Apr 8, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Resurgence
©April 8th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Look! It’s raining all around!
See the water rushing down
Down the streets, and in the town
Down the gutters, sodden grounds!
Down into the river, flowing.
Water, swelling, rising, growing.
Swollen rain, surprising, throwing
Caution to the winds a-blowing.
Buds appear on lilac trees.
Buds appear with sudden ease,
Bursting from their hidden seeds,
Bursting with a need to be.
Bursting with purple-to-see
Bursting with abandoned glee
Bursting amidst sticks and weeds,
Unrelenting in their speed.
Spring comes to us like a child
Vulnerable, naked, wild,
Begging to be rocked, beguiled
With songs of love, delighted smiles.
Catch that wildness, trap that hue
Give your life that which is due
Make it springtime, make it through.
Make yourself a child, anew!
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Today’s Day 8 NaPoWriMo 2017 prompt reads:
…I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that relies on repetition. It can be repetition of a phrase, or just a word. Need a couple of examples? Try “The Bells” by Edgar Allan Poe, or Joy Harjo’s “She Had Some Horses”. Poe’s poem creates a relentless, clanging effect through the repetition of the word “bells,” while Harjo’s repeated use of the phrase “she had some horses” and variations thereof gives her poem poem its incantatory effect, while also deepening its central philosophical conceit of what things are the same and what things are different.
Tags: #NaPoWriMo2017, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Poemwithrepetition, #Spring
Apr 7, 2017 Free Verse, NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Sweet-Folk
©April 7th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
A rickshaw. Daughter and I.
Late afternoon in Pune.
Bags with boxes of sweets
Rich, swooning mango squares
Kaju katli triangles, pistachio rolls,
Laddus, and carrot-halvas, and pedhas.
Perched like tottering towers
Of Pisa in the rickshaw’s back-space.
Diesel-petrol exhaust fumes
Mingle with agarbatti swirling from
The rickshaw-wallah‘s incense-stand
Snaking through the jasmine-malas
Which my daughter and I hold
Like fragrant shields before our noses.
Children sell them on the street
At light-intersections here;
Little boys and girls darting
Like minnows among the
Slowly-flowing, sometimes-paused
Traffic, their faces appearing
At our rickshaw, and their
hands out-thrust, jasmine-laden,
Saying, “Want flowers?”
Schoolgirls and schoolboys, walking
Like shoals of bright fish
In colorful uniforms, heading home
From afternoon-school, neat and unfazed,
Laden with books on their backs,
Chatter like magpies, their plumage
Shining in the early-evening sun.
We reach home, pay the rickshaw,
Go upstairs, narrate our adventures
To mother, aunt, grandmother.
I say, “Oh, and I bought all these
Sweets for you, and for others.”
I turn to look for them.
They’re not there!
We forgot them!
Mortified, upset, I sit down,
Shrug on a philosophical attitude,
Like a sanyasi‘s mantle,
Try on a casual voice, and
Say, “Well, whoever finds them
Is welcome to them.
Let someone else enjoy it!”
My daughter consoles me;
She knows I hate losing things.
My mother, wisely, refrains
From telling me I should
Have been more careful.
I hope, hope, hope …
Then, the doorbell rings.
Opening the door, I see a gift:
A man standing there with our bags –
Our rickshaw-driver!
“I drove all the way home,
Then saw this, and drove back,”
He explains, handing them over.
Simple goodness shines
In his sweat-beaded face.
Our joy is manifold:
We thank him profusely.
I want to hug him,
But knowing it would
Embarrass him, I say,
“Stay, and have a cup of tea!”
He declines, but is grateful
When we hand him a cup of water.
As he leaves, I press
A box of pedhas into his hands.
“No, no,” he protests. We insist.
He is pleased. Accepts.
That night, visions are bright,
Swirling like fragrant jasmine
And heady agarbatti fumes.
The taste of milk-pedhas
And the sweetness of good-folk
Linger in dream-memory.
