how will you kill the monster?
How?
Grandma’s Attic
A ladder crossed the attic,
tearing cobwebs draping the ceiling
everything matured and multiplied here
~ the dust, mice and more…
there was never an inch
to step up to dust and drive these away!
Amidst antiques and vinegar jars
would be our hiding place ~
a dark heaven with fairy tale-like
pots and pans,
enormous enough to contain us all,
clinking and clanging,
scaring poor mice away
while our clothes brushed the dust away.
We’ve broken many a “cherished” gifts
that no more adorned the halls and their walls…
Cucumber Thieves
Seedlings buried in the fruitful mud
the smell of wet soil and first rain,
cucumbers, gourds of sorts and beans,
farmers toiling to earn their fruit.
Sometimes the rain starved the earth,
but the farmers strove, shedding tears and sweat
and watched their crop grow,
for, at the end of the yield was joy
and addicts, killing time with salt and pepper.
Markets looked like a salad bowl, pale green,
a peculiar taste, relished once a year
when rain fell and the season of cucumbers
made us little thieves and tell some lies…
Sugar
“Bitterness becomes you”,
the china cup smirks
as I place my lips on hers
imagining sweetness.
I can still feel through the grains
dancing in my cup of old ivory Ceylon tea,
now turned to oolong green;
~ the comfort of sugar
:the energy it gave,
:the energy taken away.
Yesteryears’ taste tickles my tongue
as the stirring spoon fights
to balance my insulin.
Our Fishermen
The neighborhood smelt like a fish country,
the cocks woke the wives
and they shoved wood in the stone fireplace,
packed midday meals
and set their men mid sea.
Then they groomed, put a flower in their hair
and began their day.
There’s nothing left on these shores anymore
except for bits and pieces of nets
and floats caught amidst bayhops.
The boats seemed to have been washed away
in the storm of modernization,
The space where surplus fish dried
is turned into a parking lot,
- not for you and I, but for taxis
bringing tourists to shacks and inns.
Cocks oversleep too, everyone’s relaxed:
their sons sail the high seas.
Wives, still fish vendors
buy from regulated government agencies
when there’s need for more buck.
Missing
The doorbell rings.
Red trickles along with drops of rain
on her skin,
mother is setting the table for dinner
as father pulls his shorts beneath the towel,
her babies are shivering from the wetness,
it’s obvious from their fragile frames,
mother rushes for the towel and clothes,
and I would not know if she wiped
the water or the tears.
No talk is made.
We’ve gone through this before
except maybe there’s rain tonight.
My clothes are oversized for her kids,
father would have to have his dinner in the bedroom tonight
and let her and her children be comforted,
while I listened to the narrative, one more time…
There’s fear… (no fright though)
of her husband banging the door
and dragging her and the children through the rain,
or simply of a squabble among the men,
but it’s past the hour beyond revival,
dead drunk to even
realize they’re missing.
Tamarind Seeds and Sweet Potatoes
Withered joys and faded childhood,
memories drain through nostalgic muslin
and liquefy in a squalid world.
I am dying
to breathe the sanctity of fresh air,
capturing hopeless moments
I won’t see in our children’s joy.
What would they know about the
flavors and aromas of nature,
of life, of fulfillment?
Those we relished
with mere roasted tamarind seeds
maracas-ing in our pockets,
garnered for games of our own.
Elders masticated them between their grinders,
recounting mysterious tales
while weaving jasmine garlands
in the terracotta verandahs,
as the sweetness of dried leaves roasting sweet potatoes
ruled the air.
This history will not repeat for sure,
although the jasmine will blossom,
and the leaves of the trees…
Well, where else will they go,
except being simply burned?
Iced Candies
Craving for 10p iced candy,
Feeling like kings with coppers in tight fists,
We drained all flavors until
their fascinating colors painted our tongues,
Leaving fruitless ice on the bamboo stick
in our tiny hands.
Such were the days,
Where friends fought without bringing heartaches
and same recipes differed in taste.
Still feeling like a king, now in my own freedom
with money in my pockets,
fists, too small to hold the change,
I wait cravingly for the candy man
as life sucks out colors with a tongue of fate.
~*~
clouds begin to bleed
as arrows pierce the sky
mountains hide the sun
~*~
Pauline
Old, ever since I was born
she saw her hundred and three years
skin wrinkling in simplicity
as I ran before her gate to school, late.
Hands trembling
like those of a temple priest
ringing a hand-bell at Pooja, invoking the Gods…
Her hands, too feeble
labored on things needing great strength.
At mid morning her fire cooked rice congee
awaiting us on holidays
and gave us energy to keep the rest of our day going,
eaten from an earthen bowl:
Appetite built with slice of pickled mango and her love.
She passed this life
without growing older or weaker
but happy, naïve about a complex world.
Summer Scent
of 70’s
Cheerily crushed watermelons
chilled our heels
as they left marks in the Sangolda sand.
We passed women wr
apped in torn clothes
nurturing vegetable gardens
fragrant with various blossoms,
their men, like Adam at creation
marinated in dirt and sweat.
drawing water from the wells: clean and pure.
Air, filled with smoky scents
and trees with luscious fruits,
the sweetness, flowing through our nostrils;
thrown down with stones
on the warm ground.
Eating this fruit, fresh, broken: Ah! an inimitable taste,
as the jasmine breeze
blew and dried the beads
from our brow.
Learning from
the best
The gate would squeak
around sundown like bells of angelus
enlightening me you’re home,
with a quarter in your pocket
and a Coke for me.
No one bothered to meddle
with your life,
just as you left each one to their own.
The beef you cooked with extra salt
still lingers on my tongue…
that was the accompaniment to go
with your drink on Sundays.
