Jun 5, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Marble and Sand
©June 5th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

You hold your future lightly,
A glowing marble in the sun,
And watch it glitter.

And you twirl it about
Peering at it, curious,
Eager to get on with things.

Then, tossing it lightly aside,
You skip away, light-hearted –
A whole Now awaits you.

So much to do, so much to taste:
Read and sing, and laugh
And draw, and learn, and oh!
Such mindless joy, such joyful mind!
Rope-skip, hop-scotch, climbing trees,
Rowing imaginary boats with a best friend,
Becoming a merman (or mermaid),
Swimming to an islands, avoiding the Beast,
Your vast school playground an entire
Ocean to swim in.

Occasionally, you hold
That marble and gaze,
As at a crystal ball,
Mesmerized by what you see.
Do you see me in there –
Older, wiser (maybe), tired
Not jaded (well, sometimes),
Dreaming, always dreaming?

Or, do you shrug lightly,
As time turns to eat its tail?
Do you play endlessly, all chaos
And movement, shouts and
Ringing laughter – pure energy
On the receding shores
Of the shifting sands of your
Eternal, illuminated, sunlit,
Magical, singing childhood?

And all the while, a glinting marble
Lies buried in the sand, quiescent,
Patient, ready to be picked up later,
Because the Future can wait.

______________________________________________________

 

Childhood

Tags: #Childhood, #DailyPrompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost

Apr 18, 2016 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry, Ramblings and Musings

The Sounds and Words of Home
©April 18th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Shuklam Bharataram Vishnum
Shashi Varnam Chaturbhujam
Prasanna Vadanam Dhyayet
Sarva Vighna Upashaanthaye

The words and the voice pull aside
Heavy curtains of sleep
And I stir to the warmth
Of M.S.’s voice
On a Sunday morning.

Clatter of stainless steel
Pathirams in kitchen-time; the
Bright glow of my mother’s
Pure voice singing along with
The ancient vedic chanting of the
One Thousand Names of Vishnu;
The sounds of filter coffee
And dosai being made
Plop, hiss, crackle, slap, turn
Sizzle of oil, or ghee.

Seated before the gods,
My father prays, bare-armed,
Clad in a white veshti, with
Sacred thread across one shoulder.
Sandalwood pasted daubed on
Upper arms and forehead, he
Chants mysterious prayers
(I never ask what they are).
Incense and camphor twine
Lovingly aroumnd the sudden
Cling-ting-gling-gling of a
Brass, hand-held bell,
Whose tongue is loud
And punctures the morning air.

Out, beyond the compound wall around
Our house, the low, grumbling moos
Of cows and buffalo in the sheds
Run by displaced milkmen
Plumb-spang in the midst of city-bustle
Make a droning background
For a new day in Tamil country.

And traffic stirs sluggishly awake,
Buses and cars and bullock-carts
And rickshaws, and the ding-ding of
Bicycle bells, as they plough and plunge
Through a chaotic morning.
Sunday it might be, but the city
Never stops, the work grinds on.

Edho madhiri aiduthu
(It’s become like … something!)
My mother would say
Sorrowing over some dish that
Came out not to her satisfaction.

Oru chottu uppu venum
(Needs just a jot of salt)
My grandfather would say, and
She’d agree, ever the
Connoisseurs, the artists
Of food in all its forms.

Kacha-muchanu vekka kudadu
(Don’t put it higgledy-piggledy!)
She’d admonish someone
If a straightening-up wasn’t straight  –
She’d do it herself,
Ever the perfectionist.

Surusuruppaga valaiya va!
She’d say, exasperated,
When we lounged around,
In teenage sluggitude.
Be brisk, be surusuruppu!

Porum-porumna aidithu!
She’d sigh, when the work
Got out of hand, when her patience waned:
Things have become enough-enough for me,
And we chuckled, heartlessly.
(Sympathy came much later!)

Konam-Manama irruku
She’d observe about the
Parting I’d make in my hair,
Or about the lines around
Her mouth and chin, later.
It’s all crooked-wook-ed.

