Apr 9, 2018 Original Poetry
Empty
©April 9th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
I am out of Self today
Nothing’s left, not a drop of it.
I have scooped and scooped
Out all that I had, cup by cup.
My reservoir ran dry today.
And it was never that big,
To begin with, more a pond.
My pond-self had little tadpoles,
Though, and the frogs sat
On pretty lily pads, croaking away,
Ecstatic with the coming of spring.
Pretty flowers floated on it
Like accidental hope
And unanticipated reward.
But now, they lie, exhausted,
Drooping in the mud.
Sleep will help, I think.
The days grind on.
There are always things to do,
But dreams will keep me suspended
Between two worlds,
A hammock of comfort.
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Apr 8, 2018 Original Poetry
Sound Management
©April 8th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
We sat in a sound booth
Listening to lines from a play that was
Steeped in magic and mayhem.
With cues, transitions, scene changes,
And with no eyes into the room,
We were all ears, and we strained
To hear, to be attentive, to respond.
Now, as I hurtle along recklessly
Down the dusty corridor of my Time,
I understand this more than ever.
I cannot see, clearly or darkly.
I cannot fathom the wherefores of some things,
I cannot do much more than press some buttons.
I am in a sound booth, and the walls
Have closed in on me, but I can do this,
Because I’m curious, and though I am blind,
I am learning to see elsewise.
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Apr 7, 2018 Original Poetry
Visiting Ginny in Amherst
©April 8th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
A walk in the woods near Amherst
Off Route 202, near the Quabbin Watershed
Leads my family, and me, and our dog,
Down a pebbled, muddy path.
A darkly silver spring, clear as skylight,
Glimmering down alongside our path,
Forms pools and little eddies, and
Flows downwards down the slope, and
Delights the dog, who leaps in and out,
Drinks the water in short bursts,
Then leaps through patches of snow,
As she weaves in and out of trees,
A canine woodland sprite.
This is our mid-day break.
The afternoon and early evening
Leads us to the nursing home,
Where we bat a colorful, mottled
Goofy-faced balloon amongst us: My husband,
My daughter, me, and his mother in her bed.
The dog joins in once, serendipitously
Bopping the balloon with her nose,
Delighting my mother-in-law.
This is the highlight of her day.
We eat clementines, talk with
Some measure of sense and clarity,
Make jokes, hang out in her small space.
This is her break in the clouds.
When we leave, time ceases.
When we return, it returns for her.
So it seems, but who can tell
What eternities spin out over vast
Tracts of space in her mind,
Ninety-five years on this planet,
And heading into her ninety-sixth?
Who can tell what mysteries she sees,
Her memory like that forest stream, eddying,
Pooling, flowing, rich with life, clear now,
Dark now, always flowing towards that
Vast reservoir, its ultimate home?
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Apr 6, 2018 Original Poetry
Forbidden Fences*
©April 6th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Faces against fence
Peering out, or peering in –
Freedom is a jail.
Fox versus a dog:
Broken bodies litter den –
Tameness slays wildness.
Knife flashing in air,
Slices through a family.
Forbidden love kills.
Shout out to the moon.
Freedom comes with bloody price.
Wildness beats tameness.
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[*Inspired (again) by Rita Kalnejais’ play, “First Love is the Revolution.”]
Apr 5, 2018 Original Poetry
Want / Not Want
©April 5th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
I want to have eyes everywhere,
Seeing into everything, and beyond,
And at, and all around, drinking in light;
Ears whose listening extend into the unknown;
A heart that bursts with love, without fear of exploding;
Skin so sensitive that it vibrates to airflow and blood-flow,
Skin that feels all emotions, mine and others’;
A mouth that speaks, and is silent, without shoulds;
A throat that sings without effort or sadness;
Lungs that rejoice when air fills them,
Without struggle.
I am tired of struggling.
I want to have loved without fear
To have lived without want
To have given without expectation
To receive without obligation.
