Sep 9, 2015 Writing 101

Home
©September 9th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram

Where you arrive, drop your wings
Remove your bra with a sigh,
Greet your child, your husband, your dog,
With a “Yay!” in your voice
And they greet you back
With a “Yay!” in theirs;
Where you sing out loud,
Toss your bag down,
Not caring where it lands
(A tiny act of rebellion in a safe space),
Traipse into the kitchen
Pour out a glass of clear water
Sink into your chair,
Sip.
And sip.
And sip again —
And the clarity of the water flows in
Deep, not just in your body
But finding its way into another You
Bringing peace, quenching thirst
Letting little shoots of plants
Poke out of parched, dusty ground,
Bringing freshets into dry places;
Where you lean back in your chair,
And see little birds — hovering around
And landing on perches on the
Bird-feeders outside your kitchen window
Feeding in delight and calling
To their mates to join them;
Where a beautiful Japanese maple tree
Filters sunlight like liquid laughter
Onto a rhododendron bush and
A butterfly bush, hung about with swooning blossoms;
Where you take off your socks
And wiggle your imprisoned toes
And stretch aching calf muscles
And feel the joy of simply flowing, of
Living in your body, free from people, from
Other eyes, judging, evaluating, admiring, condemning;
Where the book- or books – that you left
Half-finished on the kitchen table await you,
Like a slew of lovers whom it’s safe
To love, to admire, to caress;
Where the soft sloshing and plishing
Of the washing machine slapping
Clothes into clean submissiveness blends
With the low buzz-hum of your
Ancient refrigerator, and the breeze
Rustles the pine tree in the back-yard,
And they form a lovely symphony
With your husband’s rich, golden-warm
Voice in his Teaching Study, singing
Into the ether, Skype-ing Indian music
Into the ears of a student in a
Far-off land, and your daughter’s
Joyous silver voice floats down her recent
Favorite song from the bedroom;
Where you know you have other things
To do, that await your ministrations,
But you DON’T care, at least for now,
Because, here, now, drinking cold, clear
Water, you are completely inhabiting
our body, and you know you are free —
That’s home to me.
__________________________________________________________

Tags: #Original Poetry, Home

Jun 28, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries

Birds sing outside, the fan’s on inside, the air is yellow-gold, and the leaves around the house glow emerald.
I love my little house, nestled on its perch high above the street.
It’s small, it’s cluttered, it’s colorful, it’s groaning with books, and it has green all around. And it’s filled with music and love.
I don’t need a big house (except, perhaps to leap around in, or throw a ball in, but for that, one can simply go outdoors). I have everything I need here.
My home gives me an illusion of permanence.
Having not had a single place I could call “home” for most of my life, I find myself feeling at peace and so contented here — this is where I’ve come home to roost for the past thirteen years.
I don’t think I’ll leave this place.

~

Dreamer of Dreams

Tags: #Journal Entry, #Summer, at home, being home, coming home to roost, Home, illusion, permanence

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