With Billy on the balcony

 

This season we aren’t going anywhere

no Almora, nope, not even Darjeeling

and certainly no quaint cobbled foreign square.

There’s rain. Coffee. The hibiscus is blooming.

 

How pleasant it is to avoid all hill towns –

I have the poetry of Billy Collins.

No need to trudge, out of breath, up and down.

Home with coffee. And the sound of the rain falling.

 

No urge to charge in to ancient monasteries,

marvel round eyed at gold icons and things.

Here’s the flamboyant. And the frangipanis.

A rain soaked bedraggled bird that still sings.

 

And Billy points out that Bologna and Rome

aren’t a patch on rain and coffee at home.

Home and Garden

 

'Aparajita' or unvanquished. Blue pea.

 

I.

You plant something and you think – this is mine,

this bougainvillea, this blue pea vine,

this periwinkle and dwarf screw pine –

in time I’ll be calling them home.

 

Home’s a garden, a chair, a balcony,

a particular drape of a fig tree,

the end of the road and tranquility.

But bear in mind nothing’s your own.

 

The annuals bloom as per their schedules,

and the blue pea doesn’t follow your rules,

it puts out shaggy tendrils, minuscule

protests against the frame it’s grown.

 

You know the perennials – the neem and lime,

if they take root, they’ll be here a long time

and they’ll outlast you, even the blue pea vine

will grow back in springs when you’re gone.

 

Home is where my plants are – that’s what you think.

But know in the end, the red, blue and pink

will fade and regrow and you’ll leave with nothing –

there’s no garden you can call home.

This is the first part of a three part poem, 5X3, 15 stanzas in total, each with a 5,5,5,4 beat and an aaab slant rhyme scheme, with b being repeated throughout in monorhyme. I don't know why I am telling you this, because it shouldn't matter a jot to the reader anyway, however important it might feel to the writer. It's taken me two weeks to complete. Its symmetry feels like an accomplishment, it's pleasing. I'm hyperaware that it might feel boring to someone else. What do you think?

I'm still afflicted by the same old same old bee in my ancient bonnet - the prompt for this one floated up on my feed somewhere, it was one of those framed-text wall art and it read - 'Home Is Where My Plants Are' in a squiggly decorative font,  suspended over rather a lush container garden. 

Tbh, that statement in my case should read home is where my books are. Ennyhoo. My own container garden is anything but lush at the mo, incessant rains and the painters' safety tarps hung for months on end have taken their toll, but I'm happy to report the plants are now recovering. On reflection, I find that I've unconsciously put in the plants that I've seen around me growing up - hibiscus, the blue pea, periwinkle. Recreating in miniature on my balcony what was once planted in and around our home in Maiduguri many yonks ago. On further reflection, hibiscus  has been a part of my balcony/garden/home in every single country I've lived in as an adult as well. Neems and Flamboyants have been part of my microenvironment too in some unobtrusive way. Some flowers/trees just define home even when one thinks it is better defined by books or something else. 

The second and third part of the poem get into the ultimate garden, how unpossessable it is and how expulsion/exile is its defining feature. And then humans spend all their days longing for it and trying to get back in.  I guess for most of us with ordinary childhoods, that is our eden which we try to recreate and of course we fail - the past is past, there is no recreating it, there is no selective reliving it in any format whatsoever. There is only the present and the planting. And if successful, someone will enjoy the show down the line after one is gone. 

Hope you and your plantings are defining beauty, tranquility and whatever else you want them to. Have a brilliant week. 

Numbers mean nothing

 

Mariner's Reach, Denarau, Fiji.

How many nights must you spend under a roof,

before you can call it a home?

Some say just thirty, others a thousand,

but I say to you – listen closely, my friend,

there’s no magic number, no theorem that proves

the time span that seals your claim.

A few aches are certain every time you move.

Thirty or thousand it’s all the same.

 

But there’s that horizon, oceans that heave,

a pink sky so breathtaking,

and a bird call can fling your life open.

Home has its place, but the wider world beckons,

your feet forget themselves and pack to leave,

done with walls and the same dawns breaking.

One step. And two. Dust eddies round your feet

and somewhere a welcome is waiting.

 

There’s that long horizon, pathways that twist

in and out of unknown forests.

