18. While My Mother

While my mother pored over reams of wisdom

Compiled from every obscure hamlet and mighty kingdom

That rose and rotted away through the years,

I grew adept from daily practice, not peers.

My father’s Catalyst, passed down as is tradition,

A daily reminder of him and his mission.

The surface smooth, worn by his meditative fiddling;

The mysterious, near imperceptible pinpricks I found riddling

Its otherwise flawless contours, marking every weathered inch—

Too regular to be by chance; the pinch

Of the Thorn as it pricked my thumb

Until a callus made it hard and numb,

Then onto the next finger. At last, when

Calluses showed I’d healed a hundred times ten

Times was when I was recognized as one

Among the Higher Healers. What is usually done

Is that the newly worthy healer is ordained

As elevated thus by the mentor who trained

Them. That day, my mother marked the occasion

With a handshake and, with some relentless persuasion,

An explanation. The story behind the tiny holes

In my father’s Catalyst. Despite the many tolls

Time has levied, I cling to it still:

A story that, with me, Justice shall kill.

17. Quieter

Quieter, sadder, angrier, driven: my mother went

About her days and nights. She spent

Hours reading, dove deeper into her texts

Composed over aeons by ancient, esoteric sects

Seeking to plumb the depths of Healing.

A million codices and crumbling scrolls dealing

With any number of sicknesses that plague

All people. Listed symptoms (specific or vague),

Hypothesized cures (fraudulent, inadequate, toxic or true)—

She read and memorized them all. Few

Were the treatises, from the earliest scraps

To the latest volumes—indeed, none, perhaps—

She hadn’t read. And, locked safely away

From prying eye and light of day,

She kept a record of every word,

Line, page and work that even referred

To her burning question: could death be

Undone? Her final answer has undone me.

16. You're Right

You’re right, I said. I have, so far, been more

Inclined to solitude than company.

My life: a solo, not a symphony.

I found in distant jealousy the core

Of what I was. But when you chose to pour

The life and soul of one who bleeds like me

Into my heart, I found some empathy

Begin to well within me. “Hmm. Before

“You say another word, pay heed to this:

“If empathy is what you seek, beware

“Of burning out before you start to glow.

“Like love can thrive and die before a kiss,

“A life’s compassion can be hard to bear

“If borne too fast. Now, watch the Healer grow.”

Not fair Indhu

This is the moment you should have been

making more sourdough bread

or writing those delectable stories

featuring warm, strong women

who are each other’s safety nets

or those food poems about chakka and manga

or texting me about what seeds I could use in the morning smoothie

or walking by the lake, or watching birds

or chatting with me, Anannya and Harry

all of us laughing, being crazy together

or you and I – we should have been talking

sitting in Anju’s Cafe or walking in Lal Bagh

or strolling under the huge rain trees on 11^th Main Jayanagar

or sitting on the shaky stone benches in 4^th Block Jayanagar

talking about trips we took recently or the ones we would together

about aunts and mothers who sang until they didn’t

about the need to carry water bottles

about reading, about writing

about what feminism means to us

about black rice and organic food

about marriage and motherhood beyond

the confines of age

about our relationships – also with ourselves

about kolams, about kalamkari, about life

but never death.

We never spoke of death, stalking us

and suddenly grabbing you.

Not fair Indhu.

We were supposed to meet on 22^nd April

when you said you were “coming down with something.”

Not fair Indhu.

What is to become of all the unfinished conversations

the songs we were supposed to learn together

the poems and stories still to be written and read out

the food and recipes we had to share

the places we had to go

and the wild things we had still to do?

Not fair Indhu.

 

Dear Anannya, (with gratuitous but meaningful poetic image) #happylabourday

 

Because I was tasked with not working today
I produce for you this labourless lay.
Poetry, as we know, is the work of fools
We use no implements, no workman’s tools.
‘Tis but the froth of useless vanity!
Some might say it prevents insanity.
At any rate, Anannya my dear,
April is my most looked-forward-to
Month of the year. When all the world’s
An image to the restless eye, and
Rhythm and rhyme is all I hear. Some
Days you could call it versified fear.
All of which is to say that I,
In words, the value of which many would dispute,
Present to you this, my heartfelt, annual, tribute.

Overheard

 

As organs go, legs could be seen
To carry a tune. From where I sit
A veritable arpeggio of pipes fugue
Into the room. Sheets of parquet
Flooring stream in straight lines
A down to earth scoring, each
Bar a measured note of shine.
They say the real reading of a book
Happens when you lift your
Eyes and look out, seeing inward.
Who is to say where music is
Heard. What master craftsman
Shaped wood and moulded metal
So that each note sang as clear
As the papered, printed, word.

not a poem

 Hello all - I'm still 13 poems short and planning to write into May until I'm done. Anyone else in this position? Also - planning to read more here and comment on more. Am missing being more a part of this community this year!

For Byron, Auden, MacNiece - and Jane

 (3)

Although he died of - let’s call it chronic

It’s hard not to admire Lord Byron.

His rhythms are muscular, even bionic,

His heroes of lusting non-rusting iron,

His heroines either angel or siren.

Yet women write their protagonists Byronic

Which if you think of it is pretty ironic.

(4)

Take the youngest of the Brontë sisters:

What with her writing literally on the wall,

Covering her consumptive fingers in blisters

(Must’ve been hard - she was not very tall;

It’s a wonder she wrote a novel at all).

Yet she’s put out the byronicest of misters

Poor Heathcliff, caught in plots full of twisters.

The Truth of Summer's Lies

 Another luminous night lies laughing On the lawn. Leaves yet to trip into Trees still just twinkles in the eyes Of dawn. Grasses scenting green In the air of snowdrifts gone. It could Be that this warmth is true it could Be that this sky of blue will drop From silver seas to mountains light As morning dew. Words to the wise If wisdom were summer’s meaning When wisdom lies less in the Day than in the dreaming. Hear the Snipe as it flies the wind its wings Sing keening. The courage of winter Will keep though the river weep and Dazzle in the streaming.

Dear Anannya, (with gratuitous but meaningful poetic image)

Because I was tasked with not working today
I produce for you this labourless lay.
Poetry, as we know, is the work of fools
We use no implements, no workman’s tools.
‘Tis but the froth of useless vanity!
Some might say it prevents insanity.
At any rate, Anannya my dear,
April is my most looked-forward-to
Month of the year. When all the world’s
An image to the restless eye, and
Rhythm and rhyme is all I hear. Some
Days you could call it versified fear.
All of which is to say that I,
In words, the value of which many would dispute,
Present to you this, my heartfelt, annual, tribute.

Think of your mother

Think of your mother 

when you see a woman and her son at a café 

each reading their separate books. 

Think of your mother 

when you feel the sharp joy

of seeing the first spring ducklings

still so new to this life. 

Think of her 

when you feel the weight of 

all you must do 

at your small age

or when you remember a 

faraway smell 

from childhood

or when a video on the internet

tells you to. 

Think of your mother gently

and often. 

But most of all 

think of your mother

when you notice in yourself

that depthless generosity 

that only she

could have given you.