Vijaya Sundaram

Poet, Musician, Teacher, and Amateur Visual Artist

Music in the Present Tense

Music in the Present Tense

©May 9th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

 

The insistent beep of a device somewhere

The punctuations of birdsong

The clack-clack of high heels tripping down the hallways

The voices raised in ritual greeting

The hum of a computer awakening

The whir of an unidentifiable machine

The question from a student

Poking a head in at my door:

Is Poetry Club cancelled for today?

And my strangled “Yes,”

Accompanying a nod,

The high hum of electricity

The shimmer-buzz of fluorescent tubes,

The shuffle of janitorial feet

Jingling keys and all,

The clicking of my fingers on these keys

And the tap-tap of my restless ankle-boots –

 

All these lead me to this question:

And for what purpose

Is all this work, this tension?

Where’s the music?

 

The piano at the far end stands

Silent, withdrawn, reserved.

The guitar teeters madly

On the counter where a student

(Or perhaps I) put it,

The hanging-plants overhead grow silently,

Breathing in my carbon-breath,

While I drink in their lovely

Oxygen-rich green exhalation,

So symbiotically symbolic!

The rhythm of inhale-exhale

The music of plant and mammal

In a room full of made things,

The give-and-take of the natural

And unnatural, mediated by

Human intention and action.

 

I listen intently, and think:

And what’s the purpose?

And, Where’s the music?

I wonder again.

 

And the music blossoms,

Rose-like and silken

Spiky and molten

Opaquely clear

Before my eyes, my ears,

My breath, my skin.

Right here, amidst all these

Things, these thieves of Time and attention,

These sheaves of paper

And cluster of pens.

Amidst all these four-legged

Quietly triumphant things

On which we sit, and at which

We labor mightily.

 

But I don’t hear it. I wonder:

Where’s the music? Shall I play some?

And then, I find it, right here, see?

Tight, at my feet, hands, skin, ears.

 

Still, I’ll play the guitar,

I think, and stop

This, this thing I’m doing.

And I do.

______________________________________________________________________

 

Daily-ness and Disaster

Daily-ness and Disaster
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 22nd, 2013

How banal, how mundane
How silly, how pointless
Our lives seem!

Sitting in class, pencils in hand
Trying to be good, while
The teacher gazes on.

Stern she looks, and somber
Trying to be vigilant
Wasting time on gum-chewers
And time-wasters.

When elsewhere, lives end
Abruptly, pointlessly.
Grief and loss bloom
Like a mushroom cloud

Over a teeming populace
Wiped out by violence,
Riven by famine and flood.

And children torn from the arms of love,
Watch as parents are afloat on a sea
Of uncertainty.

Where food comes from
Hardly matters, when
They worry about whether
It comes, at all.

Whether school is up and running
Seems to matter so little, and yet
Someone is shot at brutally,
Risking her all, to reach school.

Elsewhere, in the city, last week
A child of eight died, in mid-cheer
Abruptly, pointlessly, painfully.
A shining being, ready for greatness.

And here, in the humming peace
The strumming quiet
The numbing apathy of daily life
We sit, pretending what we do matters.

It may all seem pointless now,
In the aftermath of recent tragedy.
And I might be right.

But I’d like to be hopeful
I’d like to say it matters
I’d like to say, “Everything,
But everything matters.”

Writing matters, reading matters,
Being hopeful matters, being good
Matters a whole lot.

And I would be right.

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