The light is a tunnel that lures like a trap,

the ribs of leaves are rivers on a map,

the breeze writes gently on your back and lists

the things that can unravel rest.

And somewhere a welcome is waiting amidst

strangers’ smiles to the east or west.

 

Here it is cosy, the smoke from the stove

spiced with cinnamon and anise.

Secret garnets in the depths of tamarind,

the slow unfolding music of the winds,

butterfly wings in someone’s mango grove

in some weird definition of bliss.

The paddies are furred and rich, seen from above –

the world has its place. So has this.

 

So that’s it – you’ll sway, swing back, twang away,

the horizon just out of range.

The airplanes will keep flying overhead

to different cities with others instead.

The ships will weigh anchor and go on their way –

you’ll always be chasing change.

And you’ll wonder how many nights and days

make home and what makes a roof strange.

 

All your days you’ll fritter away in research

and find that numbers mean nothing.

Only the movement of road, car and coach,

the aerial view of a strange town’s approach,

the spiral of descent, the craft’s thrilling lurch,

the horizons in blues and pinks.

Only being out and away by and large

gives roofs their final meaning.

Welcome to M-i-V! - now based out of Kolkata! Hopefully, for good. I thought I'll post a bit early since I've been away for so long...and say things in...um...slightly more expansive wordcounts. It's also been the longest time since I wrote anything more than a 14 liner. In fact the last long-ish poem I wrote was in 2017 - Remembering Zeinabu. 

The pandemic years have made me shrink in many ways, this is one of them. However, it's time to put that behind me and open up a bit - it's the fourth year of the Big P and my store of small p patience was never really robust. Neither is my word (limit) control. Expect longer stanzas, line counts, ramblings...thank you for reading and your time!

There's lots happening this month, both on the personal front and online. The offspring has come home for a few days and the aforesaid home looks like a disaster zone, but who cares? It's good to have the family under one roof, even if it is only for a fortnight. I hope to be back to regular posts here, also get back to my normal reading as and when I am able to straighten the house out. A few aches are certain every time you move...I'm finding many layers of meaning in that line. The bookshelves are full, even though in complete disarray, a hodgepodge of Bengali, English and genres - Emily D is next to Asimov and just looking at that is freaking me out... :) There's no way anyone can ever locate a specific book in this current mess. That's a job that needs tackling pronto but will have to wait till son flies back to uni. 

Online, there's WEP, the Chocolat Challenge, I can't say enough about that deliciousness however many wordcounts you allow me... so excited! And looking forward to what people write for this one!

I hope the month has started well for you and may it continue throughout. Have an awesome August! See you soon.

Someone Else

Yankari Game Reserve

 

I’ll go back there some day, return and stand

underneath that row of gmelina trees,

I once dug at their roots with my own hands,

buried childhood treasures. Some memories

 

mixed in with the earth, inseparably twined

even then and more so now, turned to dust - 

as I too have crumbled, tumbled, groped blind

through miles of different grasses, chimneys, rust.

 

The town will have changed – in likely parallels.

Will she recognise my thumbprints, my footmarks?

Will I know the slopes of her surrounding hills?

Does the road home run straight past the Co-Op still,

the gmelinas still peel off their silver bark?...

I forget - that home belongs to someone else.

It has been a vague dream of mine for the longest time - to go back to the towns of the Sahel/Sudan Savannah in Northern Nigeria where I grew up. If you are a regular here, then you know me and my odd hankerings. Nothing new, just want to go home to Africa! :) That's one of the reasons why Fiji felt familiar, it combines many of the features of the Sahel towns of the previous century with a bit of modern internet and a different terrain.

The Net is a mixed blessing, because the satellite images are accessible, but I couldn't find anything there in the maps - my school has disappeared, the neighbourhood where we lived, the sports club, nothing is visible. Well, naturally - it's a long, long time since I was there. 

The population meanwhile has gone from 81,000 to 670,000 so everything must have been demolished and rebuilt to accommodate that growth.  I know I won't recognise a thing, but still, I just want to go stand there once. Unlikely in this lifetime as the security situation is not so great, travel advisories are firmly against foreigners' venturing there, so veering towards impossible. But one can hope. And dream on and write... 

To go or not to go

 

You want to go, but know you must stay,

you want to stay but know you must leave,

your head and heart both in disarray -

the exact balance hard to achieve.

