May 23, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Saga
© May 22nd (into the 23rd) 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

It’s always about a quest, isn’t it?
Or a question that begs an answer.
Taking us through lives and lifetimes
And battles and romances, fought and won.

It’s about rings and magic and dreams
From which beasts and dragons emerge
And are transformed or slain.

It’s about honor redeemed,
Valour proven, hearts knits
Or torn asunder by time and space.

We want a saga,
We proclaim loudly,
We clamour for one.
We cannot have enough stories,

What about the story of one who left
Her native country to come far away
With the one she loved, only to find
His oaths of fealty were naught but air?
What did she do?    Do you want to know?

Or one, who having come so far
Finds there are a finite number
Of heartbeats left, and she needs
Strength to carry on for her children.
Did her saga carry her through lifetimes,
Between the verdict and the acceptance of it?
What of the friends who pledge their help?

What about he, who upon coming home,
Finds a note saying goodbye
And finds there is no grief, just
A hollow space which had been
Emptying slowly over time?
Will his story continue, or does it end in sorrow?

And what about the parent dying
Unseen, unloved, undesired
All alone in a vast, echoing house,
Where his beloved spouse died,
And he cannot hear himself think
So he talks to the air around him,
Which seems to listen, pressing close,
Like his wife’s body on the bed?

What about the dog, who, abandoned
By his owners, finds an old ruin,
Makes a home, and awaits his slow
Descent into death from disease and starvation,
Only to be found by those who care,
And those whose hearts bind them to
All living, suffering creatures, and who
Build a living being out of the dust?

They deserve no less a name,
For they tell a vast story
Sometimes of love and loss,
Sometimes of death and betrayal,
Sometimes of bad luck,
Sometimes of courage and endurance,
Always the story of finding something,
Someone who will capture their story.

Listen to their stories,
And drink deep of the well
Of their understanding.
Listen well, and fill your cup.

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In response to The Daily Post’ Daily Prompt: Saga

Tags: #DailyPrompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Saga, #TheDailyPost

May 21, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Sing, O Muse!
©May 21st, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Sing to me, O Muse!
Sing of children who play at war
And warriors who play at war
Only there’s no death in one,
And death in the other.

Sing to me, O Muse!
Sing of those who capture and kill
Who accuse the innocent,
Who feed the prisons more fodder
Of the darker-skinned kind,
Of the poor who are chased off
Parks and sidewalks for being poor,
Of the immigrant who leaves her land
Or his, for better shores, only to find
Horror upon humiliation forced
Upon them, being reviled for
All that they do to benefit
The fat, the wealthy, the self-satisfied.

Sing to me, O Muse!
Sing of wanderers far from home
Seeking wife and child, or children
Prisoners not of the Cyclops, of Circe, of Calypso,
But of bloodthirsty Ares in unseen prisons,
Operated in secret by men who hide behind acronyms
Who have power of the lives and deaths of
Others, who happened to stray unwittingly
Into their orbit;
Who serve Belial and Moloch, Azrael and Alastor;
Who take refuge in what they call the law;
Who get off on torture and force-feeding the helpless;
Who get off on waterboarding them;
Who get off on the agony of the damned;
Who maim and cripple their own minds,
While maiming and crippling others’ bodies.
How shall I sing of these?

Sing to me, O Muse!
Sing of those who kill the outspoken
The brave, the bold, who, in pursuit of the truth
Run afoul of those who pursue lies.
Sing of the good, the selfless, the kind,
Those who give of themselves
Who save the wretched, who clothe the poor,
And feed the hungry, and shelter the homeless
Who deal in mercy and goodness
And give willingly of themselves
To those who have need of them.
Tell me how goodness can prevail
When so much evil flourishes?
And how shall I sing of them?

Sing to me, O Muse!
Sing of children who die starving
While the rich feed on riches, and throw away excess
Sing of women who search for grains of rice
Who search for a drop of water,
While the wine-dark sea around their land
Gets hotter and hotter, as the waters rise,
Whose bodies are ravaged and defiled
By the demons who are born of war,
Whose homes are hollowed out
By those who mine the mountains for that which
Makes us all text each other faster,
About whether we’ll meet each other
And where, while rosy-fingered Dawn
Lights those lands where the rivers run red.

Sing to me, and tell me how
All of this came to be,
And who suffered this
To come to be.
And if you do, how shall I sing of this,
Save with fast-beating heart
 And rage and sorrow?

