

And who might you be, who’s peering at me
As I lace my fingers through curtains three?
Your face is familiar, and rings a bell,
And your eyes follow me,– casting a spell.

I’ve walked very far to come to this place,
I’ve left things behind, I’ve been a disgrace.
I rejected the future and dumped my past,
And here I stand, in astonishment vast.

There once was a girl, and I am the same
Who came from Elsewhere, and who had no name.
She sloughed off her Selves, and grew a new skin,
And wearied of everything she’d ever been.

I am she whom you’ve known since time was new –
Now, in my mirror, you’ll see yourself true.

__________________________________________________________

Here’s the NaPoWriMo prompt for today:

Tags: #Couplets, #Double-Images, #Mirrors, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #sonnet

Apr 14, 2016 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry, San San

Truth and Lies – The Outlier
©April 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Dear child, if called on to prevaricate
Think straight, and try to not be prodigal
Dwell deeply on the truth (intensively).

For you, dear child, will find it’s not too late
To dismiss what’s mythological.
Your doubts, when you think straight, will disappear.

With liars, deal not apprehensively.
Dwell deeply on the truth – there is no fear.

_______________________________________________________________

The Day 14 prompt for NaPoWriMo deals with a form I’ve never heard of, called the san san, and it was difficult at first.  Then, I did something I’ve never done before:  I simply came up with the end rhymes, and wrote the poem around them.  It came fairly easily this way.
Here’s the prompt that was provided:

And last but not least, our (optional) prompt! Today’s prompt comes to us from TJ Kearney, who invites us to try a seven (the site corrected it later to eight!)-line poem called a san san, which means “three three” in Chinese (It’s also a term of art in the game Go). The san san has some things in common with the tritina, including repetition and rhyme. In particular, the san san repeats, three times, each of three terms or images. The seven (eight) lines rhyme in the pattern a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d.

Tags: #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #SanSan, #TruthandLies

Apr 13, 2016 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

Fantasy-Fortune Cookie – Poetry
©April 13th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

What’s that you say?
You will find happiness one day?

If you build castles in the air
You will float away.

Never fear the unknown
Even if it bites you in the rear.

You will break your leg.
Step carefully,
Avoid pitfalls.

In a world of haste,
Run quickly, catch the bus.
Leave behind the past.

In each of us
Lives a butterfly
Ready for flight.

Catch that butterfly
Make a net.
Learn to swim.

Today, you will learn how to
Pronounce the Chinese word
For fish.  Yes, you!   Yu!
________________________________________________

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt:

And now for today’s (optional) prompt! The number 13 is often considered unlucky, so today I’d like to challenge you to beat the bad luck away with a poem inspired by fortune cookies. You could write a poem made up entirely of statements that predict the future (“You will meet a handsome stranger”), aphoristic statements (“The secret to getting ahead is getting started)” or just silly questions (“How much deeper would the ocean be without sponges?”) Or you could use a phrase you’ve actually received in a real fortune cookie as a title or first line. However you proceed, I hope you will feel fortunate in the results (do you get it? Do you get it? Rimshot, please). Happy writing!

Tags: #FortuneCookiePoetry, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram

Apr 13, 2016 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

Found Lines and Imagined Ones – An Index Poem
©April 13 (late night of April 12th), 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Resolved:
to be irresolute (a state absolute)
to live like a fool (and be a tool)
to take Fate by the throat (and float)
to the skies, aspire on wings of fire.

What:
is the night (but for dreaming)?
is truth, said jesting Pilate (falsely beaming)?
gods may be (eyes streaming)
Demons might fear (dimly-dreaming)

What’s:
done is done (not fun)
past and what’s to come (for everyone)
past is prologue (what’s to be done)
your answer? (None!)

Where :
have all the flowers gone (far away)
we are is hell (whatever you say).
shall I fly? (For, I cannot play)
shall I go?  (I cannot stay!)

______________________________________________

In response to NaPoWriMo Day 12 prompt:

Tags: #Index-Poem, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram

Apr 11, 2016 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry

Suddenly
(A Sonnet)
©April 11th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

The water mirrors all the black and green
Of rocks (with rippled gold from sudden stone),
And trees, whose branches sway in singing wind,
As my dog and I walk in these woods, alone.

Our days were filled were bitter cold and dark
But clouds fill up with sun today and bloom
Like crocuses which, storing warmth, unfurl
Growing strong in gentle Gaia’s womb.

The wind is high, the trees all sing and sway,
A bird haunts me with lonely song up high,
A little snake goes sliding by, green-striped,
And ducks slice water in a pond nearby.

In solitude and company, I see
How suddenly all spring comes home to me.

_____________________________________________________________
Submitted to NaPoWriMo 2016, in response to the Day 11 prompt:

Tags: #Day11ofNaPoWriMo, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #sonnet, #Spring

Apr 11, 2016 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry, The Daily Post, Uncategorized

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Newspaper

Newspaper Clippings – A Soup
©April 11th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Bring me some news
Some bad, some good!
And bring me a big pot.
If you would.

Fetch me some shears.
These won’t hurt.
Pour in some water,
Toss in some dirt,

Add plenty of bricks
Now, stir them well.
And here’s a trick.
To make things swell:

Some ghastly gossip
Celebrity quips
Political tracts
And racist acts
Some silly sports news
Education blues
Some weather reports
International courts
Some who bring glory
With amazing stories.
Some pandering to banks
The privilege of rank
Some comics for laughs
And some lifestyle gaffes.

Now snip them up
And clip them up
And toss them in
From a giant bin.

Then, boil them up
And stir them round
The scum will rise
The dregs will drown.

Strain them through
A cheesecloth blue
Now, taste the soup
And then, recoup.

For your job’s done
And you can rest.
For coffee, toast,
And books are best.

_____________________________________________________________
Also, cross-posting it to NaPoWriMo

Tags: #Clippings, #Newspaper, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Soup, #The Daily Prompt, #TheDailyPost