Vijaya Sundaram

Poet, Musician, Teacher, and Amateur Visual Artist

Spring and Rain, and Flowers and …

Spring and Rain, and Flowers and Dog

©April 26th, 2014

 By Vijaya Sundaram

Rain erases with gentle

Pearly, indifferent mercy

All that ever was that died.

 

And with one wash, she

Brings forth life anew.

 

Daffodils nod along the paths,

Pink hyacinths and purple ones

Glow amidst a young green

Pushing from a pulsing earth.

 

Narcissus and Puschkinia

Bright, cheerful pansies,

Close to the earth, but undeterred

All beautiful, all simple —

 

No terrors, no hopes, no fears,

No egos, no sorrows, no losses,

No working for a living,

No guilt about idleness,

No chasing after dreams,

No saying “no” to things.

All saying “yes” to Life

 

— Even when it comes along

In canine form, sniffs, springs,

Laughs soundlessly, and

SNAP!  A pansy is gone!

 

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Catching Up

Catching Up

© April 22, 2014

By VijayaSundaram

 

It’s not the coffee in itself,

I hope you understand,

I’ve been sitting by myself

And there you are — it’s grand!

 

It’s the is-ness of it.

The here-ness of it

Not the business of it

Just the cheer-ness of it.

 

So, let’s have a coffee.

Oh, sometime, you say?

Would  I make such an offer

If not for now, pray?

 

Let’s take the air outside

On these wooden chairs

Let’s watch people go by,

Stare back as they stare.

 

Let’s sip and sit, and talk awhile

Let’s chat of that and this

And reminisce in simple style

Catch up on things we’ve missed.

 

Oh yes, the world’s gone raving mad

Oh yes, there’s climate change

And yes, I do agree it’s bad

So very sad and strange!

 

And how’s your work and married life?

How is the neighborhood?

And how’s the fam. and how’s your wife

Did it all turn out good?

 

It did?  That’s the best news by far!

And how ’bout you, you ask?

Oh, look, it that a red Jaguar?

(I quickly don my mask.)

————————————————————–

 

 

 

 

Handwritings

Handwritings

©April 17th 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

There was a time

When my friends’ rounded,

Precise, neat handwritings carried

A sunlit, sea-magic –

All of them.

 

There were pearls within,

Each word a pearl

Holding meaning, light

Glowing in them.

 

 

I loved their handwritings

Loved the slant or the straightness

The dark or the lightness

The pressure or its lack —

All of that.

 

Everything spelled beautifully

Thought laid bare,

A revelation of self,

All of it.

 

And I looked with pleasure

At words that flowed

Across ruled paper

And down the page

Erasing emptiness,

Lapping at the shores

Of silence, their ebb and flow,

Filled with music,

Rich with it.

 

All those

Careful, controlled

Pearl-handwritings.

Caught carefully in time

Strung together,

Making meaning –

It was all magic,

Pendant with it.

 

And all I wanted

Was to wade in,

Gather those pearls,

Crunch them up,

And eat them all,

All of them.

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Listening

Listening

©April 15, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

After you’ve stood

And listened to silence,

Words seem like leaves

Eddies of leaves

Whirling in a flurry of wind

In an empty field.

 

And yet, it’s nice to stand

To watch and listen

To stand in quietude

In solitude, checking

The wind, sniffing the air,

Looking for signs

Of life in an attitude

Of quiet reverence.

 

I had thoughts once,

And dreams, and songs

And stories.

I had visions of the future

Of people and things

I wanted to meet, and do.

I had melodies flowing

Clear and bright through

Dark woods of uncleared

Thoughts, once, not long ago.

 

Yet, today, I am spent

Not sad, almost content

Dreaming dim dreams,

Hearing muffled songs,

Stopping any visions

Of what the future

Could hold.

 

It’s dangerous to dream.

Needs energy, nu?

Needs courage.

Needs strength

And endurance.

 

Today, I don’t have that.

Today, I just sit

And listen.

To listen is to pray,

To listen is to look deep

And give the gift of self.

To listen is to surrender,

To disarm oneself.

And so, I listen.

 

It’s the least I can do.

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Exhortation (OR: Who The Hell Knows What This is About?!)

 

Exhortation

(OR Who the Hell Knows What This Is About?!)

©April 7, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

 

Force the wo-

rds

Cor-

ral them, he-

rd them

Cro

wd them, ha-

rass them

Cow them into sub-

Put them on the boat

That awaits all words.

 

Yes!

 

(Poetry thrives on this –

The fear of silence.

 

Prose does, too.

Except that it has

So much more space,

So much more leeway.

So much wind blowing

Madly through chapters,

Stirring our consciences,

Making us stammer out

Confessions.)

 

And, like a silken thread

Running palely blue and gold

Between words and worlds,

Silence glows,

A Presence

Waiting to be glimpsed,

An Absence

For whom we yearn.

 

Death can wait.

Death knows how.

Death lies low

Waiting to spring

From the shadowy recesses,

Near where Charon waits.

