May 8, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry
Beggars
©May 8th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
The temple bells ring
And the air is filled with light.
The beggar sits outside
The gates, metal bowl clinking
With coins from grudging charity.
He sings of long ago with aching voice.
Milky-blind eyes see darkness,
Broken arms end in stumps.
The beggar sings of God and mercy
His sun-baked voice cracks
Like an old porcelain cup
Filled with sorrow, refilling
With salt tears, endless like a sea.
The cracks spread, the cup breaks.
The beggar lies there,
Surrounded by light.
People move briskly like water
Drawing in their clothing
To avoid touching him, as they
Walk to the temple, eyes
Fixed on their own Eternity
Seeking enlightenment.
Tags: #Beggars, #Inhumanity, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram
May 7, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Sacrifice
Sacrifice
©May 7th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
I cannot see this word
Without an inward hush,
An awe descending like mist
Obscuring sight and sense,
And I feel the presence
Of something huge and solemn
Stand at the very edges of my vision.
A Being, an Idea, a Universe,
Imploding, to be remade.
And I kneel in obeisance.
This is what a mother does.
This is what a father does.
This is what a teacher does.
This is what a lover does.
If my time comes, when it comes,
I hope I am ready.
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Tags: #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Sacrifice, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt
May 5, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Hope
Hope Springs
©May 4th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Eternal, they say.
Now, in May, I cannot see
How a real Spring will
Return – with sun and rain,
And birdsong and flowers
And plants to go into the ground
And people singing in the rain,
Of a planet balancing itself
Keeping track of its heat and cold
And its axis tilted evermore
Away from normal –
When all I see is mist and cloud,
Drawn faces, and hurrying
And scurrying and worrying
Everything blurring before me,
All hope of people seeing what’s real,
Of people seeing reason,
Of having reason
To hope,
Gone.
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Tags: #Hope, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt
May 3, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Abandoned
Abandonment
©May 3rd, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
An old road leads to a locked house
And in the old house these abound:
Lost hopes, lost spoons, lost socks
Lost dreams, lost children’s ghosts,
Lost lovers’ bliss, lost songs,
Lost days, lost nights, lost maps,
Lost directions, lost memories,
Lost knowledge, lost ambitions,
Lost desires, lost skills, lost laughter,
Lost tears, lost scorn, lost anger,
Lost grievances, lost bitterness,
Lost chances, lying broken
Outside its door, and lost people
Lying forgotten in the lane
That leads behind the house.
And in the creek that flows nearby,
At the silvery bottom, under a rock,
Lies a key, thrown carelessly
By someone lost in the mists
Of myth-time, walking a grey horse
Into a place beyond our ken,
Every sigh falling down the rider’s lips
Turning into pebbles, as it hits
A glass-crusted ground,
Leaving a trail behind
For anyone who might care to
Find him, and beg him
To return to the land of
Flesh and blood.
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Tags: #Abadoned, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt
May 2, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Music
Inheritance
©May 2nd, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Most days, with the scent of coffee
Came music in the mornings.
My mother’s voice, bright as oranges
Bright as the green of a neem tree, as it
Wove through the morning hours
And filtered into my consciousness
As the Madras coffee dripped
Through its filter, aromatic and charged.
And I was saturated with richness,
As I grew from baby to toddler,
To child, to teenager, to adult,
Unconscious and unaware of what
Was shaping me, and my life.
This, her music, lives in me.
And now, the music of our days
Lives through my love and me,
And filters into our daughter’s
Blood and bones, her daily life.
And this, the music of her days,
Shall live through her, and
Spread like sunshine in a land of fog.
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Tags: #Music, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt
May 1, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post
TRIGGER WARNING AND DISCLAIMER:
This is a very sensitive topic for many school-going teenagers, and may not be one you want to read if you’ve been in this emotional place.
And no, I have NOT been in this place, but I’m very empathetic to those who have, because I taught teenagers for eighteen years.
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Scars
Blade-Run
©May 1st, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
The word makes her shiver
As she reaches for
A shining thing to
Ease her endless pain,
Upend her blocked days,
End her numbness,
Make things flow
Smoothly, until
They’re blocked again,
Until the scars shine
Like smooth roads,
Shiny and pale,
Where a river might
Once have flowed,
Until it’s time to once again
Reach for the shining thing
To ease her endless pain.
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Tags: #Cutting, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Scar, #TeenageAngst, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt, #TriggerWarning
Apr 29, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
I Remember All This …
©April 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
I remember when I was born.
