Stillness

If there's something I should be doing, it would be mediating. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to do this for reasons (or excuses) too numerous to list. Yet I recognize the benefits. Could writing about it be just as beneficial?

Stillness


There’s a certain stillness
that one finds in the eye of the tornado
When you find it, you first have to raise your arms to the side,
then let them drop
taturally

You close your eyes
so you can listen.

There are sounds you don’t hear but
feel in your open palms.

Then you listen to your self speak
without opening your mouth.

There may be a brush of a an object across your cheek, but you don’t mind.
Just because.

The stillness is more critical.
It’s just for a moment that you can savor this.

In just a moment,
The twister will turn its course and you must follow.
And make your choice to seek the courage
to either follow the eye or stand?

Spaghetti Love Dream

My mind is dazzled by
the twisted emotions I feel.
I want to loop and dip in the succulence.
I want to wallow in the spicy sauciness and
release myself from the rules.

There’s nothing I can do to control
the quiet entanglement on my plate, but
simply slurp all of it into me,
absorb the flavors and the delicious
desires. In my gleeful indulgence,
I let the last bit lash
against my chin
as a reminder of my guilty amusement.

Oh Jealousy

This was a writing prompt - write a poem that would be response to a song. One of my favorite songs is Natalie Merchant's Jealousy. I'm not trying to match the rhythm or anything, but just the emotional connection.

I’ve seen your photographs
inside the albums he
doesn’t know I’ve seen,
the ones he’s been meaning to change.
Even if he had,
a face like yours will always be
in his memory, cleaved deeply.

I smell your fragrance when he swigs
a glass of bourbon.
I hear your voice when he sings
a song from that island you saw together.
You are always here.

Do his nights with me match the ones
you created together?
Were there sparks in the air
as flames floated away from your bodies?

I know how he would’ve wrapped
his body around yours
because he tries with mine.
I feel the raw hunger,
a ravenous readiness
to devour
but it diminishes.
Yet his desire swells,
the desire to consume your body
as I am consumed by your ghost.

Sounds of Mumbai Morning

Not one simple sound performs the surya namaskar.

Awake are the birds with clear calls that spring into jigs,
and crows throwing husky shouts into the air like shotputs.
A melange of twitters turn into arias that
compete for a place in the open sky.

The brush of a straw broom as it grazes the ground,
sweeping the ever present dust and
pushes the fallen leaves aside to begin a clean new day

...OM

The sound that broke the universe
into its glorious self
breaks the morning as a neighbor prays.

The fruit seller strikes a bell and calls
a nasal ditty as he pushes his rickety cart,
laden with the weight of pineapples

A truck engine burps.
Cars honk their presence to the school buses.

The city brims with life
before the sun has fully stretched its arms over the sky.

Neologism Poem

The writing prompt was to create a word, and use it as subject of a poem. This was all I could come up with. However, my poem doesn't reveal its true meaning of the word, but its essence.


A meop came to me and asked if I could
take it under my wing.
It would only be temporary and oh, such a brief stay.
Why, it's hardly noticeable.
I welcomed it to shelter
under the shade of my soul.

It scurried quickly to bury its head first
next to me, and then nestled its heart
close to mine.
Before I could realize it,
the meop’s heart was fusing into mine.
My breathe was halting
just as its breathe was.

Suddenly I longed to take shelter in its soul.
The warmth and energy it emitted was
more luscious, more lucent
than my own.
The rise of energy lead
me to a moment of clear elation
yet a light intoxication
of a love and power
so divine that it could not be mine.
I surrendered to the meop and apologized
for thinking I could be its shelter,
when I was the one who needed it.

"It was at that age that poetry came in search of me"

The Dance of Enchantment

So, my friend D. is courting a young lady and commissioned me to write a poem to help woo her. He's quite smitten and excited about her. I accepted the challenge to write a love poem though I've never met her. Her MySpace page confirmed she was a belly dancer and had eclectic interests in theater. It gave me some ideas. So I banged this one out quickly; he was IMing me while I was writing!

The next day, he told me she did like it. I kinda liked it too, and thought I'd share it.


The Dance of Enchantment
He first heard the tinkle
when he thought he was alone.
It was this stirring chime that
caused his heart to blink
a little faster, a little more in tempo.
It was a rhythm anew, yet familiar.

The golden chimes announced her before
she floated into the room
like a willowy bird.
Each step pulsed a song, guided by the thrust of her hips.
She let him watch the trembling movements,
knowing he was mesmerized
hypnotized,
magnetized
by her alluring dance

Her arms reached up to touch the sun.
She plucked it with the grace of ages and
tossed it around her wrists. Her silver bangles hummed
as he silently mouthed the lyrics to this new song.

A silken scarf flew into the air,
fluttering downward into gentle folds
and casting their charms upon him.
He gathered the scarf and breathed in
the soft aroma, allowing himself to succumb to the intoxication.

