Mar 12, 2018 Haiku, Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Birthday Presence
©March 12th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Dog leaping through snow
Chases after flung snow-balls:
Arcs of glee in light.
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Massed clouds, snow-pregnant
Swoon against the horizon.
The sunlight glows, fierce.
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At once young and old,
The lilac-trees bloomed purple
Last year, when I dreamed.
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Feb 16, 2018 Original Poetry
Because I’m heart-broken about the school shooting that just happened in Florida:
Moloch in America
©February 16th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Moloch is here, in this Christian land.
Moloch is here to stay.
Moloch molests and slays the young
Moloch is here to stay.
Moloch comes like a monster by day
Moloch, a monster by night
Moloch comes with a gun in his hand,
Moloch, the god of alt-right.
Moloch is never satisfied.
To Moloch, the Stupid pray.
Moloch is never to be denied.
To Moloch, they never say nay.
Moloch wants kids, and spreads his seed.
Moloch, with icy breath,
Gives his command, takes over the land,
Moloch, the bringer of death.
What will you say to the NRA,
When your young are all sacrificed?
No more life, and no more death,
For Moloch is satisfied.
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Tags: #FloridaSchoolShooting, #GunViolenceinAmerica, #Moloch
Feb 12, 2018 Original Poetry
Transcience
©February 12th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Wind-chime turns slowly.
Notes on the breeze, muted, sweet,
Speak of yesterday.
Dog on mulch and earth,
Eyes raised to fence, and squirrel
Barks up a fir tree.
The world narrows down.
See this moment unfurling.
See it float away.
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Feb 11, 2018 Original Poetry
Of What Does A Person Sing?
©February 11th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Of what does a person sing?
Of love and loss, and life and death –
Everything comes down to these.
And yet, and yet …
Like a koel singing liquid notes
Loud and yearning on a rainlit afternoon,
We call and call, and hear echoes
From hidden kin, who fly out
Sometimes, or simply call back.
And it’s always the same, haunting call,
Always filled with want, with need,
And always pregnant with hope:
That someone, somewhere, will hear us,
And that we did not sing for nothing,
That we didn’t walk this earth in vain.
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Feb 10, 2018 Daily Life, Original Poetry
In The Nursing Home
©February 10th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
I have no words tonight,
None that would suffice, anyway.
I want to be pure and simple –
Simple in thought, word and deed.
The humming of the world increases
In this room, this bed, this confined space.
A lifetime can be summed up thus:
I lived, grew older, fell, moved, died.
Perhaps, the world was changed by me
Perhaps, I was changed by it.
It matters not, not now. At present,
I am content-not content with these:
This bar of chocolate, this clementine,
These earrings, this necklace, this ancient
Gold watch that belonged to my mother’s mother,
That ring, my mother’s engagement ring,
These paintings, full of life and colour,
And talent – mine, my joy in seeing beauty –
These reminders of someone, a stranger
Who lived long ago, vibrant and witty,
Full of ambition and love of poetry,
Pretty and scholarly, and generous
Sarcastic, hurtful, loved, but not always liked,
Always striving to do what was right.
Rain comes down like regret,
And I forget why, although I weep.
The silent woman seated in the other bed
Speaks, and is silent again, staring fixedly at
The silent television, its screen dark.
Perhaps, it’s raining where she sits, too.
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Tags: #Futility, #VisitingMotherinLawinNursingHome, #Waiting
Feb 9, 2018 Original Poetry
To My Dog, Holly
©February 9th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Passing strange that I look in your eyes
And see such beauty and sweetness
And a landscape as strange as
That of another planet.
Passing strange that we communicate
With voice and eyes, tail and food,
And always with love as close
As the beating of one’s heart.
Of what you think I cannot fathom
But I know some of what you need,
The signals you send as clear
As a loon’s lake-call at night.
Goofy, joyous play all day.
Walks in the woods en famille.
Rice, yogurt, and bananas.
Cuddles, and brushing, and treats.
I hope I will give to you
Everything you need me to
For you live transplanted, here.
And that, I understand well.
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Feb 8, 2018 Climate Change is Real!, Original Poetry
Sorry
©February 8th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
There is smoke rising skywards
And somewhere, wood gives its life.
