"Fly away, my soul ...

Dear me, dear me ... I meant to do this chronologically but occasionally get it wrong. Here's something I wrote to the same guy a few months earlier. I think it was when he went off to Coorg to try and get off the smack and straighten his life out.

Fly away, my soul
I can't hold you back any longer.
Go and look for the sun.

But if you get tired of searching
come back to the warmth of my arms.
Just let me know when you're coming back
so I can shed my armour.
(Written on October 17, 1985)

What I like about it is the way I expressed feeling exposed and vulnerable without him, having to armour myself in order to survive without him. (And we think this is "love"?!)

A few months later I wrote another version of this poem, by which time I was, like him, badly hooked on smack, and I think I (or perhaps we) had begun to realise that our love affair was a threesome - him, me, smack - and that our being together only pulled us down further.

Fly away, my soul
We can't be one any longer.
It's time we looked for the sun.
And when we've found what we're looking for
come back to the warmth of my arms.
Just let me know when you're coming back,
so I can shed my armour.
(written on 22.3.86)

Big Ears

Here's a bit of wisdom from an unlikely source:

"A painting that goes wrong is better than one you never even tried to paint."

Thus spake Big Ears to his little friend Noddy (yes the little chap with the bell on the end of his hat - the one who lives in Toyland). I'm hoping that these words were written by Enid Blyton herself, but perhaps they were written by whoever writes the script for the Noddy cartoon. Whoever wrote it, it makes much sense to me, and I'm glad little kids got to hear it too.


I want to sing like the birds, not worrying about who hears or what they think - Jalaluddin Rumi

"Forever pulling down ...

"Dear me!" isn't enough here. It's more like, "Good GRIEF!" I was almost too embarrassed to post this one, but then I thought: maybe there's a lesson in here for someone who surfs by. A lesson about low self-esteem and bad poetry.

Perhaps I should have titled this "Forever pulling down my pants"! Or the more succinct "Doormat". When will we girls ever learn? When do we open our eyes and see the ride for what it is?

Forever pulling down his days,
turning special moments sour,
being there when I'm not wanted,
dragging it out hour by hour.

Something somewhere is going wrong.
Something tells me that it's just me.
Somehow I'm not good enough
and we both end up feeling empty.

We make love and the next second he's dressed,
while I lie there sated but feeling like a whore.
And when he leaves, his kiss is cold,
and he's hurt as I've hurt him so many times before.

He very rarely asks for much,
but the times I've responded are so few to recall.
Yet he still loves me, I wonder why?
I love him but somehow can't give him my all.

I wonder if I'll ever do it right,
when I'll learn to put his feelings before mine,
to give him, without making an effort,
the intoxicating shivers of love's sparkling wine.

(written on Dec 23rd, 1985, at 8:15 pm)

The trees know the truth.

The trees know. They really do. The Native American tribes understood the wisdom of the trees. I often think that trees just might be the wisest living things on this planet. And last week I heard a wonderful poem about trees that expressed that same sentiment. It's so exciting and awe-inspiring to read someone's writing from centuries ago, only to find that there is something in the human spirit that ripples and echoes down the ages.

Civilisation!
The trees shudder in dismay.
The city writhes on.

So much of what we call civilisation is so barbaric. And when we call men "beasts" or "animals" to express that, it seems a bit silly. They are far less barbaric than we are. And the trees .. the American tribes would say that if a tree had to be cut down, it was better to cut the younger tree, because to cut an old tree was to destroy and lose forever the wisdom within that tree. So when I see our glorious old trees being hacked and pulled out of the earth to make way for malls I can't help but think: Stupidville, here we come.

Once Upon A Speed-Bump

Once upon a speed-bump, I saw it all. We used to be the City of Gardens and Lakes and even of Beans. Somewhere along the line, we turned into the City of Potholes. And when I saw that speed-bump (aka speedbreaker or road hump) outside the Ashok Nagar Police Station, I knew exactly how Phoebe felt in that episode of Friends - the one where Carol and Susan get married.

