Category: poetry

No Dues

On By GitiIn poetry2 Comments

(For Naomi, who walked the last mile with me)

photo-3

It took some doing.
Room to room, some
Much frequented, some
I’d never seen. The Estate
Office, for instance, being
So close to the Ladies, you
Would think, on any one
Of the many days I
Slept, bathed, re-adjusted
Myself in the midst of
Classes, commutes, pangs
Of hunger, horror,
Exhaustion. You
Would think the Estate
Office would have fallen
In my way. But they
Were the most reluctant
To sign off on the steps – millions –
That my feet walked, treading
Their real estate. Of what use
But in this one room: ‘No Dues’.

The Library, where I sit
Forever in an attitude of
Years ago – they forgot the year.
They fixed it but I sit there still
Like a reader the years refuse
To budge: ‘No Dues’.
And for the many ways and
Many days in which they fed me
The walk from the Café
To the Mess merely led me
To affectionate cooking crews:
‘No Dues’.

But the corridors did not sign
And the rooms I passed ignored
The paper I clutched. Mine
Was the eye that took in
The tiles, the bricks, stored
With years, the voices, the
Faces I feared to look in,
That I would not let go
Which I would not let loose;
What would they sign? ‘No Dues’?

What manner of reckoning requires
Such an accounting of desires?
Would the Chapel where I still
Take off my shoes, produce a bill
With ‘No Dues’? The terraces,
Which elevated our poems and views,
Let me hop back in? ‘No Dues’?
What manner of debt persists
What coinage still resists
What piece of paper insists
That I fall for this elaborate ruse
And leave this place with no dues?

Other Nations, Other Colours

On By GitiIn poetry, Uncategorized2 Comments


14572177_10154531451053774_5158304067276641532_n
It’s just as well, sometimes,
To see no trace of the storm.
To crunch through fallen leaves
With joy. Not to note the forlorn
Branches, that say nothing of thieves,
Or the berries that cling. In foreign climes,
It’s best not to notice, sometimes.

Such clouds that haunt the blues
Are best seen in sunny skies.
Across the path, just feet away,
Another berry tree lies.
Standing, still, you can hear it say
‘Leaves, or berries, you have to choose.
Thus much to win, thus much to lose.’

Come, Teach Us Again (For Dr.Chandra) – by Rhea Lopez

On By GitiIn poetryLeave a comment

(In response to her poem Good Be with lots of love from me, and i’m sure the graduating batch of 2014.)

You taught us to never stay locked up,
By society, by Gothic manor-owning spouse,
To let out the women in our attics,
Even if they burned down the house.

(You taught us never to rely on smooth-talking Englishmen,
Come, teach us again.)

“DO NOT CALL ME, unless you’re dying,”
Was the only time you pushed us away,
Other than when we had colds and you, a concert,
To sing at the very next day.

(You taught us to rely on ourselves, not on smooth-talking Englishmen,
Come, teach us again.)

I forgive you for rereading our childhoods,
Illusions of innocence were torn,
See, the tales have always remained,
Even if the fairies have gone.

(You taught us to rely on tales, not fairies,
On ourselves, not smooth-talking Englishmen,
Come, teach us again.)

In the attendance battle post a chicken pox plague,
For two weeks, I was fighting alone.
And then, you stepped in, and the war was won,
And I learnt that I’m not on my own.

(You taught us to rely on tales, not fairies,
On ourselves, not smooth-talking Englishmen,
And whenever we needed it- to rely on you to get us through,
Come, just once more, come teach us again.)

 

‘Stealthy the hunter who slays his own fear’

On By GitiIn poetry2 Comments

On this hill I make my stand
Here I prepare to fight.
Below me lies embattled land
Above, the wounded light.
My foes are ranged about me
Guilt, and silence, and fear.
Selfishness and apathy
Surround me finally here.
But on this hill I stand today
No more heart to run.
And on this ground I mean to stay
Till this war is done.
For Death is not a foe, a taker of life:
Death is that comfort that wishes away strife.

Nobody wants a hero’s death.
It’s not the peace we crave.
Could one not do without
A limb or two in
The service of who
We save.
Is not another battle just
Another line in the sand?
Why must this be
The final hill
On which I make my stand.