I want to cut all ties.
To float, like dust-motes,
And dance in space.
And I want to not want that.
I want to not want.
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Apr 4, 2018 Original Poetry
Late for Rehearsal in Three Haiku
©April 4th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Rain on the windshield
Slip-sliding mirrors of light
Blur the outstretched trees.
Limbs supplicating
Saturated skies of pearl.
Our pleas remain mute.
Cars stream on, sluggish
Stop and start, in slow snail-bursts
Time races ahead.
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Apr 3, 2018 Original Poetry
Rain, Like Regret
©April 3rd, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Rain came down like regret
When the world closed its eyes.
The dead lay broken in the dust
Supine, decaying in desert heat.
A flower bloomed somewhere
And died without pause.
A seabird, with its insides twisted
By something that wasn’t fish
Lay glassy-eyed on a sandy shore.
Trees, broken and bent, lay spent,
Littering lands ravaged by storms.
And still the makers of death
Ground away in their suits and ties
Full of blind purpose, free from conscience,
Working to erode the viscera of a world
That had taken so long to emerge,
Green and blue and flamboyant
From the abyss of dark time.
And those who fought for Right
Were trampled underfoot by those
Who clamored for Wrong,
As they toiled away in service
Of a god who knew no divinity.
And those who spoke Love and Truth
Were hurled back by hurricane-force
Gales of Hatred and Lies.
And those who stood for safety
Were gunned down by those
Who arose like a disease from
An underworld that expanded forever.
Knowledge crept away to corners,
Covering her eyes, and Ignorance
Strode about, loud and ugly.
If the world were a body,
Did it have a mind?
And where was its heart?
Its gut, its spirit?
If this world were *in* a body,
Hurtling through like a
Poorly digested meal,
Was it being flushed out?
Analogies don’t help,
Even when they do.
And I am sick to death
Of this world in which
I live and breathe.
But breathe I shall, and
Live I must, for even
Through the rot, the filth,
The horror and the hatred,
When the rain comes down
And the world’s eyes close,
I listen to the hum in which
I was cradled before I was born,
And hear the music of that
Which I cannot name.
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Apr 2, 2018 Haiku, Original Poetry
The Haiku of the Red Fox
©April 3rd, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Feathers in a cloud.
A bird’s flight ceases to be.
Young fox sits back, full.
Mother Fox, so brave
Eyes flashing, and heart breaking,
Turns away with love.
Red Fox inches close.
Chickens scrabble fruitlessly.
Grass seed on their minds.
Red Fox, lonely fox,
Shouts defiance at a dog.
Chickens dance in dust.
It’s the moonlit hour,
The boy’s mind, a battle-ground.
In his heart, young love.
Full moon blossoms bright
What is forbidden, or not,
Fades into mole-light.
Death lurks in the den.
Did He come with silent tread?
Will His spring be red?
Laughter spills in tears
Are they free at last, these two?
Will love bloom in blood?
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*In response to Rita Kalnejais’ play, “First Love is the Revolution.” Come see it. Starting April 13th. Check Events for more details.
Apr 2, 2018 Haiku, Original Poetry
Spring-Snow in April
©April 2nd, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Snow falling slantwise.
Dimensions expand car-ward.
Driving softly on.
Mindlessness widens
The sky, white and wondering,
Revolves around us.
Centered here and now,
The earth spins, a snow-dancer.
We sit still, silent.
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Apr 2, 2018 Haiku, Original Poetry
Devolution
©March 30th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
An eventide sun.
A fox, full of fire and fight
Leaps across the sky.
Waning gibbous moon.
Magical grave in mole-hole.
Death waits, alone, cold.
Cheese-bait for young fox.
When the trap traps the trapper,
Bloody feathers fly.
What is love, you ask?
Blood pours out, and feathers float.
The first kiss of death.
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*Inspired tangentially by Rita Kalnejais’ play, “First Love is the Revolution.”