Thursday, November 17, 2011


Witty, warm, principled
A memory cherished of strength.
A Banyan branch,
Stumps the stump-

That lightning struck,
Ripped, rings still for resonance.
And so a rippled Banana leaf,
Replete, wastes-

Away, you went fighting
To the finish. Inelegant, not fair.
They miss you Daddy, but I-
Silence is my elegy, for I-

First flower, favored, flourished forward,
Now freeze in frenzy. Forgive me…

And Daddy, twenty-one years late, you’ll be happy to see
I know now, synecdoche from trochee.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

A Lament - Inspired by 'The Love song of J Alfred Prufrock'

A Mother’s lament

Jodi tor đak shune keu na ashe tôbe êkla chôlo re,

Êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo re.
Jodi shôbai fire jae, ore ore o ôbhaga,

Jodi gôhon pôthe jabar kale keu fire na chae---
Tôbe pôther kãţa

O tui rôktomakha chôrontôle êkla dôlo re.
Jodi tor đak shune keu na ashe tôbe êkla chôlo re,

Êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo re.

I sit surrounded by poetry
Paper and ink primarily
All else, our Gods’ creation
Serves merely as distraction
A nod maybe to the Mariner of old
Oh yes maybe that tale should be told

I am a blinkered horse riding my own
You call me, I hear thee not,
I bike alone.

For I have called too in distress and despair
Held out a heart for you to repair

Shourie speaks on India today, exhorts us to join the Fray
As we nibble and push at sushi and quail
Among tinkling chimes and clinking tines
We are forty, running out o’time, what’s your story? this is mine.

I have mined mountains of paper
Divined the meanings of a few odd ventures
The Rime I can’t do, though I like it so
It makes me want to get up and go
And heed your call, but I hear thee not

I am a cold woman with a mind of her own
Wrapped up in a fury unknown
I type alone

For I too have called in distress and despair
By my own hand have mended the tears
And cried alone

Sam Mendes comes of Winslet fame,
Spacey’s Richard 3, You go to Kenny G?
She raises brows, I raise a Riedel, hide a smile
(But not the hiding from the brow-raiser:
She does this to me- I hate her.)

There will be time to give and love
Discharge my duty to my people
But now my half-life is done
And I’m not yet on a poster.
I sit frantic on the computer
And for later?
Am Building pagodas in the air to
Rescue me from this Orwellian nightmare

A Birkin worn, hint of red sole, Understated-muted, I know those words
My taken position to improve imitations, to the
Tinkle of China, I push away sushi and quail

I persevere yet declare
This sentence too severe to serve
But I cannot be a loser
I think to myself
And me and myself and I and one who is oneself

A mother’s heart dies
I bicycle on
Wheel back and scavenge
I ride my own