Trees whisper among themselves
When I step on forest roots.
I apologize, again.
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Feb 7, 2018 Haiku, Original Poetry
Merely Alive
©February 7th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Look below the ice.
Lying deep in the glacier,
Your face looked at me.
I was asleep then.
Not awakened to the world.
Sleepwalking slowly.
Your gaze is open
Reflecting back a noon sky
When were you alive?
You are a spectre
You never walked on this earth
Whence did you emerge?
And why do you stare?
I am not responsible.
I’m merely alive.
I cook, I drive, yes.
I wear clothes, use paper, yes.
I’m merely alive.
I buy books, use gas.
I cannot drop out, can I?
I’m merely alive.
Your glassy gaze shifts.
Your glassy gaze shifts.
Ice films over with water,
Cracks. You cry in rage.
Ice begins to melt
Burning winds blow over me.
I awake at last.
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Tags: #AnyInterpretation, #climatechange, #MeToo
Feb 6, 2018 Original Poetry
Lyre / Liar
©February 6th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
What does it mean to break your word?
I carry mine carefully, mindful of pitfalls,
Stepping lightly through deserts and forests.
Sometimes though, I break it – okay, often.
And it’s always the same thing: I promised,
I ‘d go to sleep early tonight. I did.
My husband, patient, long-suffering,
Said, “Get some sleep.” I promised.
I said to him, “I won’t write tonight.”
I said it with full and perfect intent.
Instead, I sit here, banjo on my lap,
Picking and strumming, and humming.
Sleep is so near, so deliciously close,
And yet, I spurn it with callous laughter.
Still, I must keep my word to my husband,
And to myself – Oh, I keep breaking promises!
I am a creature of whim and feathers.
I tried to keep my appointment with my Muse,
But I failed, I failed utterly. I cannot write
A poem about not being able to write one.
My Muse has fled from me like Daphne from Apollo,
But I’m no Apollo either, I play no lyre,
Although music speaks to me
The same as it speaks to him.
Never mind. I lie to myself, I’m a liar.
I said I would sleep early. I lied.
And now, I shall redeem myself.
I shall court other Gods now,
Come, Hypnos, Morpheus, Oneiroi!
I shall wait for you till the end of Time.
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Feb 5, 2018 Original Poetry
Heart of Concrete, Heart of Flesh
©February 5th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
He came from afar to alight near her
The one who had called to him,
Silently, with her wings spread wide,
Quietly, with her head raised high
Softly, with her beak to the wind.
He came with his hopes and his dreams of love
To the one who had called to him.
A yearning that he could not name
Would fill his frame, from feet to head
And grow a love that would leave him spent.
Year after year, he would build her a nest
And refuse to look at the birds
Who resembled her and him
Who surrounded them, so many
That he thought he could hear them all.
But alas, she was mute, and so were they,
But he loved her with a true heart
He gave her all the things he had
And what he gave, she didn’t take.
She stood, unmoved, uncaring, still.
For she was stone, and he was flesh,
And stone and flesh will never meet
He’d served with love, he’d served her well
But his love was not fulfilled.
More birds came ashore to greet him
Like him, they were flesh and blood,
But he knew not, and he cared not
For his heart was hers from the start.
He served and waited without hope,
And he stayed by her side until
His poor heart cracked within his chest
His feathers went still and limp.
You can break your beak against a stone
You can break your bones against concrete
You can hope and mourn, and waste away
While your love stands still, unmoved and cold.
Hard it can be, in a heartless world,
To move with love and with warmth
To give and give, without a hope
Of getting what we dearly want.
Beware of love, for it is blind
With eyes wide open, you will yearn
For something that can never be
And It can lead you to your death.
And yet, and yet, there is, in this,
A beauty born of loving much.
For it’s love that truly matters,
Not the object of one’s love.
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(Arrgh! I got sentimental. Still, I had to bang out a poem about that Australasian gannet bird, Nigel, and his stone-cold love, before conking myself on the head, and pushing off to the land of Nod. I was moved by this bird, and his hopeless passion.)
Here’s another link I found about it today: