Mar 14, 2016 Uncategorized
Painting: Amore e Psiche (1707–09) by Giuseppe Crespi
Love and Soul, Soul and Death
©March 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Don’t look at me, he said to her.
And trust in me, he said.
Don’t seek to see my face, he said
And so she was content.
And unseen spirits came to her
And brought her food and drink
They fanned sweet breezes, spoke to her
While she awaited Love.
But jealousy can rear its head;
And always makes a strike
Where there is but the slightest doubt.
Her sisters sowed these seeds:
Perhaps he is a monster fierce
Perhaps, he’ll kill you soon!
So you must strike the blow quite quick,
Or he will get there first.
Her knife and lamp in hand, she gazed
Struck mute at his splendour.
Her heart and hand a-tremble,
She dropped some oil on him.
And he, awakening to Soul
In all her trembling fear
Spoke bitter words that fell like blows
For fly away he must.
She sought him love-struck day and night
And wept for what she’d lost
And Love had fled, for she had tried
Unveiling Mystery.
And painful were her trials dread,
She wandered long and far
And, serving Aphrodite,
At last she came to Death
For Psyche always comes to Death
With two coins in her mouth
And come back safely to her Love
Awaiting at the end.
And Love and Soul can always be
Together, but unseen
And if you do read Love’s true face,
Prepare to cross Death’s door.
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Tags: #Death, #Eros and Psyche, #Giuseppe Crespi painting, #Love, #Original Poetry, #Soul
Mar 10, 2016 Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer
Photo prompt provided by Louise Bunting at The Storyteller’s Abode.
Word Count: 175 words of text, exactly (next time, I’ll go for 150 words!)
Genre: Realistic Fiction
Plummet
©March 10th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Rajashekhar had died six months ago. At least, they’d been childless. Both his and her parents were long-dead. She had no siblings. All very neat, she thought.
Nothing bound Lakshmi to the world.
Alone, she climbed the stairs of the ruined castle she was visiting. The wind howled through its stony crevices. The sky bled gold through the gray of grief.
She was tired of the earth. Too much gravity. She wanted to be air, wind, light. She wanted to be Soul without Body.
Humming abstractedly, she reached the top, and prepared herself, with the slightest plummeting of stomach, to do the deed. Somewhere within, she still wept, her grief an open wound.
Reaching the top, and taking a deep breath, she stepped to the edge, where a sign warned visitors to stay away.
“Um … could you help me?” said a polite English voice. She turned. It belonged to a man, with beautiful, gray eyes. “I’ve lost my glasses, and cannot read this brochure.”
She stepped back.
He smiled, and she found herself in free-fall.
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Thanks to Priceless Joy who hosts Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers!
Thanks to Louise Bunting for the evocative photo-prompt!
This is my first story here.
Tags: #Death, #FFfAW, #Life, #Love, #Original Flash Fiction, New Beginnings
Dec 23, 2015 Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT – © Scott L. Vannatter
Word Count: 100 words of text, exactly
Genre: Death-myth fiction
The Mower
©December 23rd, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The farm-cat knew it. Both dogs knew it. Even the little mice scurrying behind the walls knew it. The sheep in their pens knew it, and baa-aa-ed nervously. The cow and her calf in the shed moo-ed forlornly.
Only Simon sleeping in his little farmhouse bedroom didn’t know it.
Suddenly, he awoke. A Form had glided into his room, carrying a scythe.
“It’s time, human,” said a voice, dry as deserts.
Simon protested. “I haven’t mowed the fields. I’m NOT ready. Go! Return at season’s end.”
Simon’s cat stared. Hesitating, then nodding, the Form faded.
Simon lived till season’s end.
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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for being our gracious host at Friday Fictioneers, and to Scott Vannatter for the photograph-prompt!
Tags: #Death, Cat, Farmer, Mowing fields, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, Scythe, Season's end
Dec 18, 2015 Original Poetry
Fare for the Ferry
(Prompt: Farewell; Poetry, Day 10)©December 18th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Goodbye, I said to the clock in the room
Goodbye, it whispered back to me.
Farewell, I said to the shadowy gloom,
Which said, “Oh, please come back to me.”
Goodbye, I said to the leaning tree
Goodbye, it whispered back to me.