Great big speed-bump stretching across the width of the road, designed to slow down traffic. And if that doesn't stop you, then the pothole will. Yes. A great big pothole INSIDE a great big speed-bump.

"NOW I've seen it all!"

This is why.

Perhaps the screaming mother is not creating a Hitler or a Stalin or a Saddam, perhaps he will not turn into a shadowy rapist who avenges himself of his childhood injustices with every woman he can. Perhaps he will not keep alive that searing coal within him, perhaps he will not fan it into a full flame one day in a communal riot.

Perhaps he will just be a man who screams at his own children. Who drinks a little too much at office parties, works too hard, drives too fast, smokes too much. Who hits his wife, or maybe just hates his life. Whatever he does do, however, whatever he does become, I will know. And I will know why.

His blanched fist tells me.
His choking rage screams the truth:
His parents failed him.

I am beginning to understand that in every man who raises his arm in violence, who kills, or rages, who seethes and hates, and seeks to destroy, there is something not just to fear, but also to pity. In every violent action, every such man tells us:

My mother failed me. My father failed me.I was scared. I was hurt. I was small, and alone, and fragile. I was afraid then, and I am still afraid.

THE BLOOM OF CANDLES by Laurie Lee, Rs. 30

Such a jolly sweet little name. But his poetry is so morbid. At the book fair, I found a book of his poetry, published in 1947. The book is a slim - practically anorexic - volume, bound in yellow, and titled "The Bloom of Candles".

"Tonight the wind gnaws
with teeth of glass,
the jackdaw shivers
in caged branches of iron,"

(what does that mean?)
"the stars have talons."

The stars have talons. And he is talking about Christmas Eve. He paints this depressing harsh landscape -
"the ground bitter with stones"

and then he ends with

"a new star opens
like a silver trumpet over the dead.
Tonight in a nest of ruins
the blessed babe is laid."

I kind of get where he's going: the ghastly ugly world, and the baby who's born to redeem it. It's a poem about hope, painted with despair. I don't know whether to hate it or love it.

When I first posted this on Rumi's Bird, the infamous commenter Vichoobhai sent me an excerpt about Laurie Lee:

That is the way he describes nature, always tinged with terror and gore, larks screaming, clouds fuming and sky tearing apart.

I googled Lee and found him described as a gentle, humourous, soft-spoken man and I can't help wondering what unspoken horrors he translated into words on nature.


I want to sing like the birds, not worrying about who hears or what they think - Jalaluddin Rumi

Oh, I see.

Some people see a few pots placed prettily around my balcony. I see my garden. What IS a garden? "A piece of ground on which flowers, etc., are cultivated: a pleasant spot: a fertile region". My pots qualify. And within them is a world of nature, and so much to wonder at in a flower. Even in the slow twirl of a withering leaf, where an artist could find hue upon hue for her palette. In the textures of a dry twig versus a young shoot. In the scent not only of a flower, but of a leaf. I learn how to touch, how to smell, how to listen, how to see.

My white gardenias,
dressed for their first communion,
pirouette open.

Why has it taken me forty-one years to look beyond the scent and colour of a gardenia, and discover the divine symmetry that takes a bud into full bloom with one long slow perfect pirouette? They twirl to unfurl their glory, and I think of little Catholic girls showing off their new frilly white new dresses to one another, twirling in a cathedral courtyard, giggly and excited as they wait for their confirmation.

How could I have missed such a magical event? And paid so much more attention to bigger, noisier trivialities? I never noticed until now. But now I notice.

Xtra Strong Adult Mints

(Note from 2008, which is when I started shifting my Ad Nausea posts over to this blog: Occasionally, I can be nasty. Yes! Sometimes I just have to rave and rant about the ads I see in the media. And just to show that I am a well-balanced individual - more than a philosophical, poetic, nature-loving clown - I do not hide this darker side. Instead I jot down those rants here. Although, as you can see, I started soft).

