May 5, 2015 Uncategorized

A robin stands in bright, young grass

Under a bough of white blossoms —

Whose cherry tree stands, protective

And proud ,with outstretched arms.

I understand spring is here.

And that it’s beautiful.

And it’s life leaping up

Ready to fight.

And the robin hops, happy

Inquisitive, curious, its bright eyes

Darting all around.

It looks happy.

And I should be glad.

I shall be, I will.

Yes.

Tags: #Original Poetry, #Spring, Climate Change, Despair, Robin in the grass

Mar 30, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Short Stories

Loneliness — A Vignette

©By Vijaya Sundaram

March 30th, 2013

The old woman sat, enshrouded in sadness and loneliness.

Her spirit was young, gay, schoolgirilish.  Her mind was brilliant, but old.  Her heart was carunculated, folded over and over by memories of grief, loss, hatred, jealousy and despair.  Her body, though old, was strong, and her face was beautiful, like a translucent paper-covered lamp.

She had always been on the outside looking in.  She had never fully understood herself.  She understood others, but as an alien might, through long observation, experimentation, attempts to blend in with the locals, and even achieving a measure of success in that, but always with a sense of strange isolation.  Humor and a biting wit had sustained her through all that.  Faith gave her some comfort, but her mind always interfered.

She was generous with her gifts, but longed for acknowledgement, which she felt she had never got, at least, not enough.

She took care of herself, never imposed on anyone, was independent, hard-working, good and moral.  She gave of herself to all who came to her.  She sought, and got, contradictions, arguments, verbal sparring.  She loved that, but didn’t understand that it distressed others.  She was often critical, very critical of others, because no one could match her standards, not even she.  This left her feeling desolate and always dissatisfied.

She could never stand anyone for too long.  People irked her.  They felt like burrs on her clothing, clinging madly, like little irritants, feeling poky and interfering.  Yet, it was she who would long for their company, and would ask for it.  Now, they bothered her at every turn.  She felt as if they interfered, but it was she who interfered when she had a chance to, correcting others, expecting a weird sort of subservience, and hating it at the same time, positively glowing with impish delight when she caused distress of some kind, or disturbed people’s equanimity.

She was a mass of contradictions: A pillow stuffed with confidence and anxieties, pleasures and sorrows, losses and grief, indifference, affection, detachment and attachment, delight and irritation, love and hate.

And she was the loneliest person on the planet.  Always, in her mind, her own dead mother’s voice spoke, critical and caustic, seemingly unloving and cold with a Puritan coldness.

The tragedy was that the old lady didn’t love herself.  And though she felt herself to be the loneliest person on the planet, she was loved.  She just didn’t fully know it, and always rejected a little while after she encountered it.  After all, or so it seemed to her, if others loved her, then they didn’t really have any good taste, because she was unlovable.  Therefore, she could reject them with ease.

Now, in the closing darkness of the noon, she longed again to be understood.  She called her son, and got her daughter-in-law.

Her daughter-in-law, inexplicably, loved her.  They both loved one other, even though they each might have got on the other’s nerves from time to time.  They spoke.  The old lady stated her thoughts about what she had been through recently.  Her daughter-in-law assured her that everything would be all right, and reassured her of the love of her children for her.  After a few sweet reminiscences about other things, the old lady said goodbye and hung up.

And after that ‘phone call, the daughter-in-law knew this much:  Her mother-in-law had achieved a lot in her life, but all that had faded away with the onset of years. Age is a thief, an inexorable, ruthless and hateful thief.  It takes away and takes away.  When the daughter-in-law was young, she thought it would be lovely to grow old.  Perhaps, for some, it might be, but she saw, first-hand that this romanticising of age was just that: A romantic notion.  Age was cruel.  Loneliness looms large.  Loss and sadness linger.

For the sad truth remains:  All of one’s achievements are naught beside the huge, pervasive threat of imminent amnesia and death.

So it is with the old lady, and so it will be for all of us, except, perhaps, those who seek immortality through art and music, because, as Nabokov said about Lolita in his immortal, shocking, dark and deeply moving book:  I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality that you and I may share, my Lolita.

Finally, this:  Ozymandias by P.B. Shelley.

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

Tags: #Age, #Death, #Loneliness, #Love, Amnesia, Despair, immortality through art, Long Life, Nabokov, Ozymandias

Mar 21, 2013 Teaching and Learning

Despair — A Poem
©By Vijaya Sundaram
March 21, 2013

All this writing is a flailing
All this talking is a failing
All these songs are a wailing
All these stories are a hailing
Of ice onto a desert, frozen
By sun and burned by snow.