Farewell, I said to the vanishing sea
It said, “Oh, you’ll come home to me.”
Goodbye, I said to my much-loved books
Goodbye, they whispered back to me.
Farewell, I said to the Time I took
The clock just smiled and ticked at me
Goodbye, I said to promises made
Goodbye, they whispered back to me.
Farewell, I said to the roles I played
But they dissolved in mystery
Goodbye, I said to the fish and the birds
Goodbye, they whispered back to me.
Farewell, I said, but nobody heard.
So, I cut the threads, and rose up, free.
And when I arose, and was borne aloft
I floated till the air grew soft,
Till it bloomed into streams and carried me
Where a boatman stood to ferry me.
But I had no coin, and I had no fare
I had to return, and descend the stairs
But I tripped and fell down athwart the skies
And now, I’m a dream behind your eyes.
And, now I sing, Farewell to all
The night is good, it hears my call.
Farewell, I sing, and go to sleep,
And I will weave you dreams to keep.
Just carve me a coin cut from the moon
I’ll give it to my boatman soon.
For I am weary and need my rest
I’ve loved this life, now comes the test.
No, do not weep, and do not moan
No, do not wail and do not groan.
It’s sleepy-time now for my soul
And time for me to be made whole.
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Tags: #Death, #Freedom, #Life, #Writing 101, Poetry, Boatman, Charon, Coin for the boatman, Day 10, Dreams, Farewell, goodbye, My 2nd Poem for Day 10, Rest
Nov 15, 2015 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
PHOTO PROMPT – © J Hardy Carroll
Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
© November 15th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Genre: Realistic Fantasy Death-Fiction
Word Count: 100 words of text exactly
So much sorrow in the world, so much war, so many dead! All that waste, all those fathers gone, those flowers with their heads in the dust make me thirst for life.
I sit day after day in this cemetery, not because I love death, but because I mourn life. I tend to the graves of those whose families have forgotten them. That woman and her child over there come every day. They are beautiful, enshrouded in mystery.
The woman looks up, sees me, pales.
I try to send reassurance her way. My scythe gleams.
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With thanks, as always, to our Fairy Blog-Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for being a lovely host to all of us who write as Friday Fictioneers, and to J. Hardy Carroll for that touching photograph.
I type this at my brother’s home in New Delhi, India. I’ll be leaving to go back to Pune, India, where my mother lives, to spend the rest of the following week there. Back in the US on the 23rd. Missing you all. Sorry about not being able to comment much — Internet connectivity is an issue.
Tags: #Death, #Life, #Peace, 100-word original short story based on a photo prompt, War, Where have all the flowers gone?
Nov 5, 2015 Friday Fictioneers, Original Flash Fiction
Wife-Earth-Mother
©November 5th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
I walked in her footsteps.
Grace had tended our arid acre of land, pouring her spirit into it. That which was infertile, she’d made fertile, and that which had died, she’d made live. For twenty years she grew corn, beans, squash, tomatoes, pumpkins, peppers – enough for our family of three. Her love fed and nourished us.
I had gone to work in the coal fields, and my lungs rattled and hissed.
My son had died in a war begun by evil politicians. Then, Grace died, heartbroken. With her gone, the land died. I was alone.
I picked up a shovel.
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(P.S. Thanks to Rochelle, our beloved Fairy Blog-Mother as I dubbed her, for hosting Friday Fictioneers each week. Thanks, also, to Connie Gayer …(Mrs. Russell) for her evocative and sombre photograph.)
(P.P.S I’m heading off to India tomorrow morning via Emirates, so I may not be able to read people’s posts today, unless I can find a few minutes (haven’t packed yet!). Please know that I will check out your stories, and respond to anyone who makes a comment at some point before next Wednesday!
Love to all, Vijaya)
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Tags: #Death, #Dirty Energy, #Life, #Loss, #Love, Climate Change, Original short story based on photo-prompt, Politics, War
Oct 29, 2015 Daily Life, Ramblings and Musings
Today, Washed Clean
©October 29th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The backyard patio is swept clean of leaves, the steep flight of front stairs leading up to the house are swept, the bulbs are in (maybe I’ll plant more today, since I have more — I’m turning into a bulb-freak!), and the rain has wiped the world clean.