 

It’s been so long since you slotted in,

you’ve been an outsider everywhere -

kin to strangers, stranger to your kin

your roof got built neither here nor there.

 

You’ve been a minority of one

except for just a few years of grace

and now it’s become an addiction

this constant movement from place to place.

 

But even so, you don’t want to stop -

and be consumed by walls and rooftop.

Well, the one that wasn't supposed to start off the year suddenly got way too big for its boots and developed a mind of its own. It just ran away with its own smug self and has now added nine more parts to itself...and still counting...

Presenting the third part...good thing that pen or word control is not on the agenda for this year. 

Meanwhile, another piece of mine got published on The Daily Life Magazine last month. I'm tardy with links, but it doesn't matter really. January is a good time to plan, any month is a good time because...as we all know - 'plans are nothing; planning is everything.' 

Next month is a Challenge month at WEP and it will kick off a set off luscious movie-based writing prompts, I'm super excited about that! Check them out here.

Even after so many years, not quite at home...

 ...and probably never going to be... 

There’s a difference, slight, hard to pinpoint

between home and homeland – for a few,

along the axis, that see-through joint

of comfort zones with the love for new.

 

You turn the keys in familiar locks

and knock at doors you’ve knocked at before

but every room morphs into a clock

and points you back at that very door.

 

One tugs you back and one yanks you on

never mind how firm your hold or stand,

there are other rivers, banks, soil, stone –

the urgent calls of a different land.

 

You’ll never again quite settle down

because your home isn’t your hometown.

Hellow and happy happies to you. Hope your year has started well and continues to treat you kindly and fairly. 

This is not the poem I'd wanted to see the year in with, seriously. I thought this year I'll get something you know, a bit peppy and upbeat. But...here it is, this is the first poem that got written, what can one do? More importantly, should one want to do something? Nonpeppy can be happy too, can't it? It feels more honest right now. So let me say that again, a nonpeppy- honest, happy new year to you. 

I don't do resolutions for a long time now. Among my irresolute goals are, as always - be and breathe and stress less. Write it as it comes and stop trying to be peppy and sundry other things you know you can't be. Believe that other people know it too, no-one gets taken in by a false, shrill upbeat.  

The home leave was hectic and wonderful. Pocked a bit with horrible officialese and paperwork and medical issues - all got resolved, except some minor stuff. So no biggie. Didn't have much time to log on here though, will be making up for lost time now hopefully. 

Stay well. 

Shipment

Credit 

 

Too much time was spent defining home and away

by leaf shadows, textures of mud, length of the stay,

the fauna that flies, and that swims, comes back to spawn,

the shape of the constellations and of the lawn.

 

The cups we held once, and those that we lost, or chipped.

what was left behind and what was finally shipped.

Too much effort went into piling on the floors

what was mine by right, by grace; and what was yours.  

 

When the containers came to port and were unpacked

everything was mixed up inside, nothing neatly stacked -

had the cups come home or had they travelled away?

whose they’d been before the trip and now whose were they?

 

A few cups were shipped on a voyage through the sea -

they blurred notions of ownership, and of destiny.

Clutching at straws

 

IV.

We spy on her constantly, lest she fly

and this too falls apart, this omen of sorts

where meanings of home and growth crystallise

in this strange space between landing and goodbye

amidst the dire pandemic news reports

and what a dove and her egg can symbolise.

The mundane can be charged with so much hope.

 

She clutches at her straws as I clutch at mine

and we’re both doing what needs to be done;

setting up a home is also dismantling

another in some other space and time,

till the final stop is given, or won

at the very end of all the travelling.

But for now the egg’s a straw and helps to cope.

No entry

With a milestone for a pillow

with hard asphalt for a mattress

I’m ready to make my way home

through this midday heat, and darkness;

the borders are closed to traffic

they have slammed shut their gateways

and a mushroom cloud is churning,

turning the hamster wheels of days.

But I wear my face lighthearted

I keep the talk convivial

and the laundry colour sorted,

a close focus on trivial.

For the rules mustn’t be broken

and life must always go on

though home’s no longer a shelter

all meanings and routes are gone.

Shattered

 

Source

The first discards are not even noticed -

the packing newspapers, old magazines,

the shift in the definition of local,

and the weather displayed on tiny screens.