I thought I would start with a thumbs up. This is the ad (TV commercial):

A young man goes to his girlfriend's home for dinner. Pops in a mint at the door. Frosts up his girlfriend's glasses. (Although technically, wouldn't she rather he STEAMED them up?)

But let's continue. He sits down to discover the amazing power of Xtra Strong Adult Mints. He starts as a foot slithers up his leg. He smiles at his girlfriend. She gets up from the table. The foot is still there. It's her sister's. Then, he jumps again. Another foot! His girlfriend's mother. And then the piece de resistance, he jumps and glances nervously down between his legs, and looks up to see his girlfriend's father giving him the eye (among other things).

No matter how many times I see this ad, I always crack up. Well cast, well directed, shots edited just right. A raunchy joke told subtly and wittily. I blow a kiss to the writer.

"Leave me...

I have just finished reading a book called Smack, by Melvin Burgess. Twenty years ago, I was at the height - or to be more accurate, the depth - of my heroin addiction. Reading this book was like listening to echoes, and what struck me the most was that there was not much difference between the British teenagers of those pages and the Bangalore teenagers of my past. Different slang, different lifestyles maybe, but the essence and the philosophy by which we lived and breathed: no difference. We thought we were unique. We thought our situation, our emotions, our attitudes .. we thought we were something special. It must have meant a lot to have that, I think now, because I don't think we had very much else. Today, finding this out: that none of what we did thought or felt was unique, brings up some kind of twinge, something akin to pity for that girl of twenty years ago. Back then, it probably wouldn't have mattered. That's what smack did. It made nothing else matter very much.

Today I look at this old poem of mine and suddenly it's not just mine any more. Dear me, what an odd feeling that is.

Leave me alone.
Let me live my life my way.
Let me die.

The choice is mine
and I reject life.
All I want is brief song
and silence.

Cry if you must
but forget me.
I don't want to be a memory.
I don't want a tombstone.

(written on Sept 28, 1985, at 11.44 p.m.)

Once Upon The Seashore

Once upon the seashore, someone found a shoe. Weekend afternoons were good for wanders into the desert or out to the sea. The nights were for clubbing, the mornings - well, the first half of the mornings were also for clubbing. You took your sunglasses with you the night before, because when you staggered out at 6 a.m. the sun was already up and harsh. You got home, slept a while, bathed, ate, and then you were ready to go out and DO something.

So beachcombing it was, this particular weekend: out to look for souvenirs, in the form of flotsam. Technically, flotsam is wreckage or trash that floats, and jetsam is wreckage or trash that stays underwater. But today's flotsam was, in a way, jetsam.

It was a child's shoe. It might have been a Reebok, or a Nike. It must have been a branded shoe. Brands were big in Bahrain. It was a good find, it had a personal touch. The others hadn't found anything quite as individual. It was a great souvenir.

The girl who found it tipped it over to pour out the sand that weighed it down. But then she tilted it back up, just for a moment, and dropping it where she found it, went back to the car empty-handed, waiting silently for the others to return.

The friend who told me this story found part of a seat. It even had a seat number on it. He kept it for a few days but had unnerving dreams about a man he did not know. He believes the man he dreamt of was the person who was sitting in that seat when the plane crashed into the sea just off the coast of Bahrain.

The girl who found the shoe? It wasn't empty, and it wasn't full of sand. It was a child's shoe. With a child's foot still in it. I don't think she goes beachcombing any more. In the desert you can go horse-riding and have picnics and find truffles and live happily ever after.

(August 2000: a Gulf Air A320 crashed off the coast of Bahrain, killing all 143 people on board)

Easier said than done.

The reason I fail
to recognise false lovers:
First I must love me.

How often I've mistaken need, greed, lust or perhaps simply boredom, for love. When I look back it's obvious, but at the time I'm blinded. No, not blinded by love. Clearly, I don't have much of a clue about what love is. And though I know nothing of it, some part of me is desperate for it, apparently. How foolish of me to yearn and search so intensely without actually knowing what I'm searching for. Of course I won't succeed - how can I find it if I don't know what it looks like?