I’m sitting with a cup of coffee here, at my favorite spot — the cluttered, unfashionable kitchen table, and contemplating life.
The dog sleeps, nose to toes, curled in a C, on the white, cushiony single-sofa-seat, which I had originally intended for my/our use when we got it. The dog simply decided that that was HER chair, and, without preamble, appropriated it.
Now that I see her in it, I see her logic. I fits her form perfectly. It’s C-dog-shaped. It’s cozy. Well-done, Holly! (Call me a fond and foolish person for letting my dog rule me. You are right. I am fond and foolish.)
Today, my husband is heading out to his mother’s retirement community home, which is two and a half hours away from here. He is preparing to move her to an “assisted living” facility. This is going to be fraught with a tumbling mix of emotions. We all knew the time would come, but hoped that it would not. For, you see, my mother-in-law is a strange blend of a cognitively high-functioning, highly intelligent, intellectual person and someone who is losing her memory. Add to this the fact that she is good at creating perfectly reasonable-sounding rationalizations for her lapses, and we have a very painful situation. She does not want to go. She called up my husband this morning and said that she would plead (plead!) with the administrators of the place where she lives to let her stay.
My heart breaks for her. She’s my esteemed mother-in-law. She loves me, and I love her. She’s been very kind to me since I arrived in the US in December 1988, and she’s been very generous to both her sons and daughters-in-law. And she’s no ordinary mom-in-law. She’s been a scientist, psychologist, professor and artist in her earlier life. She’s been a Witness for Peace in Nicaragua, been arrested in front of the White House, while protesting wars and inequities, been among the earliest to visit China, when the US and China reached a rapprochement in the 1970s. She was the founder of the Minnesota Plan for the Continuing Education of Women in the late 50s. She has a deep sense of integrity. Yes, she has her negative points, but then, who doesn’t? This is not the time for anyone to remember them. Right now, she’s the best of herself (except that she does not want to leave — the place where she lives currently is lovely, and she loves it with all her heart).
It’s going to be the most painful wrench, both for her, and for my husband, who has to be the one to take her to the new place. He’s not looking forward to it. I can only imagine his mix of emotions — for, who can really tell what someone else’s relationship is to his or her parents? Only we ourselves know who we are vis-à-vis our parents. All other conjectures are just that — conjectures. For him, as it is for many of us, a lifetime of interaction with our parents must follow some sort of pattern: Adoration followed by love, followed by admiration, followed by impatience, followed by strife, followed by more admiration, love, impatience and irritation. For others, it’s much more, probably worse. And, permeating through all this, must be a longing to be accepted, validated, admired and praised for one’s actions, choices, life, because ALL children want this.
I think about what it was like for my grandfather, who declined and died after six months following his fall from the stairs in my family home in India over eleven years ago. I remember that it was my mother who tended to him, and cared for him, even more than my grandmother. My husband was visiting India at the time, and he remembers holding his hand and singing softly to him at his bedside. It made my grandfather very happy. I wish I could have been there. When my own father was diagnosed with liver cancer, his condition did not land him in a nursing home — mostly, in India, that does not happen. He was at home, cared for, coddled and loved by my mother, and my close relatives (my Grandmother and Aunt). My brother was there towards the last few weeks to help, and bore the pain of seeing our father in terrible agony. My sister came over from California a week before his death to do the same. I could not make until three days before he died, but at least I saw him, and talked to him, and all of us held his hands till the moment of his death. In India, it’s a different kind of society from Western society, as far as I can see. Old age, disease and decline are accepted philosophically. It’s not easier, but it’s much more common to say, “What to do? Such is life!” Emotions are still emotions, and complex emotions remain so through the course of experiencing a parent’s life and decline.
When my father died of cancer, he was in the hospital for only three or four days, and ALL of us were there with him at his moment of passing away. And when my mother-in-law passes away, I hope we will be there for her, as well (fortunately, she is in the best of health, at age 92).
At the moment of death, all complex emotions will be swept aside. Only love will prevail. The pure and simple will remain. At the moment of death, all can be wiped clean, if we let it.
Much like the rain on the patio this morning.
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Tags: #cognitive decline of a parent, #Death, acceptance, Indian society, nursing home, old age, parents and children, Western society
Oct 2, 2015 Original Poetry, Writing 101
Image by Cheri Lucas Rowlands
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Journey to the Heart of the Web
(In the Future — My Day 20 Post)
©October 1st, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
The future is now. And now. And now!
