Vijaya Sundaram

Poet, Musician, Teacher, and Amateur Visual Artist

We Wave You Away

We Wave You Away
©April 1st, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

Everything waves away
The encroaching end.
Off with you, begone!
Look!  Bright lights and warmth!
You cannot approach.
There is no place here
For the likes of you!

Hearth-fire leaps and twirls,
Dog curled at our feet.
Sonny Rollins blows hard
While Max Roach
Whirls his sticks and skates
Across meters, dancing.
And Tommy Flanagan
Punctuates all with light
Finger-tips, master-ease.

Brown rice, tofu, spinach
Cooked with tomatoes,
Spices, onions, peanuts,
Settles like a sigh of
Pleasure in our bellies.
We sit, and we read
Before the fire.  The dog
Is content, her people
Near her, two-egg omelette
And yogurt for her dinner,
Her drowsing attention
Ready to leap into
Fierce action at a sign.

So, you cannot come here,
You, the inevitable
Face of the end of things.
Do not approach at all.
Take a break, leave us be,
Leave the world for now.
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NaPoWriMo 2017

Mellow Fruitfulness*: Fall is Here, and I Am Glad

So, after a long, long spell of dryness and crackling heat and dust, we’ve had a spell of three rainy days.

And it’s darker and darker earlier and earlier outside.

Usually, I have ambivalent feelings about autumn because of that, but I love that frisson in the air when it’s colder, and the leaves get golden and red (as they’re starting to do, finally).

This fall, I’m thinking of planting ginger and curry leaves indoors, in our downstairs bathtub-converted-into-a-grow-space-with-grow-lights-and-planting-containers.  I hasten to assure you that I didn’t convert the bathtub into a grow-space, lest you gasp at my imagined multitude of skills — it was my husband, the amazing handyman at home, who did that.  And outside, in our various beds in the front yard, I plan to plant the following fall crops:

  • Beets
  • Garlic
  • Turnips
  • Radishes
  • Carrots
  • Spinach
  • Lettuce
  • Kale
  • Mustard greens
  • Swiss chard
  • Cabbage

We’ve grown so much this summer already — heaps and heaps of tomatoes (which are still growing, but not as lushly as half a month ago), heaps and heaps of green beans (and those are still growing), broccoli, cabbage, some not-as-prolific green peppers and eggplants, and lots of green and chillies!  We do not really want to spend grocery money on store-bought veggies, which cost more for less.  We like our food fresh from the vine or bush or plant.  It tastes like one’s own heaven on earth.  Our front yard, and garage-top container vegetable garden (also created by my beloved) is tight in terms of space, and our home is on a small, small plot of land in an semi-urban setting, but this garden does its job with pride and purpose.

I also want to plant bulbs before October goes — daffodil and tulip, crocuses, iris, narcissus.  This weather is helpful.  I neglected the fall flower-planting aspect of the garden for the past few years, and when spring came, our garden looked sad, with a few straggly tulips and daffodils here and there.  The summer was much better, and things looked prettier.  Vegetables always do well, but flowers?  They require a lot of care and thought, and I hadn’t had the time for that.  Now, I shall.

Fall is here, and it’s filled with hope: I shall plant, and I shall sing, I shall write, play music, and cook delicious food, and I shall learn to bake nice things for my family.

I thank the forces in this universe that aligned just right to make this time of freedom open its doors for me.  From having lived long enough and seen some poverty and sadness, I know that things can change rapidly, that times can be replaced with bad in the blink of an eye, and one cannot rest too easy on one’s happiness, and yet … I am happy.  If things go bad, I will remember the good times, and when things are good, I’ll focus on keeping them so, and sharing them.

Thanks for reading!
~Dreamer of Dreams

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One of my favorite poems of all time by John Keats:

Francis T. Palgrave, ed. (1824–1897). The Golden Treasury.  1875.
J. Keats
CCLV. Ode to Autumn
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,          5
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;   10
For Summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;   15
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;   20
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day   25
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;   30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Snowed in. Contented

What I wrote yesterday:

Snowed In.  Contented

By Vijaya Sundaram

The wind howls down the street, blowing drifts of snow back on the steps, no doubt, and the dog barks in response. She suspects the wind as being an entity that’s up to no good. She’s a mysterious dog, and has deep thoughts of her own, none of which she’ll share with us, although her almond eyes gaze unwinkingly at me when I stare into them. Then, she looks away, somewhat embarrassed at such intimacy, no doubt. Her love, however, is absolute.
My daughter is making a “family tree” of various important cats in the Warriors series. She is into family trees, it appears. I love what it implies about her need to know the history of things, and also her need to create sequences. She’s always been a list-maker, and a lover of lists since she was very little.
The smell of Biryani masala wafts up the stairs – rice and mixed veggies and tofu are on the stove.
I love my husband.
He’s lovely.

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Dog-Joy (Or: Completion)

Dog-Joy (Or: Completion)

©April 15th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

 

I find I take delight

In my dog’s proud walk,

As she picks up a stick

And claims it in the

Name of Holly.

 

Utterly undone, I kneel,

As she twists her whole

Frame in wordless ecstasy

When she sees me —

This smiling curve of dog

And joyful tail,

And gentle teeth

That grab my hand

And nip and hold it in love

Beyond reckoning.

 

I am complete.

 

Who greets me like this?

(Oh, I know I am loved,

But like this? This pretzel-

Shaped frenzy of joy,

This luminous, numinous

Delight in my being?

Oh, I know I don’t deserve it,

But who cares?!)

 

And when she lies near me,

A love unlike no other,

Her soft, puppy fur

On my feet, warming them,

A wild presence at the

Boundaries of my own,

I find my brain

Dissolves in a mist

Of dog-thought.

 

I think:

Why dream?

Why do anything?

It doesn’t matter,

Not now.

 

Oh, I know I’ll arise

And go about my duties

And do stuff, but

I don’t really care

For any of it.

 

I have this dog,

This now-sleeping

Weight of dog

At my feet.

 

I am complete.

 

No, there is no despair here,

Just utter, total quiet

A settling, as it were,

Of soul and self:

A house settling deeper

Into earth.

 

I am complete

With her on my feet.

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Listening

Listening

©April 15, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

After you’ve stood

And listened to silence,

Words seem like leaves

Eddies of leaves

Whirling in a flurry of wind

In an empty field.

 

And yet, it’s nice to stand

To watch and listen

To stand in quietude

In solitude, checking

The wind, sniffing the air,

Looking for signs

Of life in an attitude

Of quiet reverence.

 

I had thoughts once,

And dreams, and songs

And stories.

I had visions of the future

Of people and things

I wanted to meet, and do.

I had melodies flowing

Clear and bright through

Dark woods of uncleared

Thoughts, once, not long ago.

 

Yet, today, I am spent

Not sad, almost content

Dreaming dim dreams,

Hearing muffled songs,

Stopping any visions

Of what the future

Could hold.

 

It’s dangerous to dream.

Needs energy, nu?

Needs courage.

Needs strength

And endurance.

 

Today, I don’t have that.

Today, I just sit

And listen.

To listen is to pray,

To listen is to look deep

And give the gift of self.

To listen is to surrender,

To disarm oneself.

And so, I listen.

 

It’s the least I can do.

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