Every time I lay them out I hear her.
“See? You were asking who
Would have the patience to
Do this by hand!” Near her,
My niece wonders at my patience.
And in the midst of the ritual
I wonder if she remembers that
It was called Patience for a reason.
Or used to be. Now we call it
Solitaire. A game you play
With yourself. Where it’s treason
To cheat, I hear Janis Ian
Say. I’ve never yet played it
Without “17” in my head. “Those
Of us with ravaged faces, lacking
In the social graces.” I’ve made it,
I think, this far, as I watch the game
Slowly and surely, go nowhere.
Identical backs turn up the same
Numbers in surprising ways. When
I win, I turn my reproachful gaze
On the bemused man, unaware
That he’s going to be hit with it again:
The lucky in love rule. “Who were
You thinking of? How come I won?”
Solitaire, I’m a diamond. Second to none.
To Observe Silence on Earth Day
I read today that every tree
Has its own, unique, song. And I imagine
Choirs in the forests, full-throated,
But only when the last human
Is gone. Because music, thus noted,
Thus aired, thus floated,
Cannot possibly be heard for free.
Maybe it’s too late to pay our dues
Maybe those tall singers dance
To another muse. Maybe their song
Is not something we can choose
To be. Because music thus spoken,
Thus worded, thus broken,
Cannot possibly be heard for a fee.
This Is What I Learnt Today
One, mountains that look
Quite pretty from your window
Are a mere white line on your phone.
Two, people in hot countries far away
Are not amused at being shown
Mountains on FaceTime. Three,
If you have slippers, socks, and a puppy
Eventually they will all lie crumpled
And sodden on the balcony. Four,
If you’ve learnt much more,
Set it aside for tomorrow, so that
Each full day may lend its fullness
For a still empty day to borrow.
My ‘Be More Terry’ Pledge
(On the occasion of the death anniversary of Sir Terry Pratchett, his fans are asked to make a Be More Terry Pledge, in keeping with his chronic irreverence and quest for truth )
My Be More Terry Pledge
Since the earth is flat, I
Will be the ocean that
Flows over its edge. And
When the Hogfather comes, I
Will be the knife sharp skis
That power his sled. And if
The nightwatch comes for me, I
Will be the flash of heels that
Vanish over the hedge. So Sir Terry,
I make this vow in your name
(Which may last only as long as
A cripple mister onion game):
I swear by shrimp and millennial hand,
I will brave the ice giants of the land,
Like the dwarves, I shall be
Strong in the arm, and like the Igors
I shall stitch humans out of harm.
I will jump start my broomstick when it stalls,
I will hang my hat on my own cottage walls.
When the tide feels the moon’s pull, I’ll
Remember to keep the wear in werewolf. And I
Will practice, always, the ology of the head,
In honour of the wisest man who was ever read.
Winging It
We’re just two birds flying home
Now that the day is done. Not
Those people in the car, worried
About groceries and dinner; none
Of those at the traffic light, hurried
Across streets by horns and shouts;
Even those young ones, open-haired
In flashy shoes, happy to be out
Of classes, are not us. We don’t gaze
Out of train windows, stiff on shared
Seats; we’re not among the excited
Faces on various selfies and tweets.
No trophies await us for battles lost
And won. We’re just two birds
flying home, now that the day
Is done.
Just An Old Fashioned Love Song
Did he get you roses, my mother
In law asked. No, I said but
We had a clandestine lunch.
Romantic dinner? Enquired
Random family. Well, I said,
Maybe after the movie, the kids
Will want pizza. I don’t have
A gift for you, I said. He said
There was nothing he wanted.
18 years. A marriage come of age.
When talk around the table
Can take you back two decades
And each memory is sharp
Enough to cut through the years.
When every morning begun
Seals the vow of each day done
The roses are in the sun’s
Rise and set, and we know
That we are but young in love yet.
To Observe Silence on Earth Day
I read today that every tree
Has its own, unique, song. And I imagine
Choirs in the forests, full-throated,
But only when the last human
Is gone. Because music, thus noted,
Thus aired, thus floated,
Cannot possibly be heard for free.
Maybe it’s too late to pay our dues
Maybe those tall singers dance
To another muse. Maybe their song
Is not something we can choose
To be. Because music thus spoken,
Thus worded, thus broken,
Cannot possibly be heard for a fee.
Seasoning From Memory
I got the baingans right tonight
(The trick is not to heat the oil
Too much) and the kala namak
Was the perfect finishing touch.
The keema also turned out quite
Well. You could hardly tell
The difference from the way
Mom used to make it. Today
I remembered how much
Dad loved the baingan slices.
So dinner turned out well (it was just
A question of adjusting memory
To spices).
Warriors I: A Reckoning of Forces
A warrior is a funny creature
As much fierce and fire
As she is mud and mire.
As much tears as blood
As much ebb as flood.
And when once you have fought her
Seen the triumph you have brought her
You’ve done no more than teach her
That wars are won by no higher
Force than our daughters.
Warriors III
Before we had things
To put in our house
They danced in the empty spaces.
And sometimes when we sing
Of all we have lost
The night flows past in their voices.
How many times I’ve laid them down
My weapons and my defences
Only to find them forged anew
And alight in my daughters’ faces.
Giti Chandra 