Apr 24, 2025 Uncategorized
In a recent Instagram video shared by the Massachusetts Center for the Book, an affiliate of the Library of Congress, poet Vijaya Sundaram reads Climate Change Metaphysics from her work, offering a quiet and powerful moment of reflection through language. The reading highlights her lyrical voice and deep attentiveness to emotion, place, and human connection, inviting listeners into the cadence and meaning of her poetry.
Jun 21, 2021 Uncategorized
How Will You Take Me? I ask Death
©June 21st, 2021
By Vijaya Sundaram
Sometimes, when my brain is idle,
I let Death step in.
We sit together on the curb, as
Trees wave gently overhead,
Traffic moving like molasses
At rush hour.
A man and his son walk by,
Wave at me. I wave back.
The child has Down’s –
I see them all the time,
The good father, the sweet son.
The sun sets.
Death and I talk, looking ahead.
I bend to pick dandelions, or watch
Air eddy around my ankles.
We talk of this and that, but mostly,
It’s only my voice I hear
Loud in my empty head.
Death is quiet, for she listens,
Always, and waits, always.
I ask, “How will you take me?”
She lets the question sit.
I answer myself.
“Perhaps, you’ll waft me upwards in a swirl
Of colorful scarves, like that girl
In that book whose name I’ll forget
At the moment of my death?”
Death stays silent. We watch cars
Rolling along rush-hour highways,
Implacable and inevitable, metal
Things that carry destruction.
“Will you come and squeeze air
Out of faltering lungs, when my time
Goes down, down, down the hourglass?”
Death stays silent. We watch birds
Settling on trees, the sound
Of stridulating crickets
Settling like a haze over the land.
“Will I fall down, down, down,
For nine days and nine nights?”
Death stays silent.
The moon
Rises slowly, pearlescent,
Beaming, a face, an eye on us.
“Will I go to sleep, dream a dream
Of rowing down a stream,
And never wake up?”
“Will a fever rage through the land
And suck me in its wildfire?
Death stays silent.
I sense a weariness, or perhaps,
A heavy disinclination
To commit to anything.
She will not commit,
Because she does not know.
“Will I fall into a volcano,
Get sucked into the center of the earth?”
“Will I decide to go deep sea diving,
And let a deep, deep trench beckon to me?”
“Will I …”
Death sighs.
I’m too garrulous.
I fall silent. She murmurs.
I turn, look, entranced.
Her eyes like endless night,
Glisten with unknown stars.
I could go now, I think.
Then, I’ll know the ending.
But I know I won’t.
Time trickles through. The ground
Feels closer, gravity reaching up for me.
There is time, still – perhaps?
“I cannot wait. I need to turn
To the last page!” I blurt out.
I need to know the end of the story,
So I can work my way back to the start,
And marvel at the meandering plot-line,
The thickening of character,
The coalescing of theme,
If there be any.
“It’s all about how one gets there!
” I shout.
“I don’t care about message.
I care about method.”
Death smiles into her sleeve,
The air stirs, the trees bend closer,
And a soughing sound moves
Across the moonlit June sky.
_________________________________________________________________________
May 28, 2020 Uncategorized
Covidescence, OR: I’m So Sorry
©May 28th, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
I’m so sorry your:
Mother died
Father died
Aunt died
Uncle died
Sister died
Brother died
Cousin died
Niece died
Nephew died
Grandfather died
Grandmother died
Grandson died
Grand-daughter died
Husband died
Wife died
Lover died
Employee died
Co-worker died
Employer died
Neighbor died
Teacher died
Student died
Friend died.
I’m so sorry their stories
Are all you have left,
And perhaps their smile,
Lingering Cheshire-cat-like
Pulls gently at your own lips,
As you remember.
I’m so sorry that you know
And I know, and we all know,
That they died in vain,
That they could have lived,
That they had miles left to go
Before going ungently into that night
That was not good at all.
I’m so sorry you were left
With words still unsaid,
With apologies still unstated,
With letters still unanswered,
With songs still unsung.
And now, you’re left
With their hospital bills,
And perhaps, a nice note
From a nurse who tended them,
Full of kindness that brims
From eyes behind protective glasses,
And mouths whose kindness
Is shielded by overused masks,
Teeming with unseen danger.
That Aunt who grew up in southern Italy,
Sunny-faced amidst olive groves and cypress,
That Brother who rode his bicycle
Pell-mell through Mumbai’s tightly-woven streets
Zipping in and out of cars, lightning-jagged,
That former Beloved whose gaze held you
Like sunlit pools where you drowned once –
All gone, gone like a mist from a lake
Like a dream dissolving upon waking.
Gone, all gone, like the words of a song
You’ll remember for a long while,
But which will, like songs do,
Fade into memory, while you fret
And pinch yourself to keep
Everything alive in your mind, for else
All will be betrayed, and for what?
I’m so sorry that words
Will never be enough.
I’m so sorry that the rage
And powerlessness burning
Incandescent and lightning-bright
Within you will also die,
Because how can one sustain
Such white-hot anguish?
And cool down we must,
Whether we wish it, or no,
Cool we must, for heat will kill.