You know that, don’t you?

A flailing and a failing
Because the silence waits.
Brooding and unrelenting
Endless and frightful,
The dark and angry silence

Waits.

Jealous of those who speak,
Greedy to suck our sounds,
Enraged by us,
Ready for us,
Eternal and malign,
Silence awaits our sound.

For it will all be swallowed
By the gaping chasm
Yawning like a grin
In the skull of Death,
A chasm that widens
And lies at the very end of
The trail of my words,
And the wail of yours.

Our out-pouring of the chatter
Which approximates thought,
Words, words, words:
Weak reflectors of the
Unfathomable,
Beaming into the blackness
Between our minds,
Create false comfort,
For in our waking sleep,
Creeps in the beast.

All words lead to …
All roads lead to …
All songs lead to …
All action leads to …

So, I know this, don’t I?
And you know this, don’t you?

And yet, I struggle and flail
Throw my songs, my words out,
Hoping some of them will flutter
Onto a Waiting Cliff, bleached
By a starving sun,
Weak but pulsing still.

And you struggle and flail,
Toss out cry after cry,
Song after song,
Story after story,
Hoping they will be
Miraculously delivered
To a faraway shore.

Perhaps a Someone will see
And hear, listen and watch.
See mine struggling,
Loosen their terrified hold,
And set them free.

Perhaps another Someone will see
Your castaways on the faraway shore
Revive them, give them succor.
And they too will be free,
Eternals, all.

And perhaps, mine will flutter
Into a sky that promises
Something unknown,
Unknowable, but bright.

And perhaps, they will call
Into the widening sphere
Hoping to find their mates,
And roost somewhere,

Forever.

And perhaps yours will traipse
Into another sphere and bask
In the light of Imagination,
Ready to be reborn
In another form.

I can only dream of this,
I can only give shape to this
In those very words
Which might tumble,
Echoing eerily
Into that yawning chasm.

For, to think otherwise,
Is to die, not by degrees,
As we all do, and must,
But right here, right

Now.

– And that would never do!

And thus, the false dawn brightens
Our gasping, choking day.

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

(Feeling very, very dark today.)

Tags: #Communication, #Death, #Hope, Despair, Eternity, Falling, False Dawn, Flailing, Silence, Words

Mar 21, 2013 Uncategorized

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

Legion, One – A Poem
©By Vijaya Sundaram
March 21, 2013

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How important
How very important
You believe you are, human!
You strut around, chest puffed out,
Dying by degrees, thinking this is life.

You reject and mock
Your neighbor or colleague
With a single statement.
With a curl of the lip,
Your sneer at and spurn your neighbor,
Your teacher, friend, stranger.

With the dismissive gesture,
You dash to the ground
All that your mother, your sister
Gave to you.
With the merest word, you crush
The memory of all
Your brother, or your father
Are to you.

Fattening on hate and fear,
Not knowing, not caring,
Not seeing that it is you.
It is you, you, dear one
Whom you crush underfoot,
Sneer at, mock, reject.
Fearing, dismissing, crushing,
You don’t see the faces
Of those you spurn.

And all the while, you yearn
To be understood, crooned to,
Cradled, sheltered, loved,
Healed, nursed back to yourself.
And all the while, you yearn
For that dream-world, asking
How come and wherefore
Has it not arrived, yet?

Stop!  Stop!  Stop!  
I tell you!
Stop hating.
Stop fearing.
Stop envying.
Stop feeling less.
Start feeling more.

Feel more for
Your neighbor,
Your colleague,
Your friend, sister, brother
Father, teacher, mother.

Feel the same pain
We were born into.
Feel the same sorrow
We face every day.
Feel the despair
That lies, curled
At the very base
Of everyone’s souls.

And walk softly.
Tread softly, dear one.
Tread lightly, for it is
Your face that you tread
Upon, your face you seek
To obliterate.

And it is when you raise
Up your sister, brother, mother
Father, teacher, friend,
Neighbor, colleague, stranger,
Bathe their faces,
Wash their wounds,
Offer them kindness,
Marvel at their unique
Ineffable beauty, their grace,
And their anguished suffering,
It is then that you shall be free.

Know this,
For we are all legion.
But we are all one.

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

Tags: #Death, #Love, #Original Poetry, Despair, Eternity, Legion, Neighbor, Raise Up, We are all One, Words and Silence