Jul 8, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Sunny Day Gloom-Time with Slight Hamletine Overtones
©July 8th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Mostly, I think I’m immortal.
Sometimes, I’m reminded I’m not.
That skull under the flesh and skin, for example.
A reminder of shared human-ness with all the other skulls on the planet …
That spine that is slowly rebelling, but which bends to my will
As I seek to heal with help.
The hair that’s constantly changing its mind:
Whether to be one thing or another.
The feet which feel the earth revolving slowly around the sun …
The hands that get more veined each year,
Green-blue rivers and tributaries, still dutiful.
The sense that Time passes, everything changes,
And still remains the same.
I take action, yes, and am decisive, yes.
And it matters, and does not matter.
Inaction seems a holy grail:
A stone sitting still, dreaming, covered in moss,
Sanctified by time, ignored by history,
Watching centuries turn over,
As it erodes to dust.
In a few decades, I’ll be gone.
History began, and will end with me,
And it began before me, and will end after me.
I’m glad my time will come,
And I mourn it.
I’ve always liked to see what happens
When a story reaches its end.
My atoms will be witness.
And the I that was will be We
With the End of Time.
I wish I could be both I,
And You, and We.
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Jun 27, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Fever-Dreamer
©June 26th 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Moving shadows behind a screen
Passing through the fever
In the brain of a dreamer
In the throes of delirium.
She says to herself:
This fever will pass.
So too will these visions.
So too will I, the dreamer.
But the fever is real,
And the shadows, too.
The dreamer suffers,
Tosses and turns
In febrile sleep.
The shadows emerge,
Surrounding her, undulating,
Mouths open in silent cry.
There’s that about them
That makes her heart bulge.
They are more real than she.
Their suffering snaps at her skin
Like a rubber-band held by a sadist.
Hurting more with each snap.
She says to herself, again:
This fever will pass.
So too will I, the dreamer.
But the visions remain, mouths agape.
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Jun 26, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
The Story of a Drowned Man and his Child
©June 25th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Land, dry as a bone.
Food, like a fading photo,
Vanishes, all gone.
Leaves in rushing wind:
People abandon their homes
Following a hope.
Death stands at borders,
Blond and tall, and forbidding
Hooded and unseen.
Voices clamor loud:
“Make Us Great Again.”
Shatter a pale sky.
Faces in water
River banks so near so far
Humanity drowns.
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Jun 26, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Ferns and Birds, Present Tense
©June 26th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Inexpressibly tender,
Ferns in the back yard fan out
A forest of mushrooms springs up
Beneath, grateful for the shade.
After rain, the soil breathes gratitude,
And birds, less frantic now,
Sing of this and that, not food and water,
All urgency gone, just a song of thanks.
Deep red and clustered closely together,
The Japanese maple’s leaves
Capture sunlight, and let it slip
Through, like children at a beach
Let slip sand and water through
Wet hands, while laughter splashes the air.
For now, the present
Is a gift, eternal.
Thoughts are a distraction,
And the mind is a Doom-Monkey
Chattering away in future tense.
I sweep away thoughts of dissolution.
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Jun 25, 2019 Uncategorized
Kalki Avatar
©June 25th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Child on a lotus
Races in the wind
Races on hefty waves
Towards us.
Lost child bearing a gift
Of loss, bearing the
Weight of the world
The end of the world
On her shoulders.
The flood is upon us.
We are lost,
Grasping at lotus leaves
Even as we go under.
Where is Kalki?
Where is the Last Vishnu Avatar
Who, riding his white horse,
Bearing his brilliant sword
Will restore goodness
And restore the world
To its original state?
No, Kalki will not be a man.
Kalki will be a child,
And she will ride a lotus
And gather all the lost children
Onto it, even as we
Go under, down, down, down.
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Jun 24, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
A Dream of Forgetting
©June 24th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Somewhere, trees stand tall
Like my Papa, who stands
Both legs apart, arms akimbo,
Staring into the distance,
Hearing the sound of hogs
Before the peace of the afternoon
Shatters into a thousand
Shards, and slices into our family.