Meanwhile, my father, irrepressible
And irresponsible, punned happily
In three languages to our delight.
And all of us, helpless with laughter,
Forgave him his lapses.

Alas! I wish I could remember
What he said, how he said it.
I remember his voice, his smile,
His Jovian presence, his courage
In the face of pain.
And I cannot remember his words.

Ottha kal-la nikhadengo,
My mother would say
To my stubborn father,
Or to her stubborn children:
Don’t stand on one leg!
( When he lost his left leg
Years later, she wept, when
He joked about his leg:
Paaru!  Ottha kal-la nikkeren!
Look!  Now, I can stand on one leg!)

He laughed and almost-cried
And we cried and laughed,
And I wish, I wish, he’d heeded
Her words to us us:

Medhuva, nidanama pannu,
Pada-padaanu pannadhe.
Molla nada, molla nada.

Do it slowly, do it calmly.
Do not hustle-bustle.
Walk slowly, walk slowly.

_____________________________________________________________

The NaPoWriMo prompt for Day eighteen:
(This was VERY hard for me!)

 

 

 

Tags: #Childhood, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram

Apr 3, 2013 Original Poetry, Parenting/ Home-schooling / Family Music and other Notes

Catapult – A Poem

©By Vijaya Sundaram

I watch the sun’s beckoning fingers

Inviting my daughter and me to go out

And play.  The lure is undeniable.

I resist, resolutely.  I shall not go out.

No, I shall not.  I want to be lumpen.

My plea?  Too tired.  Too worn out.

Not for me the beautiful sun

Nor for me the brisk air 

Of near-Spring, teetering

At the edge of winter,

Still tilted in Winter’s wake.

I insist on staying indoors, always

The rebel against that which is good for me.

I used to be good, you know.

I was good.  I looked good.

I was young and aware of it. 

So, I carefully did these:

Walk, eat right, count my calories,

Be healthy, do lunges and stretches.

Now, un-Cinderella-like, with the years

Flown by, I find that I’ve turned

Into a pumpkin, and do not mind.

My daughter doesn’t mind that we are home.

She’s had her sun-stint earlier today,

With loving and dutiful Dad.

She played with Bella, a beautiful dog

She romped about

On  wood-chips and grass,

Happy to be almost at Spring’s door.

I wasn’t there.  I was told the bare

Details: Playground, dog, Bella, romping.

But I might have been there.

I saw them all, clearly.

For I hallucinate scenes

Clear as day, scenes which move

Like movies of yore, slow long

Camera angles and panning.

I see everything:  My child,

Bella the dog, her fond owner,

My fond husband watching our daughter

Adore the dog, and the blue, blue sky above.

I hallucinate most things (but I know

It’s in my mind), because the stories

Always unfold thus, and all the colors are

Extra-saturated and brighter than real.

Now, as I watch, bemused, nonplussed,

My daughter prances about the house

Cat-faced, with a mask she made herself.

Cow-like, she moos, then cat-like, she slinks

Towards me, catapulting into my arms.

Stunned, I allow myself

To be borne away on the wave of her

Eight-year old magic.

Once, she asked me:

Would you love me if I were a boy?

I shall always love you.

Would you love me less if I were a teenager?

I shall always love you.

Can I stay with you and Dad forever?

I shall always love you.

I love you, Mom!

I shall always love you.

 

“I don’t want to grow up,” she states

Seriously, full of purpose and intent.

“I won’t!  I want to stay a kid

Forever, and be free.”

Part of me agrees.

Another part says,

What of the you who’s waiting to be?

But for now, we stay far from the catapult

Which flings us into the distant future.

Time enough for growing up.

For right now, a child of eight

Claims my entire attention

And dances in the spotlight

Of my love for her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: #Childhood, #Daughter, #Life, #Love, #Mask, #Mother and Daughter, #NaPoWriMo, catapult, dog interactions, future, Growing up, innocence, Play, Playground

Mar 20, 2013 Parenting/ Home-schooling / Family Music and other Notes

Playground Hour — A Poem

©By Vijaya Sundaram

March 20th, 2013

We were godlings for an hour.

