Dec 6, 2017 Original Poetry
A Response
(To Chekhov’s “Three Sisters” in Rehearsal)
©December 6th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram
Icy blasts from a sub-Siberian mind
Blinded my vision with snow-drifts.
There were sisters, lovers, friends
Would-be lovers, servants, a conniver.
There were losses, tears, quarrels, a death.
There were those who longed for love,
And those who loved, and were loved,
And those who loved, and were spurned,
And those who didn’t know how to love,
Puzzled always by their ineptitude, but
Holding tight to the object of their love.
There were those who drifted, seaweed-like
Through their days, swaying under currents
Of self-loathing and loss, but still laughing.
There were those who wept for a life
They would never have again,
Entombed in their own grief over the past.
There were those who brought gifts,
And expected nothing in return, as they
Left, laughing and singing, full of cheer,
Like a Season which had done its time.
And, there was one who got all she desired,
Taking, and taking, till she’d sucked dry
All who gave without resistance.
Heralding a new life, knowing nothing,
Nor caring to know of the suffering
She caused, she walked, candle in hand,
Casting darkness everywhere she went.
The one who loved, lost the one she loved.
The one who couldn’t, lost the one who loved her.
The one who longed for love, never found it.
While the Doctor wondered dully
Whether anything made a difference,
The Eldest Sister wondered if they
Could ever know, the One who served,
Found her peace of mind, and rejoiced.
Expecting nothing, she found everything:
A room, a bed all to herself.
Shelter, comfort, assurance in old age.
What more could one want?
Like shadows in a dream dreamed
By a spirit long gone, the Players
Moved through the words,
Like fish through seaweed.
Disquiet and melancholy held me
Stupefied in their grip, even as I
Admired the artifice of it all.
Back at my home, alone, swimming
Through the murky hours past midnight,
I breathed in a quiet Moment, then
Releasing it, drank a glass of water,
To wash down my day with cold clarity.
Time enough for imaginary sorrows
On the morrow, when I’d visit
Chekhov anew, and hear his voice
Across the desert of dead time.
I went up to my bed, where
Sweet sleep and rest awaited me,
My shelter, my comfort, my assurance
In a stormy world that beat its petrel
Wings against my joy-filled home.
_______________________________________
*A bit rambling, but I wanted to keep to my daily discipline of writing a poem a day for thirty days. Two more days to go!
Tags: #ChekhovResponse, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram, #ThreeSistersResponse