Sing to me, O Muse, and teach me
How to sing of this, and not court grief
Grief unending, grief overpowering,
Grief that threatens a vision of joy.
Teach me to sing of this, and still
Sing of fruit, and flowers, and summer skies
Of children, and laughter and love,
And animals who live simply, and birds and bees,
And trees that gift us the breath of life,
Of songs to come, and worlds to be.

For sing I must, of these things and those,
Sing I must of the dark and the light,
For without a vision of joy,
All is lost, all is forsaken.
Without flowers and children and happiness,
And budding trees and butterflies and laughter,
We shall live and die, revolving
In awful darkness, without dreams
Without love, without breath, without joy,
Without friendship, without stories,
Sans everything, dissolving into dust
After a lifetime of nothingness.

So sing, and teach me to sing
Of what I must do, of what we must do
To make all of this vanish,
As we contemplate the sunlight
And the golden honey of our happier days,
As one half of the world reels about,
Dying by degrees in the descending darkness
Of a hell on earth beyond all imagining –
So that we can seek, and find,
A truer Peace, that Land which is ours
By right, and shall become ours again.
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In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Sing

Tags: #DailyPrompt, #HomericReference, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Sing, #TheDailyPost

May 20, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Brick Shift
©May 20th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

You built your edifice
Brick by brick
You created the castle of you
Out of nothing, from nothing
You made your self a building
That sat on rich land, verdant
Lush with plants and trees,
Your castle housed attics and cellars,
Oh, and a damp dungeon,
Through which flowed a somnolent river,
Where you kept a sleeping creature
Fierce and fiery, long and spiny –
A creature you never visited,
But you knew lived and breathed
Down somewhere in the depths.

You built great halls and baths
Sleeping chambers, libraries
Turrets to look out from
And a moat around you.
And on the topmost tower,
You kept a phoenix, whom you loved.
Fire and water you loved,
And earth and air, too.
You fashioned for yourself
A world where they served you.

And the birds that wheeled around the tower
Sang songs and soared, but always returned,
For they were tethered to you.
Brick by brick by patient brick,
And stone and straw, too,
You built your edifice.
You saw for miles around,
You owned it all, celebrated all,
You saw that you could make your life
Whatever you wished it to be.
And so you did, so you did, for a time.

Ah, such folly!  How far can you make life
Yield to you?  How far can you shape your stones?
All one needs is one brick out of place, somewhere,
And the earth to shift beneath it all.

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In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Brick

Tags: #Brick, #DailyPost, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost

May 19, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Pen-Sieve
©May 19th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Perfect blankness is my state
When I think about thinking,
And if I had a pensieve
Like Dumbledore,
I’d have nothing to add to it,
But thinking about not thinking
Is making me pensive.
I miss being blank,
And having thoughts
Sift through me, and out
Leaving only lumps.
Time to do something useful
Like laundry or dishes,
Or maybe brushing the dog,
So the thoughts will come
Bubbling up, and I don’t need
To feel the strain when I think,
And I’ll heft a thought easily.

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In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Pensive

Tags: #Daily Prompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #Pensive, #TheDailyPost

May 19, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Wilt Thou Flourish?
©Mary 19th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I wilt in Winter.
When darkness tautens
Around my neck
Like a noose of gloom,
In the dead of December,
I wilt, desolate, disconsolate.
Despair and sadness, twin tight
Bands, constrict my heart.
Everything seems pointless.
Then, I breathe deeply
Watch snowflakes fall like dreams
Observe their beauty, console myself,
Remind myself that Spring
Will come again, and I must sing.
Singing, I will herald her coming.

I sing of Spring as she approaches.
And watch tender leaves glow rich green
And ferns unroll themselves
Unwrapping themselves like gifts
And watch my crocuses and daffodils
And hyacinths and narcissus
And tulips poke out one by one,
Perfect but oh, so short-lived!
And lilacs like pale dreams haunt the air
And perfume it so sweetly, I could swoon
From the lust and lucency of it all.

When Summer flowers tease bees
Into drunken ecstasy, they weave
Unsteadily through the air, humming
Sipping at the rich moisture
Of my plants, when I water them
Thirsty and grateful they are,
So why would they ever sting?
Sunstruck and dizzy, I keep cool,
Sipping water with lemons,
And I sing with the bees.
And hum in Summer.

But when the year tilts away
From the sun, warming her back,
It is then that my garden yields her store –
Burgeoning beans and basil,
And peapods bursting at the seams,
And pumpkins and squash trailing downhill.
Tomatoes ripening like voluptuous women
And taut eggplants tantalizing me with glowing purple,
And tricky green peppers beckoning me closer
And roses blooming unashamedly
And sunflowers yearning towards the sun
And it is in the Fall that things flourish,
And it is then that I flourish.