Half-way towards my Death, I lurch.
I see her lurking in the shadows. Her breath
So cold, her eyes so gray, her face silver
Like stars stretched across space.
She is patient, so patient! Spinning,
Spanning time, hanging beads of questions
On her web, and oh! how big those questions:
Who are you?
Where are you headed?
Why toil so much?
I am silent, thinking.
I am one among many
Unique to those I love,
And to those who love me,
Forgotten by the rest.
I have poems to write,
Songs to sing, a daughter to cherish
A husband to love, a dog to adore.
I have a garden and a novel waiting
For me to nurture them into life.
I have books to read, things to put away,
Flowers to inhale, birds to feed,
Snow to play in, a planet to explore.
This is not toil, though it is work.
And it is joy.
I say to her:
I am not ready for you. Hang back,
Step away from me!
And her voice, cold as glass, says:
I am always waiting. I will welcome you.
Not yet, I say, calmly, hold back.
I have plans. I do not fear you,
But I have a life to build,
I’ll create a tower,
With storeys* made of story.
In the future, just before you entwine me in silk,
In my future, I will write,
And sing, and teach my child.
I will love my husband and child,
And take them with me on
A story-journey. We will travel
Through my stories, and theirs,
Sing our songs, grow our minds,
Forget our fears, drop our bags,
And run through the fields.
And Death is silent. Then, she says:
I shall be waiting.
Her voice is like a desert.
I think: My stories will come to me
From the spring of stories
That encircles the world,
And brings life to parched places,
And I want to dip my cup
In that water, and drink deep.
So, I face my future,
Setting my face against that quiet
Shadowed form, that voice
That rustles, my Death so elegant,
So ice-quiet.
But her voice, cold as glass, says,
I shall wait for you.
I am always waiting. I will welcome you.
Yes, wait, keep waiting, I say.
I think: In my future, I will learn better
How to tell those stories,
And sing songs, and write poems,
I will strip ego, and listen, listen
To all the people I meet,
Sans judgement, sans fear,
Sans ready response. For, in their
Voices, stories live, and in their
Hearts, grow dreams and love.
I will see their hearts, and sing those songs.
And I turn to her, and say:
When you come, O Death,
I shall sing you my song,
And tell you my story,
And we will journey together
To the heart of your web.
And we will be as one.
But not yet, not yet,
I have plans, and
There is much to learn.
And Death pauses, sighs,
Rustles her robe, turns away.
And her voice, cold as glass, whispers:
I shall wait for you.
I am always waiting. I will welcome you,
And you shall tell me your story.
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*In the US, the word storey is not much used. But those from other English-speaking countries will know what I mean.
Tags: #Death, #Journey, #Learning, #Life, #Love, Family time, fear, poems, songs, stories
Feb 17, 2015 Original Poetry
Is This What Dying Feels Like?
©February 17th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
SIlence and darkness
Press down, down
Memory packed down
Like Arctic snow,
Now melting,
Ready to release
Plumes of methane
From old monsters
Buried in the deep,
And she thinks,
That letter! I forgot
To burn that letter!
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Tags: #Death, Arctic snow, Dying, Memory, Methane
Dec 5, 2014 Original Poetry
Photo-Credit (Unknown, but here’s the source where I got it from:
http://dabacon.org/pontiff/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/Reflection_in_a_soap_bubble_edit.jpg
Without End
©December 5, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
A perfect sphere,
Encapsulating house and trees
And trees and house
And blue so intense
It might break but for the violet
Which edges that without edges:
It floats, delicate and
Precise and ready
To disappear.
And it does.
And I mourn its passing,
But rejoice in its brief
Eternity.
Why, then, must I fear
The end of my bubble?
All my troubles
And joys and pain
And loss and gain
And a future which
Must appear
Whether I fear
Or not, will be
Captured in that
One perfect moment,
Until I
Disappear …
As I, too, must.
So, while you mourn my passing
Rejoice in my brief
Eternity, as I shall
Rejoice
In yours.
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Tags: #Death, #Life, #Original Poem by Vijaya Sundaram, bubble, Reflections