Vijaya Sundaram

Poet, Musician, Teacher, and Amateur Visual Artist

Rescue
Rescue
©January 30th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

What do you say when
Democracy spins towards
An end that you didn’t
Vote for?

You cry, “Not on my watch!”
And you, and you, and you
Race towards it
As it teeters at the edge
Of a wedge of earth, a cliff,
Suicidal and mad, a King Lear
Full of fear, sans love, sans reason,
Made small by greed and loathing.

And you grab it by the ankles
Spinning it towards you,
And you, and you, and you, and it
Are falling backward on the cool, cool grass.
You see the sky
Reeling above your head
And you join hands and smile.

And bit by bit, you (and you, and you)
Lift it up, as it staggers
Tottering, but alive, and lead it
Back to where it came from.

And you, and you, and you,
Nurse it back to health.
Do not let it die.
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WoodLight

Woodlight
©January 18th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

We walked through the woods
Dog leaping like salmon ahead.
The sun was out, and the day stretched
Silk-like and shining, strand by strand,
As we took the crunchy path into the Fells,
Green in the whispering woodlight.

Mosses and fan-shaped fungi,
Snagged our attention as we walked
And the dog was joyous, for we paused
And, arrested by moss and dead leaves,
We did what she does … study the woods,
She with her nose, we with our eyes,
As the trees went about the business
Of the season, conversing quietly,
Dying by degrees, and mostly
Confident of resurrection.

The sky, silvery and shimmering
Broke into shards, as the dog
Stepped on cracking pond ice, snapping
Happily at frozen water.
Fractured images splintered into light.
We stood and drank the moment,
As the woods waited for us
To leave them in peace.

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The Tao of Tiredness

The Tao of Tiredness
©January 18th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

I waste time like there’s no tomorrow
I borrow from my future, wandering
In place, as I squander the Now,
And scatter my largesse
To the fainting hours.

I sit, and let my cells multiply
And die, as I contemplate
What the present holds,
As I hold a glass of water
And stare at nothing.

I resist sleep, and resist action.
I resist factions and subtract
Any attempt at thought
From what I ought to do
I must be content, but I’m spent.
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Light-Purpose

Light-Purpose
©January 16th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

Crystals hang down from the little chandelier
Like fat drops of arrested rain
Frozen into tear-drops, cut into facets,
Full of glinting light.

I like this little chandelier.
All it can hold is just
One little votive, but for now,
That little pleasure is denied it.

One strand of crystals is missing
I feel towards my little chandelier
A rising tenderness, a softness
A need to say, There, there, it’s all right.

But all I do is gaze at it,
And feel myself transform into 
A fat, pendulous tear-drop
Dangling down from a metal ring.

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Accusation – A Poem on MLK, Jr. Day

Accusation
A Poem on MLK, Jr. Day
©January 16th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

Come, hold my hand, stand beside me
Look!  Out here, at the edge of the known
We have worked, my love, how we have worked!
We made a pledge to honor, to preserve, to conserve
We made a pledge to raise up our fallen brother and sister,
We made a pledge to lift up the oppressed, the adrift,
We worked to clean the air, and make better the soil,
We worked to teach and learn that which would redeem,
Dreaming of Good.

Stand by me, here, at the edge of all that’s good
And see below, the miasma swirling upwards
Rising towards us, full of venom, full of spite
Ignorance and hatred writhe snake-like in the chasm.
Demented laughter echoes hollowly through the hills
While we cherish the words, the deeds, the courage
Of those who strode boldly into the precipice of the unknown,
So that they could map out the terrain, while we waited
For a sign.

But what if the terrain has no features?
What if all that’s good dies in the quicksand?
For, greed and indifference, and bilious prejudice
Flow through the arteries of those who would rule us.
Freed from all constraints, from the need to uphold the Good,
They laugh, and eat, and drink, and toast one another
While seas rise higher, and animals drown, and the air,
Thick as pea-soup, struggles down our windpipes
Into our lungs.

Shall we resist, shall we fight, shall we call it a war?
And what manner of fighting shall we do, since everything
That can be tried has been tried?
 And will they, those consumed by prejudice and hatred,
Recognize our peaceful resistance to their bigotry?
Yet, fight we must, resist we shall, because how else
Can we turn, face our children, whose mute eyes,
Gazing across their dying inheritance straight at us,
Will say, J‘accuse?
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Soft

Soft
©January 14th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

Food makes our eyes soft.
We hunger while we wait for it
Or we cook, and are sated.
And the food, steaming hot,
Made with love and care,
Full of richness
Brings an upwelling of gratitude
And makes our eyes soft.

