Jul 10, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post
Desert-Rain
©July 10th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Thirst is all around us
Vast, gaping, parched thirst
Gripping the throat,
Drying the mouth,
Making a desert of our lives
A desert in the hearts of men.
And the land crumbles to dust.
And people fall forward,
Prey to hatred and guns
To violence and pain
To those who kill
With savage impunity.
Alton’s name means Old Town, or
Town at the source of the river.
And a river did flow from him,
Into the desert all around.
Where it dried and vanished
Into the dust, as he was pinned down
And killers pumped bullets into a dead man,
Because he stood there, selling music.
Sworn to protect, they
Murdered, instead, with glee.
Alton Sterling, aged 37.
Say his name!
Philando, a name that sings
Love, love of humans, and
Love was in his days, his acts.
Philando, shot for no reason,
While his girlfriend beside him,
Live-streamed his death
His loss of life into the desert,
His breath left him
While a crazed cop held a gun
Spluttering bullets and lies.
Philando Castile, aged 32.
Say his name!
And we thirst, we who watch,
Standing helpless, as we see the desert
Encroaching on us all.
Mouths agape, parched, we stand
As our feet sink further, deeper
Into sand that churns as we yearn
As their hatred burns us all
And if we do nothing, say nothing
The desert will grow.
Dig a well, plant some trees,
Hold your ground for humankind.
And human-kindness will bloom.
We shall not desert our brothers
Our sisters, our children, our souls.
We shall walk on shifting sands, and find
Our way back to green lands.
We’ll dig a well to quench
Our thirst, and we’ll offer
Libations in the name of peace,
Which, perhaps the gods will accept,
And perhaps, someday, they will rain
Down mercy and help us love again.
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Tags: #AltonSterling, #DailyPrompt, #Desert, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #PhilandoCastile, #Postaday, #TheDailyPost
Apr 14, 2013 Teaching and Learning
Banjara Bound
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 14th, 2013
The women walk, with soft sway of hip-bones
Copper and silver, bone and glass adding
Allure and weight to their step, mystery
On mystery, burden folded on burden.
And sometimes, they wear pots on their hips, and
Sometimes, they wear pots on their heads,
And sometimes, they wear babies on their hips,
And sometimes, they wear baubles on their necks.
And sometimes, they are beaten by husbands
And sometimes, they are abused by landlords
And sometimes, they play with babes in the dust
And sometimes, they ask you to share their food.
Sometimes they walk by, unaware of all
Intent on their destination, which they
Alone know, and where you may never go.
For where they come from is a land that’s theirs.
Not for the faint of heart, not for the weak,
Their lives are traced like lines of wind in dunes
Of sand — beautiful, but subject to the
Whims and fancies of an indifferent fate.
And they move like sighs of wind on the sand
Their sorrows not to be unpacked by those
Who might try, but never will understand —
How does one analyze those tangled threads?
Love is, of course, love; so is forgiveness,
Loss and despair are also understood.
But the moving and the endless walking
The pull of wandering, the lust for home
These tug and push, these discontent-makers,
These lure and beckon, these will-‘o-the-wisps,
Just one more sand-dune, just one more dust-storm
And then, we’ll come to rest, and we’ll be home.
Home is just another word, a starting,
A still-point, before the turning of the
Axis, the revolving around a sun
That’s brighter than any gold they could buy.
And so they move, these beautiful women
Subject to no calendar, answering
To no greater power, except for the
Slow, hypnotic sway of an earth that turns.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Desert, #NaPoWriMo, #Women, Banjara women, Beauty, gypsies, Home, lure, mystery, wander-lust, Wandering