A creature of the seasons,
An accidental human, I.
But from wilting to flourishing,
I follow the Earth, and time
Swallows its own tail,
And eternity repeats its mantra:
Wilt and die, and grow and flourish
Over, and over, and over again.

___________________________________________________________

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Flourish

Tags: #Daily Prompt, #Flourish, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost

May 18, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

South-Bound
©May 18th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

The land pulses with heat
And moist air, pregnant and brooding
With malligai and bougainvillaea
And chanpakam and rojapu.
The pure and sinful scent of chandanam
The heady perfume of ylang-ylang
The fragrance of Madras coffee
The aroma of steamed idli with sambhar,
And upma and paper-crisp dosai-chutney
All blend with memories of temple-bells
And camphor-scented rituals before the
Incense-intoxicated household gods.

Where girls go to school in two-plaited
Goody-goody-ness, speaking primly
To each other on buses that lurch on,
While they stand in starched
School-dresses, carrying bulging
Satchels on thin shoulders,
And gaze stiffly forward, despite
Suggestive remarks and frank stares
From shiftless and shameless louts;

Where dabba-wallahs carry tiffins
To and from school and workplaces and homes,
In muscle-melting heat, on sturdy bicycles,
Secure in their role as food-carriers,
Doing no harm, doing much good;

Where the emaciated mendicant,
Bent-backed and black from the sun
Comes to the door of house after house
Singing, “Bhavathii Bhiksham dehi,”
And the lady of the house approaches,
Tips a bowl of uncooked rice into his brass pot,
While her child watches from the door
Heart beating fast for the barefoot beggar,
Whom one must never turn away empty-handed,
Because all who come for food
Are from the Divine, and may not be refused;

Where temple bells ring on Holy Days,
And the chanting of fat Brahmin vadiyars
Weaves a moody spell in the mid-morning heat
That mingles with the radiant burst of marigolds
Forming garlands for the gods, or priests,
While starving men and dogs sit outside the gates
Some waiting, others rooting through trash;

Where puritannical prudery persists
And the tyranny of tradition holds sway,
Where rules are made, and followed blindly,
Unquestioningly, and no sense emerges
Save that one must uphold tradition;
Where kindness saves, and community
Knits lost people together during floods;

Where dancers, musicians, thinkers
Create new worlds, rich with art;
Where technogeeks leave in droves
To find more sympathetic stomping grounds;

Where curd rice and pickles are enough
To keep body and soul together
In searing heat, and grinding poverty;

Where the sun beats down without mercy
And the rains slash down without ceasing,
Where the Bay and the Ocean
Drum incessantly against the land,
And the sun floods the waves in the early morn,
Strewing leaves of gold that skitter
Across the troughs and swells –
– This was the land of my youth. –

Where do you come from?
They asked, when I moved a few states Northward.
I answered, simply, “The South.”
And they said, Ah yes, I thought so.

Where do you come from?
They asked, when I moved across the ocean.
And I answered, “From India.”

But it is the South which beats in my body
Like a drum or a pulse.
And I shall return some day,
Unless the sea claims it first.

And if the sea does claim it,
I shall transform into a South Indian mermaid,
And swim home to the land under the sea.

_____________________________________________________________

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  South

Tags: #DailyPrompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #South, #SouthIndianReferences, #TheDailyPost

May 17, 2016 The Daily Post

Buddy?
May 17th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I’m not from the West.  The word “Buddy” does resonate with me, for me.  I prefer “friend.”

“Buddy” has a masculine connotation for me, sort of like Yaar, or Dost, in Hindi does.  And it also has a canine connotation. 

I noticed, with interest,  that my sister-in-law, brother-in-law (both white Americans) and others like them, whom I like, and towards whom I have warm feelings of respect and admiration, called their son “Buddy” when he was a young child.  It made sense to me.  I rather liked the sound of it.  It felt warm and sweet.

I have a daughter, who is beautiful, and the most beloved person in my husband’s and my world.  She’s fun to be with, and funny.  She’s growing more into who she is each day, becoming an equal to us in music and in reading, and in her ability to understand subtleties in life.  We converse at many levels.  And I have a canine friend, who is a doggess, and she’s the best doggess in the world.

They’re not “buddies.”  They are more than that.

My husband is my love, my partner, my dearest friend, my inspiration.  He’s WAY more than a “buddy.”

I guess I don’t have a buddy.  And it doesn’t bother me.

