POETRY CORNER
Re-Markings Vol 15 No.1, March 2016
Five Poems
Patricia Prime
Themes on a
Variation
Two women at
the start of summer
sit outside on
the veranda talking
while all I
hear is the rustling
of tui in the
apple tree and see
their black
wings and white throats
as they flit
from bough to bough.
There’s a great grey cloud
paused above
the distant hills
so still it
shapes the slow afternoon,
then
storm-light breaks through cloud,
flares for an
instant and dies
far away in the
evening sunset.
Scene at the Beach
He’s walking behind them –
the man, the
woman, the dog,
beneath the
pohutukawa trees
lining the
burning sand.
There’s a pulse
in the air:
the sound of
gulls, the churn of waves,
but most of all
is the argument
that continues
along the beach.
The woman leans
away
towards the
comfort of the trees,
the man dips
his feet in the cooling
sea, trailing
the dog’s lead,
while the
child, the one they
are fighting
about – they think
can’t hear – is
counting seashells
in his bucket
without a care.
Blue Bowl
Walking along
the seawall
where the gulls
craft the blue
there is only
that moment
of wave-song
crashing on the rocks
for a billion
years.
It can be hard to look,
hard to stop
and breathe in
slowly, let the
footsteps
get near, see
the child’s fingers
picking up a
pebble.
A blue upturned bowl
seals the
horizon, cumulus
clouds licking
its edges.
To live is to
perch, precarious,
on the rim. I
stand still
noticing only a gannet
swimming in the
deep blue.
He’s circling
the harbour
waiting for
something to swim
past, his
pin-eyes alert.
Touching Wood
Why imagine the
worst happening?
A boy knocked
down in the waves,
the back door
broken into, robbing
the home of its
security. I recall
leaning my face into the flowers
in the Rose
Garden on being inspired
by the perfume
I hadn’t expected;
of being moved
by emotion
of the music at my husband’s
funeral. I try
to focus on the present,
this negative
thinking banished
by the beauty
and endurance of nature,
to extinguish what I cannot say
and banish it
forever; to thank
my good fortune
as the prized
and privileged
survivor of fate.
Ryuka
whatever
the news on the screen
while we
can we must love each day
it dawns
to give us life or lack
to enjoy
the next day
I cannot see the ocean waves
on the
other side of the hill
where the
road comes to a sharp bend
there’s the
smallest cottage
if I doze it is to expand
my
vanishing point while traffic
blurs past
me outside the window
towards
the motorway
the gas sheen in Van Gogh’s puddles
yellow
halos rimming cafes
almost the
colour of sunshine
the image
is so strong
spring has come and the pink blossom
sways in
the breeze like a dancer
bare and
graceful on the hillside
its
presence fills my life
an old couple walk in the park
taking
advantage of the sun
their
thoughts that spring has come at last
greeted by
buds and trees.
·
Patricia Prime, based in New Zealand, is co-editor
of the haiku journal Kokako, reviews/interviews editor of Haibun Today and a
reviewer for Atlas Poetica,Takahe and other journals. Patricia edited the
special issue of ekphrastic tanka for Atlas Poetica, has selected haiku for the
Touchstone Awards and has written an essay on her tanka for Ribbons, an essay
on collaborative writing for Lynx, and one on tanka prose for Haiku NewZ. She is on the editorial
panels of the Indian journals Poetcrit, Writers, Editors, Critics and New
Fiction Journal. Her poetry, interviews and reviews have been published in the
World Poetry Almanac (Mongolia) in 2009-2015. She has recently edited, with two
Australian poets, Amelia Fielden and Beverley George, an anthology of tanka written
by New Zealand and Australian poets, called 100 Tanka by 100 Poets. The world
haiku anthology, A Vast Sky, edited with Dr. Bruce Ross and others was
published recently. She has published a book of collaborative tanka, Shizuka,
with French poet, Giselle Maya.
v
Four Poems
Zehra Nigah
Translated from the
Urdu by
Urvashi Sabu
The Acrobat Woman
She stands, against the wooden board
As though impaled in every part
First her son, then her husband
Will rain knives upon her
Over her hands, over her shoulder
Over her head, over her back.
The spectators, with bated breath
Watch this spectacle again and again
As if it’s the first time.
But no one knows
That in this carnival called life
Ornamented and impaled
To the board of domesticity
This woman conceals within her
The knives aimed by her own kinsmen.
If there’s a difference, it’s just this:
The sharp blades of these knives pierce her body
But are invisible to the world.
Exile
Sita’s the talk of the town
Barefoot on the flames, as she walks down.
A goddess, if she emerges
unscathed
A sinner if the flames consume her whole,
She whose beauty soothed the universe
In the mirror of fire, does herself behold.
Let the world think what
it will
But that all-knowing God!
The destroyer of sin and falsehood
Is so naïve, and still her Lord?
Behold! She crosses the
flames unharmed
And her husband’s trust does win,
She sees Rama, his arms wide open,
All eager to fold her in.
She walks up to him,
having crossed that extra mile.
But from that day onward, she lives in true exile.
Superman
Why do you stare at him thus? Remember?
He’s the same urchin you would see
Every time, when you traveled this way.
Early in the morning,
yellow dust cloth in hand
He would eagerly wait for the signal to turn red.
Late afternoon, with those bundles of mid-day newspapers
Clutched to his chest, he would come.
And in the evening, laden with fragrant gajras
He would bloom in these streets.
Maybe you’ve forgotten the lilt of his voice
That chirped on endlessly.
Perhaps you’ve forgotten his luminescent eyes
That saw and shone all at once.
Ask him his name and he
would reply, ‘I’m Superman!’
Almost flying, he would cross each road.