I was wrinkled and dark,
And quiet, I think.
I remember my mother
Singing to me in her womb.
Her voice shaped me,
Note by golden note.
I remember seeing pigs
Rooting, squealing on the streets
Outside my grandparents’ home.
Squealing in joy, I followed,
Entranced by their wiggly tails.
I remember climbing trees
And scraping knees, like
Maria, she who made me
Want, nay, covet, a guitar
And a home filled with
Clamorous, singing children.
I remember watching green light
Slipping down the polished leaves
Of mango trees, and feeling
Smooth and sunlit from within.
I remember the soft, soft skin
On the back of my hands,
And the shiver it gave me
When I caressed it absently.
I remember the song I sang
At the Museum Theatre,
My first big audience in a big city.
And the mad burst of applause
After a few seconds of nerve-bending
Silence, a silence which terrified.
I remember how everything
Shimmered like a dream,
Like the pale fires of an opal,
And smelt of jasmines,
And bursts of marigolds,
And aging wood and carpets,
And old velvet drapes in that
Old theatre in Madras.
I remember my music,
Born with me, and living
Like blood within me.
Flowing even now, singing
While I think on these matters,
And worry about the planet,
Singing like a river
Flowing to an unknown sea,
Singing without the desire
To be heard, or acknowledged,
Singing, while I write these words.
I remember my father’s mother,
First alive, kind and gentle,
Without personality, without joy,
Without rancour, without rage,
Without a real life of her own.
Then dead, laid out cold and straight,
My family’s living room, lying
Still and large-bellied and sad,
Clad in her death-sari,
Water on the floor puddling around us,
Poured onto her by all the family
A frightening, bewildering custom
I’d never seen until then.
I remember with a shudder
The chilling wails of an
Old, old woman, who appeared
As if from nowhere
(A relative, I was told),
And keened in ritual mode.
I remember how, after,
She abruptly ceased,
And partook of the sesame
Sweetmeats, and black pepper foods
Cooked for the occasion,
And chatted in banal mode.
I remember wincing away from
Sesame sweets and black pepper
For years and years afterwards.
I remember riding nightmares
All the way into the break of day.
I remember crawling into
My parents’ room, terrified
Of ghosts and the cloying dark,
For I could see all
The spirits ranged around me,
Whispering and pointing.
I remember the comforting
Soft bulk of my father on my right,
The rounded plumpness
Of my mother on my left.
I remember my father
Saying this to me:
“I didn’t cry when my mother died;
I cried when I had to cremate her,
And utter Sanskrit prayers,
Saying, This is the body of
The Mother whose womb bore me,
Whose body nurtured me,
Which now, I consign it to the flames.”
Perhaps, I misremember
His exact words, but that was
The mist, the gist of them.
I remember my husband,
Staunch and loving,
Dutiful and beautiful,
Full of music and song
Full of laughter and puns,
Full of kindness,
Telling me he loved me
That very first time,
Lo, so many years ago!
And how our love bloomed,
And our life together
Became a work of art
Full of flaws, yes, but
Full of beauty, and still
Shining, despite decades.
I remember when my daughter
Came to be, like a flower
Born of music and love,
Born to music and love,
Bringing sunlight, bringing warmth
Into my swelling body.
How like a goddess I felt!
And I remember watching
Her grow up, and still growing,
And as she grows,
I remember every day,
Every minute, as a pearl
Which I stitch into my days,
Drawing them close and bright.
I remember so much,
Some things of consequence,
Some of no import.
And soon, these memories,
Like my father’s own ashes
When he died – unwilling
To leave my mother until the end,
Despite the disappointments,
Despite the pain, the losses,
He and she had borne, and
With love for each other
Triumphing over all of it –
These memories will swirl
Like his flowers and ashes
In the water, where my
Brother, my sister and I
Emptied the brass pot
Which contained him,
And flow downriver.
I know, I shall remember
This and more, at the time
When I shall be thus emptied
Into a swirling river, flowers and all.
I shall join the Great River, where
All these memories will form the Great Om.
And I shall remember you all, while I sit
Dreaming on a white lotus
Springing from the navel
Of the great Brahman,
All around me, the stars will wheel,
While the planets spin, and the
Universe goes quiet.