Come to this stream, here, under
The spreading oak and willow,
Where shadows dance and light sparkles.
Drink deep, close your eyes, lie down
Here, on this mossy bank, sleep.
Now, awake. A new hour awaits,
And you will struggle on,
For what else can you do?
For, we have unfinished business,
You and I. We haven’t met,
Not yet. There is much to discuss,
Notes to compare, learning to do,
Songs to sing, histories to write,
Equations to solve, bridges to build,
Wrongs to right, rights to fight for.
There is life left to live.
Will you live it with me?
___________________________
May 28, 2020 Uncategorized
When the Master Narrator Speaks
©May 28th, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
(with additions today – January 20th, 2021)
When the Master Narrative speaks
In its loud, important voice,
In the valley where I meet it,
I’ll reply, undaunted, in a soft one,
Make a choice to offer it peace,
Turn every statement,
Every assertion,
Every argument,
Every incorrect version of
Reality cowed and contorted,
Every loud, ignorant ranting
On its head. I will retort, and
Make the Master Narrative recant.
When the Master Narrative shouts,
“Muslim Terrorist!” I’ll reply,
“Oklahoma City Bombing!”
When the narrator says,
“They are lazy, and don’t work!”
I’ll point to migrant workers
Who pick their fruit, mow their lawns,
Clean their offices in the dead of night,
Pick up their trash, and prop up
Their sorry behinds, just to have
A chance at a better life,
A new dawn, someday.
If it sneers, and say in my ear,
“Brown and black people
Are uneducated, lesser than us!”
I will point to Sonia Sanchez,
Jimmy Santiago Baca,
Jericho Brown,
Langston Hughes,
Nikki Giovanni,
James Baldwin,
Toni Morrison,
Ta-Nehisi Coates,
Jhumpa Lahiri,
Arundhati Roy,
W.E.B. Dubois,
And counter, “Ever read a book, turned a page?”
Were you dropped on your head that you
Don’t know where to look, and
Hear the voice of Truth?
Have you learned nothing in youth, nor in age?
When the Master Narrative Preens itself,
Puffs itself up, and declares,
“All y’all should bow to me,
‘Cause I am white, and God
Put me here to rule all of you,”
I will hold the mirror up to it,
Rough and scratched though it might be,
From repeated attempts to shatter it,
But Truth matters, and will not break.
Perhaps, the Master Narrative will see
How pitifully unawake, and small,
How painfully emaciated,
How sadly walled-in
How mentally inebriated,
How morally bankrupt,
How lacking in hope it is.
For I will disrupt its world,
And open the doors to this, the outside.
If it stands mute and says naught,
I’ll simply reach out, as one ought to,
And I’ll say, in gentle tones,
“Would you like to see the other side
Of this valley we’re in, so you’ll
Know we’re not alone?”
I’ll take its hand,
Lead it there, so it can
Stand and stare,
In peace.
Perhaps, it’ll see past its own lies,
See that there’s room in the world
For everyone, that the mountain
Blocks all views.
Perhaps, it’ll release
Its rage, which is sadness
In destructive guise.
Caged all this time, rage will
Flutter, then fly away,
To vanish into air,
And, who knows?
The sky might weep,
Enough to make it
Feel it’s drowned.
If the Master Narrative stands
On that mountain, sees the skies,
And buckles to the ground,
I’ll know it finally sees
That feeling tall can happen
Without the expense of making
Others small.
You just need a good view, and eyes
That can see far to where you glimpse
The steady glow of a new-born star.
_________________________________________
May 27, 2020 Uncategorized
Food
©May 27th, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
Give food, give water.
You do not need to be great
You do not need to be talented,
You do not need God
You do not need learning
You do not need plaudits.
All you need is to be able to feed
And give succor to someone.
And listen as their hunger is appeased.
Listen well.
Can you hear it?
It’s the air whispering thanks
All the atoms of the hungry dead
Whispering a susurrus of thanks.
_________________________________________
May 27, 2020 Uncategorized
Snail-Time
(For George Floyd)
©May 27th, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
I’m almost afraid
To say how very
Sad
Angry
Enraged
Stunned
Heartbroken
Despairing
Hopeless
Grief-stricken
I am,
Because, then,
Someone will come along,
And say,
“Cheer up.”
But how can I (cheer up)
When a man died with a knee to his neck –
A black man
With a knee to his neck,
And a white man
With a heart filled with darkness
Kneed that neck?
How can I cheer up? How can I?
Will there be an end to this?
Can there be an end?
Are we just smiling,
Eating our chips, drinking our lemonade,
Making silly memes, pretending to ourselves
That our little corner of Normal
Is safe?
When faced with the face of rage and despair,
Will we curl up into our little shells,
Pull in our antennae,
And go to sleep,
Hoping the ocean will pull us back into her waves,
And will rock us slowly, back and forth,
Back and forth, as we settle slowly
To the bottom of the ocean floor,
Dissolve into little cells over time,
And start all over again?
Will we have have that chance?
Will George Floyd’s breath
Mingle with ours, as we walk this earth?
Will we hold a miniscule atom
Of him in our lungs,
And will he emerge in song?