I savour it for a long time.
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This is my submission for Day 7 of NaPoWriMo 2017. The idea was to write a poem about something fortuitous, or a fortuitous poem, arising from linking events or objects.
I chose to write the former, about an actual fortuitous occurrence.
Tags: #Fortuitousness, #NaPoWriMo2017, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Serendipity, #Sweets in a rickshaw in India
Apr 6, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Three – A Tableau
©April5th/6th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Child on his side, heaving,
Dust, and chaos, an acrid chemical.
Within, all goes silent, but
Pain roars through him like
An express train.
Like a fish on the sand,
His body heaves, he tries to speak
Struggles to breathe,
Bewildered by the attack.
His lungs fill with foam,
Like a sea surging inward.
Ami, Abi! Ami, Abi!
Man races through suffocating air
Searching for his wife, his children,
And stumbles upon their bodies,
Arms flung out, eyes gazing skyward,
Still as birds in a painting.
Time loses its hold,
People blur into nightmare shapes,
Someone puts an arm around him,
He wails aloud, an animal sound.
He sees the boy on his side,
Gasping on the sand, a stranded fish.
The man stumbles over to him, strokes his hair,
“Breathe, child, breathe, I’m here.
Hush, all will be well. Don’t die.”
The boy’s eyes
Fill his vision, like a planet
Coming closer. Here is horror,
Here is comfort.
Far away, you click through your FB feed
Reading, writing, and finding
News, outrage, horror.
Hooked on fear, you shake if off,
Click on a video of cats taking a bath,
A momentary respite, a smile,
Like a hand parting dense rain-clouds,
And you feel better.
How nice! You can laugh, or weep,
– what a privilege!
Then you go cold.
You see an image –
A child on his side, gasping for breath.
A hand grips your viscera,
And you struggle against grief,
You feel a net closing
Around you.
Your own child is safe,
You remind yourself, but
The net traps you,
As you struggle to
Take in air.
Why is it raining indoors?
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This is my poem for Day 6 of NaPoWriMo2017. The prompt was to write a poem about one thing, using different perspectives.
Tags: #NaPoWriMo2017, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #SyrianChemicalAttack, #ThreeViews
Apr 5, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Rift Valley Within the Lute
©April 5th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Red-headed house finches at bird-feeder,
Spring stirring in their breasts.
Why do you fight over our land?
Hum of electricity buzzes,
Ticking clock punctuates regrets.
We cannot breathe! Help us!
Golden light spills over the table
Crowded with comfort, a cup of lemon tea.
We’re dying, our children, our children!
People driving their cars homeward,
Breaking rules, caught by mobile screens.
We curse you and yours
May your hell never cease.
What shall we have for supper?
May your guilt dog you
Till the day you die.
Chinese food for a change?
So tired of cooking!
May every good deed you do
Vanish into the void.
Who is this bag of emptiness,
Unable to rise and work?
May you weep tears of acid
May you never find peace.
Brain buzzes like a swarm of bees –
So tired of everything …
May your world drain of colour, like ours
May your lives drain into desert sands.
Look! A crocus! Spring’s here!
The air is ripe with rain to come.
Why did you let our children die?
Startled by sound, the birds fly away,
And gray light saturates all.
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Tags: #ChemicalAttackinSyria, #InternationalStruggle, #NaPoWriMo2017, #SpringinAmerica, #WarontheInnocents
Apr 5, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Lilacs©Vijaya Sundaram, 2016
Growing Old With Lilacs
©April 5th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Lilac-trees at the base of our steps –
Purple and white ghosts in May.
Swooning air, gladdened eyes, a
Bunched and tight need to hold on –
Bloom with them.
As quietly as they bloom,
They fade, browning into death.
Every year, without fail,
The lilacs make for a new
Falling-in-love, and out.
Heart beats just a little faster,
Wild need to kiss everything
In sight overwhelms skin.