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In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Buddy

Tags: #Buddy, #DailyPrompt, #TheDailyPost

May 16, 2016 The Daily Post

What the Healthy!
©May 15th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I am tired of all things healthy
All this narcissistic absorption
In one’s food, and one’s skin
And hair, and whatnot!
All this measuring of waist
And hip, and chest, such rot!

Bring me palak, rich and green
With chunks of fat paneer,
And rich, creamy malai kofta
With fat, puffy naans, soft
And lovingly formed by the pudgy
Hands of the Indian baker
Standing proudly, making bread
In full view of all who eat as if starving
Everyone shoveling food madly
Into chatter-filled mouths.

Not us, though.

Observe us at the Indian restaurant:
Silently, silently we eat, books before us,
Occasionally pausing to share
A word, a phrase, a passage.
Then, we plunge back into food –
Food rich in cream
Swimming in it, it seems,
Food filled with nuts and such,
And butter, and oil and much
That’s not good for us.  Hurrah!
How come we glow with health, and life?

(Okay, with wider girths, perhaps?)

Bring me nice, fatty gulab jamun
Yes, and ice-cream too!
Splash ginger syrup on it ,
Plenty of sliced almonds
Pears and peaches and pistachios,
Yes, and melted chocolate,
And coconut flakes!
Let’s tuck in unhealthily, shall we?

Good.  Feel waist expand
Let out a nice sigh.
A discreet burp.
Slug down some cool water.
Then, keel over.

Healthy is my middle name.

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Written in response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Healthy

Tags: #Daily Prompt, #Healthy, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost

May 14, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Photograph©Vijaya Sundaram

Pearl Beyond Compare
(Underestimate)
©May 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Good at estimating
Hazarding a guess,
He could tell at a glance
The true price of everything,
But the value of nothing,
And he’d beat it down
To get what he wanted.

But when he picked up a
Pearl beyond compare,
Lying innocent and quiet
On the crab-infested beach,
He thought it a pebble
Laughed at its lumpiness,
Its monstrous size, saw nothing
In its shining depths,
Did not imagine riches
In its shimmering glow.

And he threw it away.
Into the hungry sea
And bought some fake ones
That cost him a fortune,
And possibly, his wife.

And the sea?  She was glad
And she let him be.
She had received her due,
She would torment no one.

For what the sea releases
She takes back always, always.
For everything flows back
Home to the sea.

Do not underestimate her.
________________________________________________________

P.S.  I was thinking obliquely about John Steinbeck’s book The Pearl, but my character tosses this metaphorical pearl back into the sea without even seeing what it is, whereas Kino hangs on to his literal (and metaphorical) Pearl of the World, and pays a huge price, which is, in its turn, completely different from what Matthew spoke on in the well-known parable (13:46).

In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Underestimate

Tags: #DailyPrompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #PearlofGreatPrice, #TheDailyPost, #Underestimate

May 14, 2016 Free Verse, Original Poetry, The Daily Post

Photograph©By Vijaya Sundaram, April 10th, 2016

Vision and Visions
©May 14th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

It is what you do not see
When you walk, eyes fixed
On everything beyond, your
Footsteps leading you
Inexorably towards your
Future, meted out to you
In incremental doses by
A timid mind – yours –
That is what interests me.

Vision is tricky in a fog
Your aging eyes,
Their lenses losing shape
Ache with a longing
For clarity beyond doubt, yet,
When you see clearly,
With a little help, of course,
You trust not what you see.

Is seeing, perhaps, always
A matter of where you stand?
A question of certainty,
Even if the world revolves
Dizzyingly around your heels?
As you turn and turn,
And the shapes flow in and out
Of an insidious mist, do you whisper
Whom do I trust?  What is the truth?

Eyes see eyes in a turning world
Eyes all around, seeing endlessly
Seeing each other reflected
Endlessly in their orbs,
Eyes all the way into the past
Into the future, seeing-blind.
Tell me again, are you there?
Were you ever there?
And am I here, if I cannot see?

It is a dream of visions
We are the dreamers,
We are the dream
We are the seers
We are the seen.

Somewhere in another world
A sea without stars froze,
Where a young girl sang
Floating above the waves,
Playing her sitar,
But the song fades from mind

And a voice cries in the wilderness.
And somewhere, eyes flash.

And the Sleeper sleeps on.
Eyes closed, speaking softly
In her sleep, as the visions
Emerge, merge, submerge.

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In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt:  Vision

Tags: #DailyPrompt, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #TheDailyPost, #Vision