Feb 10, 2016 Uncategorized
To a Spider
©February 10th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
With eight eyes, what do you see?
The universe is an octagonal thing.
And all the sounds of it must be
Octaves of sensation!
Do you see eight worlds?
(Allow me my fancies.)
With delicate, eight-legged gait,
You, a creature from another world,
Inhabit the same physical one as I do.
Do you compute in base eight?
And those perfect eight-pointed webs —
How do you calculate them?
(I do wonder at you.)
So many perceptions,
So many perspectives!
So many pensive hours, patiently
Spinning a web, perfectly woven.
(I wish I could love you).
And some shriek in terror
When you swing down, delicately
Putting out your bridges
From one world to the next.
(I do admire you.)
And yet, we don’t hesitate to sweep
Away you and your children,
All that work, aeons for you
In the making of your home,
Gone, gone in a whoosh of vacuum
Or a swish of broom.
(With only two eyes, we don’t see.)
Do you consider us?
Do you fear us?
Do you note us
As living beings?
Or, are we magnified
Monsters from a nightmare
Advancing towards you,
As you scurry to hide?
(Forgive us our trespasses.)
I am
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
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Tags: #Original Poetry, Octagonal world, Ode, Perspectives, Spider
May 15, 2014 Uncategorized
Perspectives
©May 15th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Doors are good,
But there are so few of them
Windows, on the other hand,
Draw me like a magnet.
Windows keep the wind out
Wind down our day,
When we shut them.
Windows tantalize,
Holding out a view
A promise of something,
Which, if we chose, we could
Climb out, fly out,
And claim.
Looking out, we see dogs run,
Children play, cars rush on,
Stray bags on aircurrents.
We see flowers unfold petals,
And birds unfurl wings,
And our vision takes flight.
Or, perhaps, we don’t see.
Perhaps, we see blankness.
Where a brick wall faces our window.
We see a fire escape,
A bored pigeon,
Pedestrian and dreary.
Or, maybe, schoolboys
Smoking pot, or drunks in
Stumbling stupor.
Perhaps, our windows trap
Pockets of madness,
Of sadness, of despair.
Perhaps our windows are
Simply painted on, faking
A word that doesn’t exist.
But doors, now.
Ah, doors are good.
Hinging on promises, symbols,
Giving us sweet metaphors,
Making portals, pathways
Into other worlds, they flash
Glimpses of secrets which swirl
Into other more mysterious ones,
Perhaps to another, darker,
Gnarlier, older universe.
Or, perhaps they give
Us an out, a means to escape,
Even if for a little.
Every doorway has its
Secret Mezuzah, its blessings
Keeping out danger,
Locking in peace.
But what if the danger
Were within?
Would the mezuzah be
A Möbius loop?
If I had my way,
I’d have my door close
To my window, and
Make one work as well
As the other.
It’s all a matter
Of perceptions, perspectives
Of a frame, after all.
That which is framed
Is good, named, tamed.
And then, when we step out,
The world, dense and hungry,
Advances, intent, angry,
Rears its massive head, and
Swallows us whole.
Tags: #Original Poetry, Doors and windows, Frames, perceptions, Perspectives, Worlds