Her laughter had sparkled
and left a lingering glow
that he must follow.

Traces of Emily

This poem landed in my inbox from Poemhunter.com. I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and did a few deeper studies of her work. I don't remember reading this poem, but I found that it reminded me of one my poems. Perhaps I did read this, and traces of this poem had stayed with me in my mind.

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because—The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

~*~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~*

Violet Hours

And though they share the breath of Dawn,
the morning Dew does not
listen to the Stars.
She surfaces when she chooses.
One day, she realizes that

there is a song she had not heard before.
The Stars.
They rise alone,
and long to touch the other,
to know what it means to glisten
in the violet hours.

Dew stands atop cushions
of Grass, but she
tumbles
down.
into
Mud.

We mustn’t try to so hard.
We should stay where we are.

Oh, would you have me dance alone,
ne’er be able to wipe your delicate tears?

Dew leaps and the Stars dive,
but each fades into the arms of the Sun.

Fondly

Fondly

I still think of you fondly, she said to him.

Fondly? It might as well be “pondly,”
a stagnant body of algae-laden water.

No, fondly as in how the sun kisses
a watercolor portrait.
The paints have faded, leaving a dark outline of the images.
Faint pastel colors remember and blush at
the passion and vibrant colors
they knew that adorned my world.

When I think of you fondly,
the flaws and mistakes are erased
and only the delightful moments are outlined.

Mermaids Among Us

The next generation of women was born
with feet like eggplants.
They married men of the Soil, had
a child born of the Earth and they
stood on the chilly plains with lean legs.

Yet in the moonlight, their blood
ebbed and flowed with the sea.
Their tears were like salty jewels.
They didn’t know why they craved
the sonorous music of blue oceans,
the flavor of green kelp and
the sage teachings of the dolphins.

They adorned themselves with coral
and shells, yet felt empty.
“This is absurd,” they reminded themselves
secretly.

With feet planted on the still and dry ground,
they hid this story deep inside.
They gave generously to the Earth and divided themselves
to attend the needs of the Soil.

In their dreams, they heard the call of the Ocean.
Their legs returned to their natural state, and
they flipped, jumped and warmed their souls in waters
caressed by the moon.

Inspired by “A Survival Guide for Landlocked Mermaids” by Margot Datz

Flaws

Running my hands over
your chest and feeling the
flaws. Not knowing
if it is your skin
or my fingers.

Butterfly On My Leg

Butterfly On My Leg

It was when I sat in the darkness
of my own anger at my loss
that I suddenly noticed the soft and subtle flickers.
White wings came together like an angel's hands in a greeting.
The black eyes studied me.
She moved with steady steps on my calf.
Could I not feel anymore?

I did not move as I looked down. I could feel each footstep.
The wings were translucent, shimmering with
silken fibers. Yet they were opaque.
I wanted to see.
I wanted to feel.
I need to hear.
I strained and did hear the little one's words to me.
Fly with me.
I explained I couldn't.
I must remain to guard my losses.
Her voice beat consistently.
Fly with me.
I told her I could not.

She flew higher and floated to my ears.
She told me of succulent lavendar and heathers,
the inebriating scents of the green grass,
and being quenched by the dew warmed by the rising sun.

She said she understood. She knew.
It was only when she left her cocoon
was she able to savor the lushness of life.
The dark confines were cozy and safe.
But, hunger raged. The fatigue.
The desire to break out, stretch her wings and senses.

She began with a tiny punch.


*~*~*~*~*~*~
This was a writing prompt in my poetry journal - "Imagine a butterlfy lands on your leg."

Tribute to The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World

I've been reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez lately, and it's impossible not to be inspired and in love with his stories. Here is my interpretation of his short story "The Handsomest Drowned Man"

Entangled in Seaweed

Somehow, in the course of their normal days

without anyone realizing, they lost their

dreams. They were simply tossed

over the cliffs

with all the other loved and spent objects.

It was so uneventful. They didn't even know it.

They slept hard sleep, awakening to remember

only what was not done.

The women lost their softness,

while the men packed away their strengths

like wool blankets found in June.

Their bodies blurred into continuous days.

When the dreams happened to wash onto the shore,

the children did not know how to greet them,

as they had never been introduced.

Though the dreams lay entangled in scales and seaweed,

everyone took a risk to welcome an Unknown,

but possibly familiar.

They revived embers that barely glowed

and gave them a place to nestle, breathing into the fire.

A light of brilliance,

of all things enormous, wondrous and lustrous,

shone upon them. They wallowed

and followed in a sensuous and ethereal world,

that promised a Tomorrow.

They held their new found dreams above their heads,

allowing themselves to be lifted.

Their feet no longer touched the ground.