 

Cold, cold air snapping at our ankles,

Obliging crunch of snow underfoot,

Nose smarting with arctic anticipation,

Ears aflame, feet double-socked, snow-boot shod,

Frame encased in layer upon layer

(A true New Englander now, twenty-four years gone),

I walked mitten-in-mitten with my girl

To the playground.

 

A pretty spaniel along the way,

Raced up and down her fence, ready to play,

A shy, timorous dog a little further on

Trembled and shook at our approach,

But suffered our soothing caresses,

Terrified of who-knew-what.

While his body was cradled by loving mistress

(“He’s always scared, we don’t know why,”

She explained, reassuringly.)

Perhaps, he sensed we were godlings.

 

On we went, my daughter and I

To the playground, where she and I

Were the sole owners of a blue-white space,

And the sun struggled in vain to light a void

At once dark-gray and summer blue,

A study in battling contradiction, with

Moon scudding past clouds on the left,

Sun sinking grandly on our right;

A sky-statement that promised warmth

But delivered empty light.

We godlings don’t mind.

 

We raced up and down the snow-crushed slides,

Fell backwards on crystallized snow,

Gazed up at the ringing sky,

Heard the heartbeat of the earth

For a few, still, silent moments

While six p.m. traffic, frantic and home-fixated,

Ebbed and flowed on a distant shore.

The earth hummed into our spines,

As the sky flowed away from our arms

Outstretched on the snow.

We were truly godlings, light-haloed.

 

Then, with sudden uprush of glee, we arose,

Startled the still air with our cries

And our crashing feet.  Elemental,

We threw snowballs at each other.

Shrieks of joy from child,

Muttered imprecations from mother,

Fun on a swing, meeting the skies,

We played, snow-muted.

Then, alas!  It was time to leave.

Our magic hour was up.

Time to resume human form.

Godlings have to deal with time, too.

 

“No! Let’s stay!  Can’t we?” she said,

Sparking rebellious, but subsiding.

“I wish we lived here,” she sighed.

But, she came, obediently, hand in mine.

She knew we would play there again,

Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps all the days

Flowing through her childhood.

For she truly came from the Gods.

And I watch her grow, enchanted.

 

And so, homeward-bound, we tromped,

Watching the sky unfold

Into deepening layers of color.

And the distant Tower swam into view,

As we sloped, tilting earthward,

Down, down, down to where we lived,

Home, for dinner.  How human!

But we were godlings for that hour.

And we shall be so, again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags: #Childhood, #Mother and Daughter, #Original Poetry, Fun, Godlings, Play, Playground, Snow-games

Mar 1, 2013 Teaching and Learning

I wrote this poem in December, immediately following the Sandy Hook tragedy.  It completely took me apart.  I took refuge in writing a poem, because that’s all I could do, after those dreadful hours of grieving, to deal with the unthinkable.  Please do read and let me know what you think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Memoriam – Sandy Hook

©By Vijaya Sundaram

Written on December 16th, 2012

 

O hold on to your rainbows bright,

O Children of the shadowed Dream.

O hold on to your unicorns, for

Things are not quite what they seem.

 

On the edges lurks the dark

Wedged behind those pretty parks

Run, my child, before it leaps

That monster from the scary deeps.

 

Hold your breath and lift your wings

Catch the breeze under your swing

Jump up high into the air

Live your life, don’t turn a hair.

______________________________

Refrain:

Monsters come and monsters go,

It’s you for whom our sorrow flows.

But we’ll go strong into the night

And whisper hope to make things bright.

______________________________

This world is not for hate and hurt

This world is not for grief and rage

You should be playing in the dirt,

And love your happy, youthful stage.

 

We’ll whisper deep into the morn

We’ll sing a song of love for you

We’ll work for all who have been born

We’ll bring the dawn above to you.

 

Forgive us for the world we’ve made

Forgive us for the sins of trade

Forgive this hateful history

And show us love’s deep mystery.

___________________________

Refrain:

Monsters come and monsters go,

It’s you for whom our sorrow flows.

But we’ll go strong into the night

And whisper hope to make things bright.

_____________________________

 

 

Tags: #Childhood, #Original Poetry, grief, parenting, sandy hook, teachers