Like so many children in this, my city
He was illiterate, ignorant.
No guiding hand blessed his forehead.
He grew up in the blistering sunshine of his own toil.
A desert bloom, he had been rocked by the winds
And put to sleep on the bare chest of the city
Amid lullabies of the stars.
He was the inheritor of this blessed land, the heir apparent
He was the length and breadth and depth of the sea,
the forehead of mountains.
Why do you stare at him thus? Remember?
He’s the same urchin you would see
Every time, when you traveled this way.
Today, in this blessed
land, this Superman
Exhausted, and shivering with cold
Cannot wipe with his own hands
Even the saliva dribbling from the cavern of his lips.
No longer now that yellow dust cloth on his shoulder
No thought of that bundle of newspapers
No more that philosophy of self-imposed labour
No more that God gifted intelligence
No more that audacity of glib talk.
He’s no more concerned
with enmity or peace.
He’s now addicted to the poison in his veins.
Gulzameena
Gulzameena, Gulzameena, with your delicate finger,
What do you write on this pile of rubble?
Gulzameena raised her questioning eyes and replied,
‘A few days ago, this pile of rubble was my school
I would come here daily
And inscribe the Holy name of Allah on its wall.
My paper, pens and books, my fellow companions, have all been
destroyed.
I come here every day, and from the satchel of my memories,
I pull out the last lesson I learnt.
I write it on this pile of rubble and return
I know I am not destined to read
·
Zehra
Nigah is one of the most respected and admired senior
women poets writing in Pakistan today. Born in Hyderabad (India) in 1937, she
migrated to Pakistan in 1947. Her poetry conveys a sensitivity towards women
which is strikingly different from the usual aggressive feminist stances
commonly seen in contemporary women’s writing. Even more remarkable is her
empathic understanding of the psychology of children and the horror of child
exploitation.
- Dr. Urvashi Sabu is Associate Professor in the Department of English at P.G.D.A.V. College, University of Delhi. She takes keen interest in poetry, drama and translation and is also passionate about women’s issues.
v
Two Poems
Barbara Briggs
Returning
In the midst of the darkest of nights
I behold the silent petals of a rose aflame
In the center of a whirling world
I behold a sea of peace
In the middle of the desert
a garden appears
and the quiet song of the angels is heard
melting the snow upon the topmost peaks
embracing the soil with the fires of love
and in the distance
the golden bells resound
calling us back to you
O divine most loved
we are forever returning.
The Bells of Eternity
I hear the bells of eternity
ringing in the morning air
they sing of love and joy
of the flaming worlds beyond a sea of stars
they sing of union
communion
and the soundless dance that moves from here to here
they invite you
O my soul
they call you
out of the silence
into beckoning waves of light
arise
O quickening heart
arise and go forth
into the billowing space
of your destiny.
- Barbara Briggs is a freelance writer and author of two books: Vision into Infinity and The Contribution of Maharishi's Vedic Science to Complete Fulfillment in Life. Her debut novel, Pilgrimage on the Path of Love is scheduled for publication in October in England.
v
My Gulf Dreams
Maya Vinai
Dedicated to all overseas workers in
Gulf countries who sacrifice the best years of their life to fend for their
families.
I brave the storm and
wipe the dust and heat off my brow.
To build you a palatial
house gleaming with marbled opulence.
I devour the unpliant khubbus dipped in unsavory meat,
To placate your taste
buds with chicken breast squirming in spicy gravy
I hold back my tongue
when they whip and thrash me,
To let you spend peaceful
nights filled with serenity and comfort.
Like a deity in a shrine,
I circumambulate the youngsters who have just returned from home.
To get a whiff of oil
from their head and placate my patriotic ardor.
I jump at horror when I
hear from them of the tales back home,
Of elders in the
neighborhood who were unsuspectingly robbed one night when they were fast
asleep.
Of a co-worker’s wife,
who spent her day in straightening her in the parlour and nights burrowed in
her beloved’s arms.
On every festival and
cricket match day, I take a resolution to come back fast to see my child’s
growing years,
To watch her squeal with
delight and fight stubbornly for the toy she wants.
To see my wife dazzling
with pride in the gold necklace I had brought her last Christmas.
To see my parents spend
their twilight years in peace and happiness.
But I always succumb to
the impulse of gathering a little more…
Before I finally, gather
my dreams and head back home.
To be with my own when
they need me the most.
·
Dr. Maya Vinai teaches English in the Department of
Humanities and Social Sciences at BITS-Pilani, Hyderabad campus.
v
Two Poems
Sushil Kumar Mishra
COURTESY
Courtesy is essence of human values and humanity
Symbolises politeness and civility.
Sorry, thank you, please, good morning, good evening etc.
are words
Which sweeten social and family life with good wishes and
mercy.
Enriches human relation and unites the whole nation.
Beautifies and glorifies human personality with super
quality.
Costs nothing but pays something; extends friendliness,
Brotherhood and enhances social unity.
Makes life perfectly meaningful, fragrant and beautiful.
Improves love and mutual understanding.
Wonders of Science
Science is a blessing for the Universe.
Caused industrial revolution and all round evolution.
Caused Green revolution and increased food production.
Created White Revolution and enhanced milk production.
Caused Blue
Revolution and increased fish and meat production.
Caused golden revolution in fruits and vegetables
production.
Enhanced the life expectancy, decreased the mortality rate.
Made human beings busy and their livelihood easy.
Enlightened the world with knowledge and
Enriched industrialization and boosted globalisation.
Helped us to convert our dreams into reality
By tireless striving and pursuing perfection.
- Dr. Sushil Kumar Mishra is Associate Professor & Head, Department of English, SRM University, Sonepat, Haryana.
v
No comments:
Post a Comment