Paracetamol legends I know
For rising fevers, as pain-relievers—
Of my people—father’s father’s mother’s
Mother, dark lush hair caressing her ankles
Sometimes, sweeping earth, deep-honey skin,
Amber eyes—not beauty alone they say—she
Married a man who murdered thirteen men and one
Lonely summer afternoon her rice-white teeth tore
Through layers of khaki, and golden white skin to spill
The bloodied guts of a British soldier who tried to colonize her. . .
Of my land—uniform blue open skies,
Mad-artist palettes of green lands and lily-filled lakes that
Mirror all—not peace or tranquil alone, he shudders—some
Young woman near my father’s home, with a drunken husband
Who never changed; she bore his beatings everyday until on one
Stormy night, in fury, she killed him by stomping his seedbags. . .
We: their daughters.
We: the daughters of their soil.
We, mostly, write.
(First published in Quarterly Literary Review, Singapore)
Posted in Poetry, women
Tagged beauty, bravery, culture, identity, inheritance, land, legacy, power, retaliation, Tamil, violence, womanhood, women
And you see the two-crows-for-joy-pass that are sitting on
overhead cables and the evening moon,
a mere silvery slice against fluffy translucent sky.
And the remains of your school where you spent your twelve
longest years and lived through everything.
And the bus-stand you had to draw for your art-class in yellow
ochre or asphalt grey and the emptiness that now occupies the
place where a tiny café once stood.
And the tree where they fed you lunch before you learnt to walk
back home. And I thought of my parents.
Brilliant people talking of the intricacies of their life and the corruption of
morals and the bygone days and hunger in their childhood and their deaddear-
departed parents as if to teach you what to talk to your children.
(And you are their child,
so you speak their lines.)
Still returning home,
And there are rusty mammoth girders that outline the sky like
the derelicts of lost dreams and crossed hopes.
And girls so flimsy pretty yet unsafe in the little worlds of lip
gloss and love affairs that you could have smoked them into
And the dry decaying dead leaves crushed with varying noises
and carrying a spent smell that clings to your hair.
And the shy forest noises that violate your fixation over sight
and sound and smell and touch yes touch.
And I thought of my lover.
A primitive man who would invade
your aloneness on insomniac nights
and challenge your assumptions of
love and your sophistications and fill
your ears with the four letter words of
his ancient language that have begun
to sound to you like earth songs to
which your body awakens.
(And you are his love,
so you listen to his lines.)
On the way home, the small
lessons you learn of life. . .
Love, or the promise of love,
its lack of choice.
This large world.
And its littleness.
Posted in Love, Poetry
Tagged culture, home-coming, inheritance, intimacy, language, Love, lover, parents, poverty, school, Tamil