Shake it off, but hold the feeling
Close within, like a secret romance.
Every year, the relentless onset
Of summer months, the gentle slide
Into autumn, fading all too quickly
Into grim winter, prickly and cold.
One grows older, faster.
So, eternal sunshine lures me
To eternal youth, but perhaps,
That might bore in time.
Besides, if I leave for sunny climes,
I shall miss my lilacs.
Agelessness loses romance.
For without fierce love
And fierce loss, all is
Placid, and placidity
Equals death.
I think I’ll stay and grow old
With my lilacs, and hold their
Fragrance close to my dreaming
Aging self.
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Tags: #Lilacsinmygarden, #NaPoWriMo2017, #Original Poetry by Vijaya Sundaram
Apr 4, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Plateau and Quietude
©April 4th/5th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
A plateau of bald rock
At the very top of Wright’s Tower
Lies back like a woman
Baring her midriff to the sky
On a quiet beach.
She breathes quietly.
The trees encircling her
Whisper sweet nothings,
Turning light into leaves.
A hawk wheels patiently
Far above in the sun-beaten
Rain-saturated sky of Spring.
We cross the highway,
My dog and I, two wanderers
Taking a known path,
Seeking the unknown.
We reach the woods.
Green-gold slippery shadows,
Daffodil-yellow sunlit paths,
A burst of quietude –
These are ours today.
I walk, hoping for sudden
Red flash of fox, or
Grey-brown dart of coyote,
Holly runs forward and back
Looping around me, hoping for pursuit.
An impudent squirrel, semaphoring insults,
Or rude rabbit, flashing its behind
As it taunts her, will do nicely.
She slices through the green wood-light
As it parts neatly
In her canine wake.
We see nothing that we seek.
Just a pair of loud, proud geese,
Walking confidently towards the pond,
Which, rain-swollen and ready for turtles
Makes room for them,
The water trembling in the light
Like a vision in a sweet dream,
From which I would never want
To emerge.
Holly is cautious;
Geese are loud, belligerent
Hers is an exuberant nature,
But geese worry her;
Of course, she’d never admit this.
She looks elsewhere, casual
As a girl walking down a city-street
Hoping to not be noticed.
The geese pay no heed,
As they slide into the water
Honking like mad rickshaw-horns.
We leave them behind,
Rippling the water into green-gold silk.
Holly lopes up the slopes,
I follow, sometimes stumbling.
The Tower looms in the distance.
The gravel path gives way
To dark earth, squelchy mud,
Soft pine needles, leaves.
A sudden movement scatters them,
And we see young, striped snakes
Skittering away into the undergrowth,
Vanishing at our approach.
Tenderness floods me.
I am grateful for this glimpse.
We climb up the hill,
Reach the tower, sit on a rock,
Watch the traffic move far below
On the improbable highway:
Two shimmering metallic snakes
Flowing in two different directions.
I shudder at them.
My dog pays no heed.
She is of the Moment,
And the Moment is Eternal.
The silence of mid-day is broken
A single bird-song questions the air,
But there is no reply.
I try and forget the things
I always remember:
Rising seas, melting glaciers
Punishing heat, dying animals,
Plastic-swollen seabirds,
Parched snakes, ailing bees.
How could all that be
On a day such as this?
I push that reality away
And seek these woods,
Knowing that illusions exist,
Contradictions collide.
I grieve the loss of all
That I’ve yet to see,
And the world is vast.
But for now, my dog and I
Reach our plateau that,
Lies like a woman
Baring her midriff to the sky,
And I lie on my back
Right there, and watch the skies
Wheeling around me, the rock
Sunning herself, solid and quiet,
The trees whispering to us,
And my dog panting
Quietly by my side.