Perhaps this is why the wise tell us we must love ourselves. It's a practice run. Once we love ourselves, only then can we understand what love is - and what love is NOT. Then when it comes to us, it should be like looking in a mirror - so that the emotion that shines back is one that we can recognise, and greet.

And only when we love ourselves will we respect and believe the inner voice that whispers warnings we choose to ignore.

I'm on the practice run now: learning to love, and perhaps even more important, learning to LIKE myself. I pay attention to that inner voice even when it doesn't say what I want to hear.

I'm not quite sure this thing called love is likely to appear, or even if it really exists, but I want to be ready for it all the same, and be able to say,

"Ah! I know you! It's about bloody time .. what took you so long?"

Easier said than done.

The reason I fail
to recognise false lovers:
First I must love me.

How often I've mistaken need, greed, lust or perhaps simply boredom, for love. When I look back it's obvious, but at the time I'm blinded. No, not blinded by love. Clearly, I don't have much of a clue about what love is. And though I know nothing of it, some part of me is desperate for it, apparently. How foolish of me to yearn and search so intensely without actually knowing what I'm searching for. Of course I won't succeed - how can I find it if I don't know what it looks like?

Perhaps this is why the wise tell us we must love ourselves. It's a practice run. Once we love ourselves, only then can we understand what love is - and what love is NOT. Then when it comes to us, it should be like looking in a mirror - so that the emotion that shines back is one that we can recognise, and greet.

And only when we love ourselves will we respect and believe the inner voice that whispers warnings we choose to ignore.

I'm on the practice run now: learning to love, and perhaps even more important, learning to LIKE myself. I pay attention to that inner voice even when it doesn't say what I want to hear.

I'm not quite sure this thing called love is likely to appear, or even if it really exists, but I want to be ready for it all the same, and be able to say,

"Ah! I know you! It's about bloody time .. what took you so long?"

Once Upon A Pavement

Once upon a pavement, I saw an invisible man. He asked me if I had a cigarette to spare and I gave him one.

This is what an invisible man looks like: shabby - unshaved and unbathed. Homeless and jobless and out of cigarettes, with a liverful of cheap booze sloshing about inside. Anyone can smell him, and avoid brushing past him, but of all the smokers clustered on that pavement, I was the one who got to see him.

"Wait," I said, and I lit his cigarette for him. Then lit my own. We stood together silently on that bright chilly Californian afternoon, and we smoked our cigarettes. When I finished, I smiled a goodbye at him, and carried on.
I spent the rest of that day wandering through a university campus to which I would never belong. I roamed textbook stores, read notices on bulletin boards, and watched students in animated discussions. Then I left, unnoticed, and fifteen years went by.

I saw him and he saw me. That's all. That's enough. Some stories don't need a happy ever after.

(University of Berkeley, California. Early '90s)

Once Upon A Strip of Sticky Red Tape

Once upon a strip of sticky red tape, my blog got stuck. I knew that struggling would be pointless. My blog was a doomed housefly trapped in the web! The Nation Wide Web of bureacracy. Who was responsible for this heinous blog blockage?

"Not I!" cried Blogger Support. "I am puzzled and disappointed. I am really quite depressed."

There, there. Not to worry. This too will pass. I will seek my answers elsewhere. I will follow the sticky red road. (Oh, and look where it takes me.)

"Not I!" cried the Government of India. "I am just trying to protect the nation from terrorists."

Fair enough. (And much appreciated, as I really like being alive.)

"You-do-one-thing," said the Government of India. "You ask the Department of Telecom."

So I did. (Not really, but it's all part of the story-telling rhythm).

"Not I!" cried the Department of Telecom. "I'm pretty sure I told those Internet Service Providers to block only certain specified sites, not entire domains. I have got the instructions in triplicate on foolscap paper somewhere in a Godrej safe. You-do-one-thing. You come next week."

So I called the Internet Service Provider. (Really).