Creation

On By GitiIn poetryLeave a comment

Today I read the stuff my kids write
To my Dad. It´s not TSE, obviously,
But I watched this man of main and might

How he took each image, each phrase
And found in it its unique quality,
And found its one claim to praise,

And lifted that praise to the skies
And laughed a world of delight
Into being. Right there. Before my eyes.

Sing me no songs of consolation

On By GitiIn poetry, UncategorizedLeave a comment

 

Slivers of sky string
Their silver blue through
Green and rock, stones
Strewn in their path like
Little clouds, as if to sing
To me their broken tones
Of consolation. But
Who will bravely bring
The riverbed forth. The gravel
And sand of dry grief. Who
Will raise pebbles smooth as bone
Unwritten, unscratched. What thief?
Who dare to build that dyke
That will dam the waters and read
On them their smooth, unwritten
Consolation.
If there is such a one,
To that sturdy soul I say,
Show me the pebble, worn
As my heart, one among millions
And wring from that single stone
The river that runs from me, one
Among millions. Build me that
Single dam that will make
Of that river a lake
One, among millions,
Where I may stop, and leaning,
See no face but my own, broken
As only mine is, as a river
Washes through me, a mirror
For no grief but my own.
Until then, Sing me no songs
Of consolation, no hallelujahs
Of pain sung before. I take
No comfort in the lake
Of another’s tears.
Raise me that stone, dam me that lake,
Name the face that weeps into those waters.
There are fathers enough, I know,
And no dearth of daughters,
Yet I take no solace from the songs
Of bereavement that they make.
Like a primordial flood the
Massed choirs sing of loss and losing
And drown each daughter’s voice
Added without her choosing.
And I, who have no other choice,
Silent as I hold this dam against
The breaking of that deluge, I,
Who reach into the deep only
To throw back stones I cannot
Keep. I, who float,
Face up, like the dead, and reach
For clouds that lie like stones
That lie, that sing, that preach
But have nothing to teach
Me, nothing to place
In my palms, facing upward.
I slip silently under boats that
Skim the waters, their keels
Humming, and think – you,
Who are on the boats, you
Whose shirts do not fill
With waters that run through
You; you, whose fingers strain
The river as you glide through pain
You liars, deceivers, dealers in
Consolation. I want
No part of you. I hear
Your songs but they are not
Mine. Your tears
Fall on my face but they
Are not mine. I cannot
Fashion a lyre from my breath
Unless it bespeak
This death.

Accounting For Dads

On By GitiIn poetryLeave a comment

We meet every morning for
Toast and tea: what I call
Elevensies, and what he
Thinks of as a stolen snack
Behind his own back. Such
Is his faith in me. All things
Are grist for the mill that
Grinds easy and mellow. Much
Is sifted, chaff from grain; today
Even bills were brought to
The table. We settled accounts
Of the year’s remains. To weigh
Amounts on the calculator vetted
Is not easy when the soul is indebted.
I saw this as I fought to repay as
Best as I was able, kind with
Cash. Foolish to think I could find
Such a stash.

For AA – If Wishes Were Horses

On By GitiIn poetryLeave a comment

At eight, I guess flying horses
Are what little girls desire.
It isn’t so much the strength of the beast
As the wings of drifted snow
The mane afire. They are things
Of feather light and sunset glow,
Pony tails bright tied, with ribbons
The colour of russet horse hide,
Little girls are. And mine has spent
The afternoon on youtube, bent
Over paper, creasing delicate folds;
As if the careful act of origami holds
The rush of wind in her straining face
The crafting of belief, the power of grace.

Camouflage 

On By GitiIn poetryLeave a comment

A chameleon on a wall
Has a simple task. It’s
DNA is hard wired to
The bricky mask.
For us, also, it’s a small
Thing, not much to ask. It’s
A common trick, this donning
Of the skinful brick.
Skilful,
Lizard-like,
In the art of conning.

Perhaps the chameleon feels
As we do, the predator’s eye,
Drawing its collar up, it’s
Shawl about, it’s glasses
And wig on; strutting,
As it passes, the knowing
Passerby.