One day too soon the memories are blurry

and previous city roads get unravelled.

The radio programmes, heights of doorframes

shift slightly to let you know you’ve travelled.

The last of the old supermarket’s brands,

bags bright in undegradable plastic -

a beaker bought there is suddenly broken

and shattered pieces of glass equal homesick.

You sigh, sweep up and throw them in the bin,

and that’s when the meaning of home sinks in.

I'm still celebrating the mundane, which is what I do, generally. I know, I should get a life! This year, I promise. I'll make a serious attempt. Right after I finish this post. 

Anyways, last month, last month? year end, I was talking to my friend, and of course, we started with something very crisp and concrete on the agenda and wound up someplace completely unrelated-fuzzy, history, and homes, and the meanings of both.  And something that was said - home is shared history, the stuff you carry around, the interior of the mind and not the interior of the house - must have stuck in ye olde subconscious and produced the above. 

An Egyptian kettle and a teamug broke in the  meantime, I don't know how they managed to sneak in here. But things have got to a pretty desperate stage if broken mugs and electrical appliances are making it to poems! Must find mundane, but less mundane, stuff to celebrate. Pronto!

What are you celebrating today? :)

B is for... But of course! Beiti Beitak!

is for

Beiti beitak!  

"My home is yours" the Arabs say to their guests. We use the exact same expression in India too, incidentally. The same way an English speaker might say 'make yourself at home.' 

Boshret Khair, a lively feel-good number by Emirati musician Hussain Jassmi -

Bahrain

Bahrain - the name means ‘two seas’ – comes from the presence of sweet water springs and the saltwater sea. It’s a tiny nation, with a population of roughly 1.4 million people, of which nearly 50% are foreigners. Made up of islands (think great seafood! and super-gorgeous aquamarine seas!) hot desert summers, and mild winters. 


Bahrain is where I live now, back after almost a break of ten years in the UAE and Egypt. Bahrain was my first encounter with Arablands, and well, you know what they say about first impressions! It's a remarkable country which debunks the vague (and wrong!) stereotypes  about Arabs. 

There is no legal requirement for veils for women, they are allowed to drive around freely, most Bahraini women do so in fact, and roughly 40% work outside the home. Alcohol is available for non-Muslims, you don’t need a permit to drink it, though it’d be wise not to swig it huge quantities in public places. Pork is sold through special sections in supermarkets.

Religious freedom is a word, rather a phrase! There are churches, of various denominations, I’m a bit foggy on the details, but certainly RC and Anglican. Places of worship for the Hindu and Sikh communities exist, no Bar on idol worship, which the Hindus do once a year publicly with great gusto for their annual festivals. 

However, no form of proselytising is permitted. I’m cool with that, because I’m not all that keen on proselytising anyways, you know?   Live and let live is my thing, and Bahrain and me are on the same wavelength on this completely.  

There are restaurants serving cuisines from all over the world, good hospitals, good schools, the Formula One, marine sports, golf courses, great telephony, and pretty passable shopping. 

And it’s heavy on history – Bahrain has a history going back 5000 years, it’s been ruled/influenced by Babylonians and Assyrians, ancient Persia and Greece, and has traded with Mesopotamia, Indus Valley and ancient Egypt. What’s not to like?!

View of modern Bahrain from the Karbabad Fort. 

Seef District skyline. 

Hawar Island, a short boat ride away from Manama, the capital.

Bahrain used to be a major pearling centre till the 1920’s.  Downstream petro-products, aluminium processing, light metal and chemical industries, and services are what constitute the economy today.

Causeway connecting Manama and Muharraq islands. 

And it's easy to indulge your wanderlust here - three continents pretty accessible…hop over to Cyprus or East Africa or Europe...

Muharraq. And the Manama skyline.  

Bab-al-Bahrain. The Gateway to Bahrain. This was the 
point where trading vessels docked in the past.  

So, that's Bahrain. Is island living your idea of paradise, or would you get Bored, suffer serious attacks of cabin fever?


And B is for Baghdad of course, much more famous than Bahrain, but less said about it right now the Better. Just awful how the heritage of the very first human civilisations has been laid to waste there. The loss of lives Beyond words.

Posted for the A-Z Challenge 2017