Somewhere, water flows like
My Mama’s hair rippling in the breeze,
After she’s washed it,
And she’s hanging up a few clothes
To dry in burning sun,
But water is scarce, and
We are scared, and we turn
To face a land that has
Plenty, so much more
Than we can dream of.
We are here, now, in this land
Of plenty, but there’s none for me.
I dream and dream, to forget
The hunger in my belly,
The smell of unwashed bodies,
And the pain slicing me
Like a rough-edged knife
When I think of both my parents,
Gone, like the memory
Of a photograph in a dream.
I sit on a concrete floor,
With little ones, hollow-eyed,
Hollow-cheeked, hollow-bellied,
With no sound coming from
Open mouths, eyes dry,
All tears gone.
Somewhere, there are flowers
Pink and blue and purple,
Scenting the air, gladdening
Bees and tempting butterflies
Which dance in the air,
Lust-crazed and dizzy above them.
Somewhere, water flows like freedom,
And I dance barefoot on grass,
Full of sweetness and the
Soft murmurings of gentle insects
So full of life and quiet rhythms.
I dream.
Somewhere, my father still stands
Tall as the trees, unbending,
On another land that is green,
He whistles, and the hogs
And goats around him lie content.
Somewhere, my mother hangs up
Clothes to dry, her hair rippling
Like waves. I eat rich, soft
Tortillas, and drink cool water,
My belly full of gratitude.
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Jun 14, 2019 Haiku, Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Stop Time – A Portrait In Five Haiku
©June 14th 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Russet leaves shift air
Moon sailing behind dark trees
Alone, she wanders.
Time gallops above.
Bright star-scalloped sky leans down.
Eyes hollow, she stops.
Time is a rider
Kicking up the dust of stars.
She closes her eyes.
If something exists
And you close your eyes to it
Does it fade away?
The rider rides on
But she steps into the dark,
Blindfolded, erased.
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Jun 13, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Suspension
©June 13th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
A softball suspended from a rope,
Awaits a whack from a bat.
Right now, it is still, while the tree above
Sways imperceptibly.
Rain, landing like a butterfly, makes
Flowers smile, dewy and pink and purple.
Atavistic and graceful, the backyard ferns
Drink deeply of the moisture,
And dream of dinosaurs.
I slide into the easy green of summer,
Suspended, waiting.
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Jun 12, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
A Simple Love Poem For My Standard Poodle After Her Long Sojourn at the Dog Salon
©June 11th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Your eyes meet mine,
Dark and round, full of surmise.
Muscles around eyes contract,
Or expand, and eyebrows raise
Or move this way and that.
I look into yours, and try so hard,
So hard, to know what you think.
Is there reproach, or worry
Or fear or relief, or sadness?
Mostly relief and a little squeaky grief
At having been away from me for so long,
Even as I, desperately driving through
Slow-witted, rush-hour traffic for an hour,
Sent you thought-waves across
Shimmering tarmac heat.
My sweet girl, my loyal friend,
Coiffed and shampooed, shorn and fluffy,
Clean-smelling, but organically so,
Tail feathery, and snout neat,
Back home where you belong
After a hard day of beautification.
After a two-egg omlette, and yogurt
And banana, and cheese on your regular food,
And a barking stint in the backyard,
You are sated, at peace, as you
Settle down on clean sheets,
And familiar music wafts over your
Sleeping form, like rough silk
Draped on smooth-ruffled velvet.
I think we read each other.
I wish I could know for sure,
But this I do know:
I will come for you always,
And will comfort you, always,
And will love you, forever.
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May 26, 2019 Original Poetry, Uncategorized
Hamletine Musings
©May 26th, 2019
By Vijaya Sundaram
Shall I, or shall I not?
Should I, or should I not?
Will I, or won’t I?
Would I, or would I not?
Can I, or can I not?
Could I, or could I not?
May I, or may I not?
Might I, or might I not?
To be, or not to be
Isn’t even the question, just
Mere rhetoric to indulge a fatal
And fatalistic indecision. True,
Language eases some strain,
And to weave a web of words
Lets you play at being real
While spinning stories
In which, you the spider
And you, the fly are the same,
Caught in an eternal dance
Of self-revision.
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