Oct 22, 2018 Original Poetry
Vishnu-Vision
©October 22nd, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Once more, the earth turns
Wheeling in an arc of light
In encroaching dark.
Birds in silent mode.
Leaves fall in red surrender
Before ancient gods.
I can’t remember
What came before or after.
I sit, Suspended,
Idle in dream-time
Gazing at the turning worlds
Spin their tops again.
Above, the Maker
Chants, words making worlds, he sits
In his void, alone.
And far, far away
The Dancer dances the end
Again and again,
The birds fluff their down,
Nestle deeper,or fly off.
Trees give up mutely.
Once more, the earth spins
Turning in her path of night
Silence falls with light.
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Sep 20, 2018 Original Poetry
Gravitational Lift
©September 20th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
It’s not the clock whose hands move
Round and round and round,
Making you dizzy, as you watch,
Impassive, passive, sitting still.
It’s not the lines that begin to spread
On the back of hands, and tug the sides
Of the mouth earthward, loosen your hair
Of the weight of color, and send tendrils
Flying every which way, as you
Look outward, the edges of your field of vision
Misting grayly, as everything leaches out
Into a dream-field, and things trickle in –
Everything flowing both ways.
It’s not the smudging of the world
As you struggle to make sense out of things
Which cease to have meaning,
Where everything was air-clear before.
It’s not any of this, at all.
When the trek downhill
Makes your feet go faster,
And your breath comes out
In quick pants, fighting with laughter,
And you try and dig in your heels,
But the pull of gravity
Is irresistible, and the taste of home,
Delicious and inevitable,
And yet, you miss all the places you’ve been,
And you miss everyone and everything,
And forgive everyone and everything,
And you mourn all that has been,
And all that will never be again,
And you know that newness
Will overtake you, and you welcome it,
While you fight it, always,
And you suddenly spread out
Your arms in pretend flight –
It is that of which I speak.
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Sep 11, 2018 Original Poetry
Today, Seventeen Years Ago*
©September 11th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
When the man fell
The world tilted itself,
And he fell straight,
Upside-down, but upright.
He fell like a feather, or a stone,
Calmly, a life rushing past,
A choice made.
Arms folded, one leg folded,
One leg outstretched,
He fell, as if falling
Was a thing that would never end.
Two dissolving walls of fire above,
A welcoming earth below.
No sounds of panic reached him,
No cries of terror stopped him.
No confusion blossomed in his mind,
For he had chosen, had made
That impossible choice,
The sky receding impossibly fast,
The earth reaching for him,
While he looked skyward.
No time for sorrow,
No space for dread,
No thoughts of what might have been.
No thought of what lay ahead.
Just one thought:
Here I am.
Now, here.
Now, here.
Here.
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*I didn’t want to write this poem, but I had to.
In honor of the Falling Man, and in honor of all who died that day.
In sorrow for all innocents.
Tags: #September11, #TheFallingMan
Aug 11, 2018 Original Poetry
Light-Chorus
©August 11th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
To be free
To be air
To be light
I dream of this
Every day, every night.
How can I explain it?
This longing?
I’ve yearned for it since
I looked deep into the heart of trees,
Since I saw the sun in the veins of leaves,
And heard bird-songs in the sky above them.
As a child, beneath a tamarind tree,
Looking up, I dreamed I would
Vanish like a dewdrop
In the heat of day.
This desire is urgent, like
A hand around my wrist,
Pulling me forward.
This world is too much to bear,
And yet, so plangent with delight.
Sorrow has no place here.
I brush it away with my broom,
And sweep aside cirrus clouds,
As I climb steadily up.
There are other places,
Sacred, full of ancient tongues,
I will join their song.
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Aug 10, 2018 Original Poetry
Two Poems: Senses and Essence
©August 10th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
Being a channel is nice –
I’d rather be the water flowing through.
Being a body is nice –
I’d rather be the air it breathes.
The water dries up, the river-bed dies.
The air leaves, the body collapses.
I’d rather be water.
I’d rather be air.
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The essence of things
Brings wonder, or awe, or horror.
How much of everything is just
Atoms, the bonds between them,
And strange attractors that make
Fractals, make colliding galaxies
Look like delicately formed,
Other-worldly butterflies?
I want to be a galaxy, two galaxies,
Both colliding, dancing forever around
A mysterious black hole of oblivion.
I want to be dancing fractally,
Dancing at the event horizon of it all.
What I would feel would be
Atomic, elemental.
That is what I desire,
More than anything of the flesh.
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Aug 4, 2018 Haiku, Original Poetry
Haiku for Dark Room
©August 4th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
The Mother of the Girl Who Kept Losing Her Gloves
She looks up, cloud-eyed
Looks down, her gaze snow-dazzled
Grief’s a bird sans wings.
The Woman Scientist in the Grave
Kindness masked as scorn
Moss-covered stone, roots grow down
Voice rises, crackling.
The Beloved Wife in the Grave
Beloved wife waits
Then, battered by storms of rage,
Lets love in, after.
The Mother of Twelve in the Grave
Mother of twelve, mind,
Carries caring into death.
Solace is her voice.
After-Life Cleaning Maid
Young, and eager maid
Rushes through post-life duties
Passionate, ache-filled.
After-Life Cleaning Mentor
Mentor, teacher, maid
Takes her time, seeks every trace.