And tempers are mollified
And stomachs sated,
And work happens,
And projects met,
All because food, ready and rich,
And made with love and care,
Comes to us, at our table,
And makes our eyes soft.

So it was when I nursed my babe
And she looked with her milk-bright face,
(Two-and-a-half months old, she was),
And smiled up at me, blurry-eyed,
Like a watery painting come to life,
And I smiled down at her,
At her silken and cloud-like
Presence, in the circlet of my arms
Her gaze seemed to say, Thank you.
Her eyes were soft.

So it is when I cook for my dog –
Fragrant, buttery rice and vegetables,
Or omelette with a side of yoghurt –
Her face looks misty as she awaits food.
See how she stands, patient and alert,
Tail at half-mast, full of the knowledge
That food, her much-awaited food
Will tip into a bowl, all for her.
And now she bends to eat. 
When she looks up at me
Her eyes are soft.

This is love, and this is gratefulness
When I see you, and you, and you,
I am satiated, and am glad
And a hunger I never knew existed
Is appeased and eased, and a softness
Settles upon my aching self.
I am full with the love of you,
And am grateful for this richness.
And when I gaze upon you, and you, and you
My eyes feel soft.

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Head of a Pin

Head of a Pin
©January 13th, 2017

By Vijaya Sundaram

When the whole world narrows
Down to a point, a shining
Painful point, piercing and straight,
And you’re standing on that point
Dancing on the head of a pin
And all the other versions of you
Also dance there,
Do you exist in space and time?
And if so, do you still occupy both?
And how about now?
And now?

Either it must be a very big point
Or you do not exist,
Except as myth and dream
Perhaps, that pin does not hurt
Not very much, at least.
And if it does hurt, can you
And your other selves
Lift off and scatter into the ether?
Do you hear the beating of your wings?
Are you aloft now? Or falling?
And now?

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Death of a Christmas Tree

Death of a Christmas Tree
©January 12th, 2017

By Vijaya Sundaram

The rain fell today, when I wasn’t looking.
And the gloom gathered around me.

And I, stranger to myself,
Dismantled the Christmas Tree.
The ornaments, so bright, so delicate,
Came down, one by one,
And, tenderly wrapped in tissue,
Went into their box to sleep for
Yet another year, quiescent and docile.

Our daughter finds joy in Christmas
And Christmas trees, and therefore, so do I.
Together, we put up ornaments, and talk
And laugh at silly things, while we do so.
And usually, we take them down together,
Though not today.

Today, I got to work on it alone, and
Took down the lights that were wound
Round and round and round the tree
By my husband (who does the lights).
I unwound the lights, and felt dizzy
Going round and round, like a pagan
Dancing in the woods, in a
Meaningless ritual which spun meaning
Out of the cocoon of our lives.

I do this for our daughter,
For the magic of bright lights
In the dark days of winter, when sadness
Knocks on the door, wanting to come in.
But we talk of Christmas and presents,
And dream of snow and make hot chocolate,
And eat roasted vegetables,
And make a fire in the fireplace.

The dog watched me today, as I put things away
Patient, and polite, and curious, and puzzled:

All this trouble for a tree?
She takes it in her stride, though,
And has never interfered, even in her
Playful, destructive puppyhood.
Respectful and quiet, half-dreaming,
She watches the tree, and listens, and dozes
While the tree dies, as it has been dying
Little by little since we brought it home.

And my daughter, when I told her,
Said sadly, I’ll miss our Christmas Tree.
So will I
, I reply, it was a good tree.

Shedding needles, the tree dies,

My heart is sore.
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Empty Shell

Empty Shell
©January 12th, 2017

By Vijaya Sundaram

I am empty inside,
Hollowed out, a seashell,
Washed up on a foreign shore.

A memory of the ocean,
Sighs through these hard walls
And the tunnels hold fast
To the sound of her
Even if I have left this shell,
Gasping on the sands.

Like a dream or a story,
Told to the wind by 
A tired watcher on the beach,
As the moon rises,
And life sets, I am set upon,
Devoured by life.

What I was once is no more.
What I shall be is an echo.
Today, the sea sighs
Like the memory of a myth
Through these vacant chambers.

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Wake, Awake

Wake, Awake
©January 10th, 2017

By Vijaya Sundaram

When the day narrows to a point,
And blue-white night expands,
I bob, laughingly in the wake
Of all I intended to do,
Holding tightly on to the
Silken, translucent thread
That keeps me above water,
The thread spooling before me,
While I, skidding lightly
Behind it, grow giddy with
Uncertain, heady anticipation
Of all that I plan to do
First thing
Tomorrow.

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