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Today’s NaPoWriMo Day 5 prompt was to “write a poem that is based in the natural world: it could be about a particular plant, animal, or a particular landscape. But it should be about a slice of the natural world that you have personally experienced and optimally, one that you have experienced often. ”
Tags: #NaPoWriMo2017, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #walkinthewoodswithdog
Apr 3, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Himself in the Mirror
©April 3rd/4th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Happy to be you today?
He says to her,
The question surprising
Both of them.
Oh yes, so happy!
It’s sunny out, and
The days flow like silk,
Don’t they?
Coffee with me sometime?
He asks, tentative,
Attracted, shy.
They stand on the grass
Little, friendly ants crawl over
Her sneakers, and she lets them be.
A bee buzzes near his head,
And he shakes it.
She inclines hers
Just a fraction, smiling vaguely,
Her acknowledgement of his
Invitation, his attraction
Fractured by competing
Time-tables, now and forever.
She’s on another track,
The train approaches,
And she has to choose
To board it.
He doesn’t see it,
He doesn’t hear it,
All he sees is his reflection
In her eyes.
He is in love.
It isn’t that she’s unhappy
It isn’t envy of him, either.
It’s shifting views
Opacity and transparency,
Her mind saying one thing,
The world seeing another.
Delicate and elfin,
She stands, hand shading
Eyes. smiling vaguely
Up at him, his face so eager.
I’ll be seeing you,
She says, and his face falls.
She pities him, but she
Is not his keeper.
Okay, he mumbles, and
Walks away, diminishing,
Into the horizon,
His return a question mark.
She goes to her house,
Her heart beats loudly.
She’s made up her mind.
This is no time to worry.
He, or her parents,
Or her friends will,
But she won’t.
She has chosen.
She opens the door to the bathroom,
Stands before the mirror,
Gazes at her reflection,
Sees what she will become,
And smiles at himself in the mirror.
Hello, you! he says.
He boards the train.
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This is my poem for Day 4 of NaPoWriMo.
This was the prompt:
One of the most popular British works of classical music is Edward Elgar’s Enigma Variations. The “enigma” of the title is widely believed to be a hidden melody that is not actually played, but which is tucked somehow into the composition through counterpoint. Today I’d like you to take some inspiration from Elgar and write a poem with a secret – in other words, a poem with a word or idea or line that it isn’t expressing directly. The poem should function as a sort of riddle, but not necessarily a riddle of the “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” variety. You could choose a word, for example, “yellow,” and make everything in the poem something yellow, but never actually allude to their color. Or perhaps you could closely describe a famous physical location or person without ever mentioning what or who it actually is.
Tags: #Enigmatic poem, #LGBTQ, #NaPoWriMo2017, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Transgendering
Apr 2, 2017 NaPoWriMo, Original Poetry
Elegy for My Father
©April 2nd, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
I try and try to remember
Everything, everything about
My father, who spent
His life unravelling, like
A gaily-coloured ball of yarn
Tumbling down a steep,
Unforgiving slope.
When my little brother,
Eleven years younger,
Would watch the sky with round eyes,
Point out planes with toddler fingers,
My father would name them.
Avro, he’d say, Jumbo Jet.
And my father would burst into song,
Always the same one,
He’d croon in his soft light
Baritone, musical and innocent:
Avara hoon (I am a vagabond),
And sing, Avro hoon (I’m an Avro),
And we’d laugh, like clockwork,
Predictable, precise,
Delight permeating us.
He loved flying, and planes,
(despite his dreams of becoming
a pilot thwarted by this and that)
And flew everywhere, fleeing
His debtors, leaving wife
Grieving, kids conceiving of life
Without a father for a long,
Long time.
Reality was a game to him,
And he played it recklessly,
Grimly, convinced he would win.
Yet, back at a time when
He was still around at home,
His children rejoiced,
Found his bulk reassuring, solid,
Hardly ephemeral, eternal –
A man with weight, jollity,
Benevolence, levity, jokes.