"Not I!" cried the Internet Service Provider. "I'm just being a good corporate citizen and following orders. It's not my fault. It's what they told me to do. Oh, they didn't exactly tell me to do that? It's not my fault. I have technical problems. Problems that I didn't have when it came to instantly blocking everyone's blogs. Thank you for calling. Can I help you with anything else?"

Else? I was still waiting for them to do-one-thing.

So the porridge went cold and the posts got old. Some bloggers raved and ranted and filed litigations. I did my deep breathing exercises and waited and won 67% of all the FreeCell games I played.

And now the blogs are back. Some bloggers are still raving and ranting and filing litigations. Long after they all succumb to high blood pressure, my well-expanded lungs and I will be here, hard at work, weaving tales and truths that need to be told. They may do it hyperly, but I prefer to end, as always, happily ever after.

Post-script: Following the Mumbai bomb blasts last week, the DoT instructed ISPs to block certain sites, in the interests of national security. Due to a cock-up somewhere (we may never know where) the ISPs ended up blocking entire domains, including blogspot.com. The problem's now been rectified, as you can see.

Post-post-script: a word of appreciation (several actually) to the bloggers who raved and ranted, as their raving and ranting may have accelerated the process.

No more road rage.

I can love you all
if I can see the beauty
that each of you brings.

It isn't as far-fetched as it seems. And it works wonders for me, for my peace of mind, and, no doubt, my blood pressure. Because if I look at every person - no, not just every person, but every animal, every insect, every tree - as God's creations, then I know that He has created them for a reason. And when I know that God loves me, with all my flaws and weaknesses and limitations, He still loves me: even if my love for Him (or Her, as the case may be) is not as pure or whole or constant, He still loves me. Just for being me. Just for BEING. Just as He loves all creation. If I love and respect God, then doesn't it follow that I would treat His creations with love and respect too, for His sake?

I think of this sometimes when I am driving, and it makes me a gentler, kinder, more polite and patient road user, who arrives unruffled and smiling.

Once Upon A Doorbell

Once upon a doorbell, a relentless finger did prod. Over and over and over and over. More overs than that. More overs than a one-day cricket match. And far less fun to put up with.

I do not know to whom this relentless finger is attached, but I know this: it is an emotionally unhealthy finger. It is a finger of impatience and frustration and self-centredness. It is the finger of some as-yet-unseen neighbour from the building next door, and I deeply hope that it belongs to a child, not an adult. An incessant ding-donging of a tantrum is slightly less infuriating in a child. In an adult, it makes me want to go over there and hit him (or perhaps her) on the head with some good anger management books.

I have a theory about the building next door, because I've noticed rather a lot of hitting-on-the-head-with-anger-management-books inspiring behaviour coming from there. There's a woman who screams blue murder at her sons. Sometimes her husband joins in. Occasionally I hear her sons screaming at each other, followed by her admonishing them not to raise their voices like that. Hmmm. I wonder where they picked up that nasty habit? There's a man who beats his dog viciously, one neighbour told me, although I have not seen him do this (but have the CUPA number ready in case I ever do), and of course, there's The Finger.

Perhaps it's the building they live in that brings out the "Hyde" in their manner (pun intended there, but you'll only get it if you know the name of the building next to mine). It could all boil down to bad vaastu. Or feng shui. Or both. I have noticed a horribly cluttered verandah on the ground floor. Maybe I should go over and do some tidying for them. Or maybe I'll just draw my curtains closed in the evening, practise deep breathing when Finger meets doorbell, and be glad that I can find material for my blog in the most unlikely places. That attitude might ensure that even if they don't, this tidy pacifist will live happily ever after.

Once Upon A Launchpad

Once upon a launch pad, there sat a towering and emotionally healthy satellite-supporting contraption. As India watched, the satellite-supporting-contraption spread its arms wide open, like a mother bird sending her fledgling out into the skies. "Fly away, fly away, my pretty one," the towering satellite-supporting-contraption cried (although her words, or perhaps his, were lost under the roar of the satellite leaping joyously up and away.