Bubbles (My Poetry) Eclipse

I had a great reading at Robin's Bookstore last week where I was one of the 3 featured poets in the Philadelphia Poets Journal's Annual Ethnic Voices event. It went really well and I was inspired to share more of my poems on this site and in future poetry events.
Here are two new poems:

Eclipse

When the moon finally
asked the earth to dance
he gazed into her oceans as
she locked her eyes upon
his marble beauty.
They leaned in closer
and blocked the sun and stars.

Moonlight

Moonlight just happens.
It's a naughty, decadent light
that breaks the rules.
There are brazen lines of blue and silver
luminescence where there should be shadows.
Not the clear yellow light of the sun,
but droplets from the wanton satellite.

Annual Philadelphia Poets' Ethnic Voices

Annual Philadelphia Poets' Ethnic Voices

This will be my first public reading of my work. I'm still trying to decide what poems to select, since this is a multicultural event. Most of my work isn't related to my ethnicity, but to other influences.

If you're in town, please come and be part of my cheering section!

Bubbles (My Poems): Pottery Barn Days

Pottery Barn Days

These precious people live in homes with soft creamy linen slipped sofas
and clear glass cylinders brimming with white seashells
on the Espresso end tables.

The Ivory and Havana Dark Weave furniture enjoy the
clean ocean breezes, immune to the rage of elements.

They eat heartily at clambakes. Tables set
with colanders in a nautical blues and reds,
plump lemons for the lobsters and white pails to collect the shells,
and bottles of Pinot Grigio knotted with sand-dollars.

The catalog says it brings family back together.

Leaves That Fell In The Middle Of Spring.

We saw the leaves fall this spring.
Wasn’t the tree always going to be lush,
adorned with green buds and white blossoms?
All the others were.

Why, the leaves are life of the tree!
They dance and sing with the wind,
and they tickle the young buds until they laugh.

We don’t know why, but the leaves loosened themselves.
It was too early.
Not fair.
No, it cannot be.
They had not felt the June sun nor tasted the August heat.
The young buds need their shade to grow
into delicious fruits of September.
They must stay.

The tree tried to hold onto them
“Just a bit longer.”
And, even when the stems were thin
the pain to cling was too much,
the leaves still believed they would stay
and keep the branches warm.

Along came a calm April breeze, which circled her arms
around the leaves. Quietly cradled each leaf and
carried them afar.
They were free to float and frolic.
They missed their tree,
but had another journey to follow.

The tree stands with a wide, open embrace.
If you listen to the rustle of the leaves in May,
you’ll hear the whisper of the melody they left behind.


In memory of leaves that fell this spring

- Dr. Padmaja Shinde 1966 – 2007

- Boney Dhar 1964 - 2007

Bubbles (My poems): Art Begets Art

Yesterday, I was fortunate enough to attend a women's writing workshop at the Pen and Brush in New York City. For me, it was a day to feed my soul - I had a chance to write and interact with exceptional people, all who share a passion for writing. I definitely came away feeling elated and optimistic, and found wonderful support.

The Pen and Brush is an amazing place to be and full of inspiration. It's a historic brownstone and they have an exhibit of women's artwork around the room. Since we were there from 9 to 5, the sun cast light and shadows. I saw the paintings actually breathe with the changing light.

We did two writing exercises that tasked us to view a piece of artwork in the room and let it reveal itself - actually "reveal you to you." So, for a change from the motherhood posts/poems that I have been recently posting, I found myself writing about me. (Yes, I remember her!)

The third exercise was to draw conclusions from the first two poems.
I was thrilled to find images of these two beautiful pieces online.


Exercise one: She, Me.

(Inspired by Nikki Moore's "She" a collage of torn magazine paper)

Pieces of you and others

make me.
Dress me up, tell me who
I should be,
wearing hats, wearing boots
draping myself in all that
is around me.

But really, my soft curves,
curvier, linear
interior lines
are my true self. And
if you care to step closer to
me, you'll see the hues of me.
I am not
just one shade, but
colors that glow
and fade
and sparkle
and change.


Exercise 2:

(Inspired by Min Sin Kim's "Room 502")

If you sit long enough,
You will become one of them:
Helpless, hapless statues.
Embraced by a stale air,
unable to reciprocate,
only hesitate.
You will be paralyzed by your anger,
holding for an eternity what
you need
to throw now.
Your soul will become
a cool polished stone.

There is a light, you see.
A window. Jump
through it.
Take me with you.


Exercise 3: Gather the pearls, the necklace will come

A grain of sand
found itself into an
Oyster. It irritated.
It burned. It let her know
it was there.
The Oyster wanted to
rip it out. Let it free.
But, she liked it.
In time, her shell hardened and
she grew into it.
she felt the irritating sand was
gone, and a smoothness bubbled
Inside. It lolled about the folds of
her belly and her heart,
but it stopped short her mouth.
When would she be able to release it?