Your mother would warm water
for bath in a large black copper pot
and remind you it is getting cold
but then, it was also getting darker
and you would have no time for me.
I see your face
in some of the men whose faces
are engorged with drunkenness,
and yet seem not so drunk.
Like you, they too
don’t trouble anyone, but me…
I feel, they too will die silently, someday,
without anyone knowing
they have been drinking…
You’ve always told me not to drink,
then why did you?
Rosewater and a Fairytale
A bedpan and urine stained sheets,
lay on the terracotta floor,
Balm and incense subduing the odor.
Her foster daughter in fourteen rooms: cleaning
Victorian furniture, picture frames on high walls
of those lying in their graves,
A wall clock showing 6.43 p.m. at 10.15 a.m.
Coral vines grown wild conquering the garden,
Cracking crockery,
Wood apple trees and penalized bats
hanging on the nets
and windows looking over the river
where dead bodies flowed,
Doctor’s prescriptions, pension slips,
and thick power glasses on the bed-side table,
Cookie tin with pills, rusted from the base,
lay on the dresser,
There too, a bottle of rosewater, Eau de cologne
and a Bible with dog-eared pages.
An empty rocking chair
lying in an unvisited corner,
often used by visitors’ bored children.
The stone on which her servants used to grind.
The verandah: twenty steps from the rusted gate below,
was all that she left behind.
The Prince Lost his Crown
We built castles together
against the mango trunk
and pitied them as leaves pelted raindrops,
freezing,
grasshoppers and dragonflies, our prisoners.
He looked better than a prince,
although he and other kids in the neighborhood
dragged me on a chariot
with their childish cacophonic clamor.
He had started growing his beard,
his hair, grown below his shoulders,
heading to ruin his life…
I didn’t know then
why we were drifting apart…
He fathered children
that were not his own,
bailed out countless times…
I visited my grandmother’s house
that stands quiet,
the chariot, devoured by termites
and the mango tree, cut down
by the landlord.
I was hoping I would meet my childhood mate,
and sure enough, he appears before me,
leaving me dazed.
It’s over two dozen years
and he hasn’t grown to be the king I thought he would.
Jano’s Ballad
Oh how the mountains weep!
Like they did when they were plundered,
Birds flew for shelter in nearby valleys
and from Jano, the folk’s fierce shepherd.
With a loin cloth around his waist
and head wrapped in a turban,
He swept through the quiet village
for unfamiliar air that seemed so urban.
Selling chevon, fouls and eggs to villagers
For a paltry sum of unsettled money,
Sometimes he’d venture into the forest
treating villagers to best quality honey.
Goats and poultry was his livelihood
A roof of reeds spread over his head,
Nature being a friend, he grew vegetables,
seasons’ fruits allowed his legs to spread.
His family dormant, his wife unknown,
The sons, they drank and one drove a truck,
The other built a brick house with concrete roof,
youngest went to foreign land to make a fast buck.
The truck driver was killed in a crash,
so did the one that lived in a brick home,
The foreigner returned with nothing to his name,
With borrowed money he would drink and roam.
Jano lived long enough to see his sons’ miseries,
He grew tall and thin and then one day he lay still.
I remembered him as an ogre ‘til I grew and knew all,
I remember him as a good man and always will.
Early Lessons
In giving,
We do not remain deprived,
But privileged pilgrims to profusion.
In giving,
We do not lose much from our treasuries
Or become destitute
But grow richer in spirit
And wonderful in the eyes of the receiver.
In giving,
We never die poor.
The Big House
Whatever happened to the majestic house
you nine brothers once lived?
The beams seem to crumble and so are your vows
of living in harmony, ancestors aggrieved.
Walls have grown between your wives
and on your farmland instead of trees,
Open roof like a sieve, site for beehives,
Each of you on a trail of competition and tease.
Amidst your walls, stand your own homes,
your own kitchens, your own dreams,
While ants build where you slept, their domes,
and crows caw on your front steps and beams.
The birds waiting to be fed by your sons,
just like when you were little boys.
You have been dying, crumbling one by one,
out of breathe, out of your powerful voice.
Termites, rats, owls and snakes
have made your mansion their place,
Unless your self-centered sons awake,
li
ttle that’s left will be wiped without trace.
Face in the Ashes
When one of them passed away at 87,
a burden leaving his family
The other sat all alone, very quietly
around smoky smoldering embers
stirring slowly, until the very end,
as if searching for his lost friend.
Who could understand his pain
and hold him close to console?
Who could see what he saw
in his comrade’s remains?
Sighs of a Virgin ~ Shakespearean Sonnet
She walks with eyes staring into the moon,
Heart and soul locked with faded emotion,
Whirling sadly in her own life’s typhoon,
Crushed in stillness, scared to make a motion.
She waits like the shore for water to come,
Soak her arid life with sweet ecstasy
before her sensuality grows numb,
Does all she can to look hip and sassy.
She yearns for a touch to stir her passion,
A man to fill her pleasures and her nights
but they only watch her with compassion,
Time kills her dream and begins a new fight.
She stares at the moon, wrinkles in her eyes
Gazing through sighs as her hope subsides.
Variety
Of The
Eighties
Secrets
Secret No. I
The world collided,
lives shattered, yet life moved on,
you lived on without guilt or shame
driving your fault
into the face of death with me,
…all because of me,
a premonition,
furious from the news she gave you.
I am your only seed, you never let grow, never nurtured…
I am your angel,
moments have passed, moments forgiven
I see how each day you cry
yearning for a fruit you can never bear…
Secret No. II
I sold my soul to shame and wiped you out for eternity
plunging into a louder shame
and torments that live forever.
Tortured by these secrets, these mistakes, these blames…
You are my only child,
never seen, never touched, never felt, never hugged, never sung to,
Four Decades And A Poem Page 2