Picchu chitti aathilé
Chaapaatu pandhilé
Chappati chappitane,
He’d say, more and more rapidly
And we’d repeat them,
Tripping over his water-falling
Tongue-twister, and get
All knotted-up, laughing.
Punning in three languages,
He’d make our sides ache,
And we never stopped to wonder:
Did all dads do this?
It was no big deal to us –
That’s what a father did.
I wish I could remember.
I try and try, but my mind
Falters, and I cannot bring back
His word-play, his heaving belly
Rippling with mirth, his strange
Obsession with tidiness, his urge
For control, for so much
Had been taken from him:
His worth, his wealth, his daring,
His promises to himself, his
Poor lost left leg,
Lost to a crushing train.
I try and try, but I cannot
Remember most of his jokes – just one,
The one he made when we,
Weeping, surrounded his hospital bed
Nineteen years before his death,
When he, with amputated leg, said:
“Now, your mother can truly say
Naan ottha kaal la nikkaren,“
(Since standing on one leg
Was what stubborn people did –
In Tamil.)
I try and try to recall
His humour, but a shadow
Falls over it, the shadow of his
Chasms of pain, craters of loss –
He didn’t speak much of that;
I do. I have lost his voice,
The one that chuckled
And guffawed, rocking the room.
I have forgotten his puns.
This is a small loss, and a great one.
When he was cremated, a shape
That resembled him lay
On the mound at the cremation-grounds,
A shape of ash, a shape of dust.
And the priest who presided
Collected the main part of it,
Placed it in a brass pot, covered
It with something (a cloth?
I cannot remember), draped
Lovingly wound garlands
Of beautiful flowers around it,
Handed it solemnly to us.
My brother, sister and I
Carried it in a rickshaw
To a river outside the city,
And dropped the pot,
Ashes, flowers, my father
Into the waters, and we
Watched, as it floated away
Bobbing in the waves.
We didn’t say much.
Where did all his words go?
Did they fly up, like birds
Released from his frame,
When his breath escaped,
His eyes fixed on a spot
On the hospital walls
Beyond all of us, who watched
While he left us, his cancer
Eroding his insides, the pain
Matching the brightness
In his eyes, as we held his hands,
And the hospital staff filed in
Silently, with bent heads?
Did he pun one last time?
Did we not hear it?
For he couldn’t speak, then.
The words had flown,
And he couldn’t catch them.
His breath fluttered out.
He left us yet again –
This time, to a place
Beyond our imagining,
Probably transforming himself
Into an Avro, flying into the sun.
He imagined us all.
And we remain,
Scattered remnants,
Of his tattered life,
Eddying in his wake,
As we gather ourselves
Into an illusion of self-hood.
I shall try to remember all this
When my breath flutters,
And my words vanish in
A puff of air, and my eyes
Fix on a spot somewhere beyond
Those gathered around.
I shall follow my words
And escape the shell
Encasing this world.
And who knows? I just
Might meet my father’s
Puns spiralling down.
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This is my poem for Day 3 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write an elegy (I chose to write an unrhymed one), and to “center the elegy on an unusual fact about the person or thing being mourned.”
Tags: #Elegy, #Father, #NaPoWriMo2017, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram
Mar 31, 2017 Haibun, Original Poetry
Sugar-Frost Fur, Cold Feet
(A Haibun)
©March 31st, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Snow falls, fat and lazy, dreaming of Christmas in March. Dog gazes out, blanketed in puzzlement – what happened to yester-sunny-day? Memory is a shaky thing, fragile as an old woman with paper-thin skin, but she nudges the canine mind, and Dog steps out, resigned and eager, both, snow-blind. Her fur frosts like sugar. She sniffs the air, investigates the perimeter of our backyard, placates the snow-gods, steps as if on shards, then returns, paws ice-hard.
Paws leave hasty prints
I was here! and here! (they say).
Feet, meet kitchen-warmth!
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Today is the first day of NaPoWriMo 2017.
Tags: #DogandSnow, #NaPoWriMo2017