Will he emerge in change?
Will he tumble along the deep
And his shell will touch ours
As we tumble along when our time comes?
And will our cells hold all grief,
And refuse to be reborn?
_________________________________________________________
Jan 4, 2020 Uncategorized
Nostra Culpa
©January 4th, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
©January 4th, 2020
By Vijaya Sundaram
Out of the shadows, emerges
Your face, dark and radiant
Full of night, full of light.
You look through the window,
And your heart lurches.
Your face, dark and radiant
Full of night, full of light.
You look through the window,
And your heart lurches.
Now, here, beautiful, calm:
The air full of mist-rain,
And traffic flowing along
The veins of a city, singing
An urban song, leaving trails
Of that which destroys.
The air full of mist-rain,
And traffic flowing along
The veins of a city, singing
An urban song, leaving trails
Of that which destroys.
The dog sleeps, curled on
Freshly made sheets, daughter
Singing softly to herself in her room,
Though the lights are out,
Husband sleeping quietly after
A long day, and trip to his mother,
Who, suffering from dementia,
Dreams of yesterdays, all alone,
In another town, another time.
Freshly made sheets, daughter
Singing softly to herself in her room,
Though the lights are out,
Husband sleeping quietly after
A long day, and trip to his mother,
Who, suffering from dementia,
Dreams of yesterdays, all alone,
In another town, another time.
Elsewhere, burns a fire
Singeing the fur of creatures
Who cry and cry, and flee
With flames dogging them,
And ancient forests exhale
Their last Dream-Time song.
Singeing the fur of creatures
Who cry and cry, and flee
With flames dogging them,
And ancient forests exhale
Their last Dream-Time song.
Elsewhere, a Prime Minister
Flees the mocking and the rage
Of those on whom he’s turned his back.
Elsewhere, people flee homes
Getting sucked into infernos,
Flees the mocking and the rage
Of those on whom he’s turned his back.
Elsewhere, people flee homes
Getting sucked into infernos,
And seek an almost-forgiving ocean.
Elsewhere, a continent is on fire,
The youngest of them all, the first
To die, while the others wait in line,
Birds, animals, fish, plants crisping,
Curling in pain, blackening in death,
While humans face away, stricken.
The youngest of them all, the first
To die, while the others wait in line,
Birds, animals, fish, plants crisping,
Curling in pain, blackening in death,
While humans face away, stricken.
What have we done?
Should we just turn ourselves in?
How? Where? And to whom?
Should we just turn ourselves in?
How? Where? And to whom?
Nostra culpa.
Ignósce nóbis,
Libera nos ab
Igne inférni,
Dona nobis pacem,
Terra Mater.
You say these words, then
Turn your face away
Till the light retreats.
Turn your face away
Till the light retreats.
Pull yourself into the night,
Fall into oblivion.
It is all you can do.
___________________________________________
Fall into oblivion.
It is all you can do.
___________________________________________
Dec 24, 2019 Uncategorized
Remember
©December 24th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
This day – made into realness,
Brought into being by those
Who agree implicitly
And, by thus doing,
Make the world bend
To their dream, their reality –
This day is almost upon us now.
I don’t mind.
I like stories,
And this is a good one.
Remember it when you pass
A man sleeping on the street,
The refugees huddled at the door
That refuses to open,
The children abandoned in festering sores
Of places meant to shelter them from harm.
Remember it when you see
A lost dog, or the animals that are killed
For you to eat, descendants of ones
That stood watch in a story
From so long ago.
Remember the story, and learn
To open wide your doors for those who wait at the gate
Throats athirst, mouths agape, hearts wounded,
As they open wide their arms,
And the stigma of their abandonment
Make your hands, your head, your feet,
Your belly, so full of food,
Hurt.
Remembers this,
Then, remember to love.
—————————————-
Dec 21, 2019 Uncategorized
All Good
©December 20th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Voices ring out like bells, like birdsong, like soap-flakes Coming down from a vaulted ceiling, Warmer than snow, goofier than the elements, Make-believe that delights. And, for a moment, in a crowded hall, All are one, and in oneness, we are released. In exultation, in lifted voices, in lines, With clasped hands, spotlit smiles, we sing, And triumph over the mundane tiredness Sloshing around my ankles Like a tide going out. And as the reverberation fades away, And the people return to themselves, Donning coats and hats, the tide Flows back in in a vaulting wave, And I balance myself, refusing To be upended. Auto-pilot hands on steering wheel, Inconsequential, fun conversation with daughter, Mind on tomorrow's checklist, And a craving for hot, spicy food, These form my going-home mode, As the wave engulfs me. This is good, all good. Home awaits, and I can relax my cheeks Exhausted from smiling on stage, And let gravity take hold, As I untense my muscles, eat some food, Laugh, chat with my family, Feed the dog her favorite snacks, And turn to that most mundane chore: The dishes! The dishes that await me, so tender and true! Here I come, I mutter. Just one more thing, One more task awaits, warm and sudsy, And then, Night will float me away. I have nothing deep here, nothing profound. It's all mundane. All good. _______________________________________________________