 

And Life turns

Her head, as she flees

The Silence,

While the words

Become a ghost,

Wailing for her

Orpheus, us.

And all around us,

Roll her echoes,

As we climb, sobbing

Into the light.

What It Means

What it Means

©April 4th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

 

To be human

Is to be

Open to life

Open to newness

Open to love

Open to beauty

Open to building

Open to creation

Yet, it can sometimes be

Often so.

It can mean

Being pliant

Giving in

Suppressing need

Caring

Giving

Scattering of self

Nurturing at great cost. And always, it is

For it calls

For tearing down,

Destruction

Undoing

Till, at the end,

All that’s left

Is the kernel of

The original self.

And a whirlwind

Waiting in the wings.

And a field, far, far away

Waiting to receive it.

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ROOTS

ROOTS

©April 4th, 2014

By Vijaya Sundaram

 

I was in a fruitish mood today.

Brutish and fruitish.

But now, in the still afternoon,

I feel rootish too.

As in, I want potatoes

And carrots and beets

And turnips

And other rootish things.

I want to eat ROOTS!

Roots! The fundamentals,

The basic, the beginning

The origin, the start,

The building blocks.

From the roots, the shoots,

From the shoots, the leaves

From the leaves, the flowers,

From the flowers, the fruits,

From the fruits, the seeds,

And from the seeds,

The ROOTS!

That’s where I wish to be.

Buried deep in soil.

Warm, cozy, at ease with worms

Curled tightly against the cold

Protected from frost and

Protected from callous disregard.

If I were close to the earth,

I should not care

I would not worry

I would rest easy,

Knowing my turn will come.

But once you’re above-ground

You’re easy prey.

Birds, bees, moles, well,

Actually people, seek you out.

You put on a show of greenness

Of flowers and grace

You dance in the vagrant breeze

You give of yourself.

You bend to the will of others.

You forfeit yourself.

You scatter your seed

And you sleep.

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New Pup

Puppy
©2014, Vijaya Sundaram
(February 22nd, 2014)

A puppy tumbled into my world.

I am heavy with the weight of her,
Heavy with care, but light with love.

She trusts that we will do right by her
(And how could we not?).

It is a sacred trust, this trust
Of puppies and children.

The trust of dependence
And hope, of helpless love.

In her leaping and silliness,
I find joy and the quick of life.

In her quick eyes and mind,
I find delight and delirium.

In her delicate bones, and
Elegant face, I find pleasure.

In the cleaning and the holding,
The picking up and the cuddling,
In the sleeping and the feeding,
In the sluicing and the drying
Of this pup, simple satisfaction.

So, why am I unsatisfied today?

Foolishly, I think:
What about those other things?
Why not exist in the here, the now,
The growing circle of the
Universe of Dog?

Unselfish love.  Selfish pleasure from it.

In unselfishness, I see
A glimpse of selfishness.
And I swim towards it, grasp at it,
Hoping to be saved.

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Air and River — A Love Poem

Air and River – A Love Poem
©Vijaya Sundaram
February, 14th, 2014

I love you.
And without you,
The earth is breathless,
Atmosphere absent.

With you in it,
There’s air, and air currents,
And spaces to breathe,
And spaces to feel,
And wind blowing gently
Through my hair.

With you in it,
There’s a song in my life,
Like a river flowing
Through dark and sunlit woods,
A river bearing gifts in secret,
Building a shore, building life.

Sometimes, the air currents disturb,
Sometimes, I feel the wind blow me
Off my feet, bearing me aloft.
Sometimes, the river sings shrill,
Making me long to press my ears
To still that river-song.

Sometimes, I long to rip through
That atmosphere, plunge headlong
Into another space.
Sometimes, I yearn to plunge
Myself into that river, and
Float, unresisting.

But that way lies death.
Perhaps another life, too.
But I don’t wish it, no.

For I know, I shall
Always, always, want both these,
This air to breathe, this river of song,
This love,
My love.

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Post-Sled Languor

Post-Sled Languor
©2014, Vijaya Sundaram
February 16th, 2014

On my back, near my child,
Who is intent on packing snow,
I feel the rush of the earth
On her axis,
A spinning ballerina
En pointe.

Snow quiets someone’s heartbeat
(Mine? My daughter’s? The earth’s?)
Traffic rushes by, while I
Lie, staring at a pale sky,
With its light flurry of clouds.

And across my field of vision
Blank as I am, quiet as I am,
(But not quiet like death, not quite).
Slices an arrow, shot from an
Unseen bow, bent on its
Unknown goal, and the sky divides.

Silver, the airplane shoots across,
And I watch, blank as snow,
As the earth spins.

A flurry of thoughts
Moves across my mind,
I think (how could I not?)
Of the bow from which I
Was shot, and the end to which
I am headed, unknowing,
(for how can the arrow know, completely?).

But even that thought dies away,
As I lie on my back,
In the snow, gazing blankly
At a pale, pale, darkening sky,
While near me, my daughter
Makes a snow-fort.

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