Jan 19, 2014 Essays: On Books, Art, Literary Appreciation and so on, Music
- … And I had no idea that I was going to write a song. These words below flowed easily, as I put some chords together, and the melody came with the words.
- You may not know this, Gentle Reader, but the last time I wrote a song was in the late 1990s.
- Perhaps this will stay, perhaps it might not, but I liked it today. I plan to record a rudimentary version of it tonight on my MacBookPro’sPhotoBooth, so as to keep a record of it. Whether I will post the recording or not, only time will tell. Meanwhile, here it is, raw. And no, nothing at all prompted this. It’s just a story.
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School-Girl with Smart-Phone
(OR: Perhaps it Doesn’t Really Matter)
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 19th, 2014
The crystal face she peers into clouds right up.
Not a glimpse of clear sky,
Not a glimpse of hope.
She looks within, no messages pop right up.
No one to miss her,
No way to cope.
Should I stay or should I go?
Should I do my best to know?
Would it be the way for me,
To spread my wings, and to be truly free?
They don’t see her standing here alone so long.
They don’t see all her scars.
They cannot see her.
In the halls, as she walks by invisible,
People seem to stand so far,
They do not stir.
Should I stay or should I go?
Should I do my best to know?
Would it be the way for me,
To cut my wings, and then be so truly free?
Every empty canyon calls,
Every stretch of waterfall,
Every mountaintop so tall,
To each of these she starts to crawl.
Perhaps it doesn’t really matter.
Perhaps it doesn’t really matter.
A new sun will rise again
With me here or without.
Morning birds will fly again
With me here or without.
Trees will make their coat of green,
I will try to not be seen.
I will grow these roots and leaves,
And I will plant myself in earth.
I will find a face that’s undeceived,
And find it all to be of worth.
Perhaps it doesn’t really matter.
Perhaps it doesn’t really matter.
She turns to her phone
She turn to her phone
Call me.
___________________________ The End ________________________
Tags: #Loneliness, #Original Poetry, Girl with SmartPhone, original song, school
Jun 24, 2013 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Essays: On Books, Art, Literary Appreciation and so on, Teaching and Learning
Cross-posted on FB as well:
Just had my heart opened and cracked into many pieces, with my innards ripped out gently and inexorably by Tim O’Brien. [Finally got around to reading (and just finishing) “The Things They Carried.” Read it in spurts over the past couple of days, in between grading, cooking, grading, fending off an intruder, grading some more, dealing with people at work, grading some more, then saying, “The hell with grading- I want to read something GOOD, dammit!”].
Did I mention that I think Tim O’Brien is a god? War stories or not, this book is as tender, as beautiful, as merciless, as inexorable and as visceral as the writing of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, of Vladimir Nabokov, of Jhumpa Lahiri and of Arundhati Roy.
Now, I have to go back to about fifty or so short stories written by young people. Many of these are not half-bad. They badly need a full-time grammar and punctuation coach though, some of them. Still, I always like stories by kids even the most pointless ones.
The academic school year is pretty much done by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll believe it only when it’s over.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: grading, school, short stories by students, Tim O'Brien
Feb 22, 2013 Original Short Stories
The Horse With No Shame – A Transformation Story
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 24, 2012
I’m going to turn my teacher into a horse! thought Jim, as he watched her writing more words on the board, for them to copy and practise for their spelling test.
He squeezed his eyes shut and wished hard, then opened his eyes again. Nothing happened. His teacher wrote on, oblivious. The other students stirred restlessly, glancing at each other, hands fiddling with objects on their tables – a ruler, a pencil, a paper airplane that someone had surreptitiously made. Their feet tapped, their eyes dreamed on, minds elsewhere.
The hum of the electricity coursing through the lights in the room made his ears hurt. He gazed out the window, and saw a man throw a stick to his dog in the distance. A train rumbled by, and he watched that.
His teacher turned around, and caught him dreaming.
“Jim!” she snapped. “Focus on your work. Stop wasting time! There are all these big words to learn. Copy them down. Are you listening?”
He looked back at her, with his face wiped of any expression. Turn into a horse, he begged in his mind. Come on! Turn into a horse. You can do it.
“Well?” said his teacher, looking at him.
Then, the class gasped. There, before them, a transformation was taking place.
Jim felt all eyes on him, and stiffened in terror. He felt taller. Strange sensations coursed through him. He looked down, and instead of shoes, he saw hooves. Four legs had sprouted out. He felt an irrepressible urge to eat hay, or an apple. He flicked his ears back, swished something, and whinnied.
The teacher fainted. The students cheered.
Then, he trotted to the door, looked back once, and cantered out. A smile hovered mysteriously in the air where he had left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TheEnd~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Original Short Story, children, horse, Mysterious Transformations, school