Tender with her charge.
The Woman with the Hot Chocolate
Rejection smells hot
Like chocolate in winter
Her winged words flutter.
The Woman Who Heard the Thumping of Birds
Words that thump at chest
Like birds against glass hallways
Break upon her face.
Big Sister and Grave-site Pianist
Sister, like-mother,
Lets her fingers speak through gloves,
Finds her voice, and sings.
Younger Sister and Grave-Site Resister
Innocence has strength
Voices speak, hers is louder,
Breaks away from death.
Mother in the Bath-Tub in the Graveyard
Voice from beyond life,
Cannot turn the door of death
Music traps, then frees.
The Temptress
Haunting voice that tempts
Leads her on, like ghosts of fate
Body, or a soul?
The Girl in the Polka-Dotted Dress
Always upward-bound
Groundward down she goes, her eyes
Shutters to her Self.
Lesbian in the Cafe
Temptation’s her name
Shameless games she plays, but waits –
One true love denied.
The Denier
Hat and coat and gloves
Deny love, and shield her form
No one wins this round.
Lover in the Attic
Tender eyes, so warm
Older, wiser, discerning
Makes ghosts step away.
The Grand-daughter
Inchoate is love
Grief for Grandma floods the shores.
Narcissus seeks Self.
Unused Muse with the Arched Feet
Vanity seeks warmth,
A thousand pictures flashing.
An Unused Muse mourns.
Unused Muse with Flowers
Lilies bloom at breast
Laid to rest in sand in shreds
A fight to be seen.
The New Wife
Pale and golden girl
Places hand upon a tomb.
Makes her peace with death.
Clipped
Angel, kind and fierce
Stands and whispers to her charge,
Sacrifices Grace.
Winged
Weight of wings on back
Give her regret, also strength
Helps her transfer Grace.
Aug 2, 2018 Original Poetry
Reflections in a Dark Room
©August 2nd, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
A thread of silver wound its way
Through the dark and the light,
And stopped, and turned, and knelt
And straightened, and looked,
And returned to its place.
Lured on by shadows and song,
Transfixed by tragedy and loss, and
Tugged at by the inevitable, which was
Once one of many possibles, which became
The only inevitable, a freezing river,
On which the thread eddied upward,
Then floated down, airborne,
A whole life skated
Away into a vanishing world.
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Jul 31, 2018 Original Poetry, Original Songs
To Gaia (A Song)
©July 31st 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
You turn and you turn
And you turn and you turn
And you burn, and you burn
And you burn, and you burn
And we’ll never learn,
Never learn, never learn,
How much you gave us.
And you spin, and you spin,
And you spin, and you spin,
The light grows dim
As we try to swim
While the air gets thin
It goes out, not in,
We cannot save us.
Breathe, breathe, breathe
Breathe, breathe, breathe
Find your way into a tree
Dig your feet into the dirt
And eat the sun for lunch.
Eat the sun for lunch.
Or fly, fly, fly, fly
Fly away, fly away
Aim like an arrow
Right into the sky
Become a particle
Or a wave.
Jul 25, 2018 Original Poetry
Beacon
©July 25th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
What constellations, what nascent stars
What questions too blurry to form, spin around
In a mind that thinks in nasal pictures?
Patiently, you watch, and look, and listen,
As you smell the ever-thrumming planet
Moving subtly under delicate paws.
Your body becomes a long-limbed, loose-muscled
Shape of Waiting.
You stand at the door, smelling thunder about to boom,
Smelling rain’s fragrant gifts,
Smelling separation from Dad and Sister
As an ache, a hollow, a crater of loss,
For you don’t understand our leaving-ways.
We utter words at you, explaining
Our presence and absences, saying
“We’ll be back soon, we love you,”
Saying things that hum with love,
But maybe make no sense, except for
That sense of being included,
Of being part of a family, where people talk
To each other. Why can’t they
Smell meaning, like you do?
You shine at the window, the door,
A Watcher, a Sensor, alert, ready,
Swiveling around, your almond eyes glowing,
Looking out at the world, waiting.
Now, you turn to me, always seeking
Reassurance, and it’s a mighty weight
To carry, but carry it I will, gladly.
I will always protect you.
I will always love you.
I will always come home to you.
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Jul 24, 2018 Original Poetry
Weighted Down
©July 24th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
The clatter and clash of equipment
Punctures the still, sweating afternoon
Like large needles.
Trees spill green secrets in the path of sunlight,
And the dog looks hopeful.
I look about me with a vague sense of unease,
Waiting for … what?
There is a stillness on the land,
And there is grief abroad.
We are weighted down by it.
What will I say ten years from now?
Did I do all I could?
It was never enough.
Do I do anything at all?
It is never enough.
Will I do something tomorrow?
It will never be enough.
And still, we carry on,
Marionettes, all, saying lines
That aren’t ours, thinking thoughts
That threaten to drown us,
Hoping that the strings that tug at us,
Will pull down the evil that walks
This hallowed earth, all
Puffed-up and stupid.
This is what I hope.
And if prayers could help,
This is what I’d pray.
Meanwhile, there is always work,
And there are always protests,
And YouTube videos.
I will drink deep from my bottle of
Nepenthe, although I cannot forget.
I will square my shoulders,
And go out into the shuffling world.
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