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Tags: #Brahman, #FreeVerse, #IRemember, #Memories, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheGreatHum
Apr 29, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post, Uncategorized
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Curve
From a Lover to A Beloved
©April 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
The curve of your ears
The curve of your eyes
The curve of your smile
The curve of your frown
The curve of your back
The curve of your neck
The curve of your mind
The curve of your life
Are the shell of you,
The shape of you,
The song of you,
The home of you.
And you, my love,
Make me smile,
Make me want to curl up
And nestle against the shell
Of you, and feel the
Deep, blue whooshing
Of the waves of the
Sea where you dwell
In secret, away from
The prying eyes
Of a busy world.
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Tags: #Curve, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost, #TheDailyPrompt
Apr 28, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo
Song of Freedom (A Read-Backwards Poem)
©April28th, 2016
Singing a song of freedom.
Or, perhaps, it was her blood
Mermaids singing to her.
Somewhere, she could hear
The water stung like hornets.
Burning with borrowed heat.
A comet with icy heart,
Hurtling through the air,
She took a deep breath, and flew,
As her blood moved slowly in her veins.
She moved slowly to the rocky cliff.
Sing a song of freedom to her feet.
She threw off her heels, felt the grass
She climbed down a beautiful yew tree.
Hand over foot, over hand over foot,
Leaning over, she saw her escape.
Desperate, she found the open French window.
Made smiles and talk, made promises, broke them.
People on the dance-floor, people in the library.
People in the kitchen, people in the bathrooms,
People near the door, people near the balcony,
Escape routes were closed off.
But turned away, lips aching.
Automatically, she smiled back,
Drink in hand, his lips speaking.
A man approached her, smiling,
Something like sadness.
Something sharp cut inside her throat,
And to her right, a trapped deer
She looked to her left, wildly,
Nor did she care – empty, like her cup.
What they discussed, she did not know,
Deep in a dance beyond her ken.
Arms gesticulating, lips moving,
She moved, where people talked.
Slowly, slowly through the throngs,
Was this real, a dream, imagined?
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This was in response to the NaPoWriMo prompt for Day 28:
And now, for our prompt (optional, as always). Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that tells a story. But here’s the twist – the story should be told backwards. The first line should say what happened last, and work its way through the past until you get to the beginning. Now, the story doesn’t have to be complicated (it’s probably better if it isn’t)!
Apr 27, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Note: I chose to write this poem with 17-syllable-long lines.
It’s dedicated to all couples, and all friendships.
Long Lives, Long Lines
©April 27th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
You stand back to back, each facing the other direction, and winds howl
And your house begins to fall over slowly, oh so very slowly!
Your silence deafens, and your voices aren’t heard as both try to speak
And there is love, yes, and attraction, yes, and mutual resentment, yes.
Yes, there are years of patching and mending, and years of joyous laughter
Yes, so many years of misunderstanding, expectations unheard.
And one whispers to the other, Did you hear me when I said this thing?
And the other strains to hear what the one is saying as the words form.
The winds keep howling, and the house pauses in its slow-motion falling.
And the other cries out, I tried, I tried though I did not understand!
I was so full of dreams, so full of things I needed, wanted, to do.
The one whispers, And I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you!
I would have lifted you up if you fell down when your dreams bade you fly.
And the other cries, I doubted I could fly, that you would carry me!
The wind dies down, and the house still slants, listening to their words, not falling.
You turn to each other, faces drawn, but filled with growing hope, and sing:
Will you come with me on this long journey, will you listen, will you stay?
Will you forgive, will you forget, will you build this house with me again?
And the house listens, and straightens, and the wind becomes a breeze so sweet
And you find in each other’s unspoken thoughts the dream that wants to grow.
And yes, you love, and yes, you hear, and yes, you dream, and yes, you live.
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In response to the Day 27 prompt from NaPoWriMo:
Finally, our prompt (optional, as always!) Today’s prompt comes to us from Megan Pattie, who points us to the work of the Irish poet Ciaran Carson, who increasingly writes using very long lines. Carson has stated that his lines are (partly) based on the seventeen syllables of the haiku, and that he strives to achieve the clarity of the haiku in each line. So today, Megan and I collectively challenge you to write a poem with very long lines. You can aim for seventeen syllables, but that’s just a rough guide. If you’re having trouble buying into the concept of long lines, maybe this essay on Whitman’s infamously leggy verse will convince you of their merits. Happy writing!
Tags: #AboutLifeandLoveandFriendship, #AboutPartners, #Day27NaPoWrimo, #LongLines, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram