Apr 19, 2013 Current Affairs / General Interest, Original Poetry

Whirlwind
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 19th 2013

Brother down. My brother down.

Could it be, could it possibly be
That guilt gnaws at his spine?

He sits there, crouched
In an anonymous room
Or backyard,
The incubus of death
Possibly trapped to his chest,
Making breath
Difficult, and making sobs
Harden into shrapnel.

He awaits the end,
Undecided about dying.
It’s clear he wishes
To leave on his own terms.
The fog comes and goes.
Mist along the alleyways
Of a labyrinthine mind.
Angelic face, dark eyes
Innocent and disarming,
Armed with what could
Only be a death-wish.

How can hatred catch such
A beautiful-seeming young man?
What does he think,
Crouched there, seeing
The faces of the innocents
Slain by the bombs that
His brother and he placed
In their bid for … what?

Who caught him when he
Grew up, far from parents,
Vulnerable to hateful words,
Prey to delusions of matyrdom
(For what else could it be,
But his need for such a terrible end?)

Did his life lack purpose?
Did his honor embrace darkness?
Did his heart get clutched
By loneliness and despair?
He had friends, they say.
So, why didn’t that save him?

A fog envelops the mind
Of the young man, as he
Awaits the raging
Firestorm he has begun.

For he knows, somewhere in
In his twisted soul, haunted
By an eight-year old’s smile,
(No more hurting people.
Peace.) that he is doomed.
Haunted by a beautiful Chinese student’s
Steadfast gaze, by a young Medford woman,
Twenty-nine years old, who
Served food and life to people,
He awaits his turn
At the grim table laid for him.

He has sown the wind,
Now, he will reap the whirlwind.
Before that, we want to know:
Why? Why?  Why? Why?

And even when he, shouting, answers,
Bitter and vengeful, or
Weeping and ashamed, or
Laughing and scornful, or
Guilt-racked and tormented,
We shall never find out.

And the whirlwind will carry
Away the shouted words,
And we know we can never get back Kansas again.

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

Tags: #NaPoWriMo, #Waiting, Boston, Boston Marathon bombers, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, Reap the whirlwind, sadness, terror, We can never get back Kansas again

Apr 18, 2013 Original Poetry, Teaching and Learning

Soldier
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 18th, 2013

Yes, the world goes on,
The earth swings herself tiredly
Around the sun, sluggishly
Around on her axis
And the tilt of her
And the lilt of her
And the will of her
And the thrill of her
Though she be tired
And old and leaden,
Reminds me that I, too
Must go on, tilting
And lilting, not
Wilting, but willing
To show up for duty,
Across and through a waiting
Universe.

For that is how it is,
Was, and must always
And forever be.

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

Tags: #Aging, #NaPoWriMo, Planet Earth, showing up, Soldier on, tiredness

Apr 17, 2013 Uncategorized

Spring, in Pigtails
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 17th, 2013

The sun shone, jubilant, joyous, gold.
The grass was new-born, bursting forth
Like song from pursed, pinched lips.
The sky shone cold-blue, flooded with warmth

The children played on slide and swing.
I sat and watched my little girl
Racing about, her beauty breaking through
Like Spring between the cracks in the
Winter-clutched sidewalks.

Italian ice, lemon and watermelon,
Cold water chasing it down,
Brought sweetness and surprise.
Flinging herself into the air,
Her Groovy Girl Doll(Nicole)’s
Sheer joie de vivre, matched
My little girl’s, her pigtails flying.

And these:

My pink and blue-clad child,
Flying about, glee-filled, singing.
Reminding me that this is life.
Dogs surging about, teenagers skipping
Parents calling, sunshine dripping
Down on my upturned face.

And for a moment, grief and rage
Scudded away, clouds driven by sun
Into a corner of the sky.
And in that moment, peace bloomed
And momentary joys took root.
Of these, are our memories made.
Upon these, are our lives built.

Today was beautiful,
And I was glad.

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

Tags: #Daughter, #NaPoWriMo, #Original Poetry, #Spring, Happiness, Italian Ice, Joie de Vivre, Playground, sunshine

Apr 16, 2013 Current Affairs / General Interest, Original Poetry

For the Sake of Life Itself
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 16th, 2013

Call me a coward.
I  didn’t tell my eight-year old
That an eight-year old died
Yesterday, standing, waiting
To cheer the people who ran.

And his father, who might have run,
But did not, on that fateful day,
Can run and run from now
Until the end of time
And never catch up.

And the beautiful child that son
Must have been (for how could he be otherwise?)
Died in mid-cheer.

He was eight years old.
He held a poster that said,
“No more hurting people. Peace.”
His name was Martin.

How can one explain such a thing
And how can one still stay intact?

For, in that moment when the world blew up
And an eight-year old flew into the air,
Becoming one with the stars and the atoms,
One broke into a million fragments.

But we carry on, for all the other
Children, who wait for us, eyes wide with trust
Believing that there are good people among us.
And we turn to them, in relief and grief.

And I turn to my beautiful
Angel-child, for the sake of love,
For the sake of all the little ones,
And for the sake of life itself.

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

Tags: #Life, #Love, #NaPoWriMo, Boston Marathon, children, eight-year old, grief

Apr 15, 2013 Uncategorized

Boston, In Grief

©By Vijaya Sundaram

April 15th, 2013

When fear develops teeth and claws

And opens wide its angry jaws

Can people turn around and fight

And slay that Grendel with our might?

Do people have the time to teach

Can love expand to hatred’s reach?

Go tell that to the ones who died.

Go tell their families that you tried

To stop the fear, to stamp out hate

Extend a hand, help grief abate.

But while we rage amidst our grief,

And seek to find the hateful thief

Of life and freedom and of peace

We know we need to find release.

Revenge is bitter, hate is cold.

We seek in lead that which is gold

Alas!  What can we try to do

But face our grief, and start anew?

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

Tags: #NaPoWriMo, #Original Poetry, Boston, grief, marathon, Starting anew, tragedy

Apr 15, 2013 Current Affairs / General Interest

Copley Square, Boston

I was going to write a poem today.

I am struck dumb.

How can I write?

Take care, my friends.

Will be home soon.

In Sorrow for the dead and for the injured.

With Love,

Dreamer of Dreams

Tags: #NaPoWriMo, attack, Boston, marathon, sorrow

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

Apr 13, 2013 Original Poetry

Funambulist –Two Haiku
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 13th, 2013

The funambulist
Pauses, poised between two worlds
Then shrugs, and goes on.

And thus, I, poet
In mid-air, on a tightrope
Sway, shrug and press on.

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

Tags: #haiku, #NaPoWriMo, Funambulism, tightrope walker

Apr 11, 2013 Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Poetry

The Enemy
Or:  To a Non-Friend
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 11th, 2013

This is the day I was surprised.

It’s not my skin-tingling recoil
That surprised me when I saw you.
It’s not my memory of all
The little jabs and major stabs
That you aimed so casually and
So shamelessly at my open
Heart through all these years that we had
Passed each other grim, unsmiling.

It’s not your mockery and your
Usual  barely suppressed malice
Which made me stop in my tracks and
Caused me almost to forget
Forget the injuries, insults …
Incalculable pain that you’ve
Caused me, making me want to die,
Washing the rocks on some hillside.

No, it’s not any of those things.
It’s that today, you were not well.
And, in sickness, your laughter bloomed.
You were vulnerable, you were
Shorn of bluster, you were truly
There, truly true, truly open.
You were without defense, or hate.
And you were giddy, funny, good.

And I felt for you a great rush
Of affection, of empathy,
Which bore me away on fair winds
Which made me laugh with you today.
Which made me feel for you, for you,
Of all people, you, who have hurt,
Insulted, derided, questioned,
Rumored, destroyed, rebuilt, torn down.

You altered your face.  No longer
Bitter nor hateful, no longer
Jealous nor spiteful.  You were real.
You were funny.  You were open.
Laughing, you changed all you had been
For one moment, in the blessing
Of  the spring, the sunshine pouring
Down on us, through ceilings and roof.

This is what surprised me today.

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

Tags: #NaPoWriMo, altered, empathy, Friendship, Hurt, Laughter, mockery, Pain, sunshine, surprise

Apr 10, 2013 Original Poetry

Cessation
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 10, 2013

Ennui drips its grease
Onto my forehead,
Into my soul
Increases my need
To wash and rid myself
Of all that
Wearies me
Frighteningly, forever.

And I’d cleanse myself
Of all that degrades,
All that bores, denudes
Undoes, unravels
Unhinges and enchains
The joy of living.
And I’d be lost,
Before I dissolve.

But if I did,
I could cease to be.

The unexpected
And the grotesque
The lyrical, and the poignant,
The beautiful and the ugly,
The untested, the untried,
The sung and the unsung
All these would make
The air that I would breathe.

But now, ennui
Rules my days,
Presses its wet hand
Onto my greasy forehead.
Makes me want to scream,
Unbridled, unceasingly:
An open mouth
To an uncaring sky.

And if I do,
I would cease to be.

And the ears that would hear
Would be stopped by hearts
Too calloused with hurt
Too troubled for love
Too sad to care
For they have their own
Unendurable, unending,
Unspeakable ennui.

And my scream
Would last through all time
And unravel every cell in my being
Every atom of my existence
Until the very last thread
Would dangle in mid-air
Before the wind
Blew it away.

And as I unravel
I would cease to be.

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

Tags: #Futility, #NaPoWriMo, Ennui, light despair, unravelling, weariness