The satellite-supporting-contraption watched sadly, and shed a tear or two (unnoticed by us insensitive mortals, for our eyes were on the satellite, and besides, the heat of the engines evaporated the tears in no time, leaving only a miniscule and salty trace). As the satellite arched upward and outward, the satellite-supporting-contraption consoled herself (or himself, as the case may be) with the knowledge that if you love something, you let it go. If it comes back to you, it's - Oops. And alas. The satellite's burst for freedom did just that. Burst.

The satellite-supporting-contraption stood frozen, and firmly welded, on the launch pad. As any good parent knows, fledglings must be let go, to fly, to make their mistakes, to experience the joy of soaring independent, if only to end up in the Bay of Bengal. This is the law of the jungle, of Mother Nature, and of the launch pad. If you love something, you let it go. If it comes back to you, it's everybody's funeral. If you hold on and never let go, neither of you fulfils your destiny.

The satellite-supporting-contraption folded her (or his) arms in resignation. S/he had played her part. Or his. Perhaps one day there would be another satellite in her arms. Or his. Who could tell? (The scientists. Or rather, the people who fund the scientists).

Today India watched, and tomorrow India will forget, the noble unselfish satellite-supporting contraption. And one day, far, far in the future, s/he will be scrapped down for roofing over the slums that will, no doubt, still exist, unhindered by the space race. S/he will shelter them from the sun and the rain and she will feel noble and unselfish yet again, in a fragmented sort of way. And then she will live happily ever after, or however long scrap metal lasts before disintegrating into rust.


Post-script: Due to its phallic resemblance, I am inclined to think of the satellite-supporting-contraption as a he rather than a she: a father, albeit a very nurturing one in touch with his feminine side.

Once Upon A Nostril

(Blog #3 is one of my favourites - tales and truths that need to be told - and as each story started the same way, I named it Once Upons. - n2n, 15/12/07)

Once upon a nostril, there sat a nose-stud. It was an ordinary nose-stud, poked through my niece's virgin nose, and it was now time for the ordinary nose-stud to be replaced by a diamond no less, set in pure gold. Home she came to do so, under the supervision of my father, retired physician extraordinaire.

Who would have thought that the dark interior of a humble nostril could have brought so much brightness and mirth to a dull, electricity-less Sunday afternoon? What we all assumed would be a simple "out with one, in with the other" turned into a dramatic episode that involved such props as spirit, torches, magnifying mirrors, magnifying glasses, a brief ponderance upon the laws of physics and a moment of panic when I knocked the diamond out of my father's hand.

We thought at first it was her nostril that was too small. (Obviously not like her aunt, who can stick two fingers in each nostril with ease, thanks to years of childhood nostril-flaring). In the end we discovered that the diamond stud had too short a stem, and that it would have to be replaced by the jewellers. By this time, my niece had had four people's fingers up her nose (five counting her own, and six if you include her thumb).

My niece sits sadly at home tonight, her diamond dream replaced by what appears to be a tiny piece of broomstick. Oh, the invasion, the trauma, the humiliation! It can only be surpassed by the email she will receive tonight, informing her that her nostril plays a leading role in my new blog.

Dear reader, do not sniff or snort, I pray you! Turn not your nose up in disdain at this humble tale ... it is far from over. One day - possibly tomorrow - my niece and her nostril will live happily ever after.

Post-script: it is the left nostril, in case you were wondering.
Post post-script: Thought I should clarify .. the niece is not a little girl, she's an adult.

Silly cow.

It's the 11th.
I go walking with the moon
and my cigarette.

Of course this makes no sense. Loony, one might think. But there's a full moon out, I'm pre-menstrual, and for some self-sabotaging reason I chose today to quit smoking. Needless to say, that goal wasn't achieved.

I bet that cow jumped over a crescent moon. The full moon is just too damn hard. (But oh so beautiful).

Anticipation.

For the past week or so, we've been having wonderful downpours of rain. There's always a build up. Hot bright mornings, humid afternoons, then in the evening the sky seems to glaze over and cast a yellowish sheen over everything. And then it starts, almost like a mating ritual between earth and sky. And finally, it rains. The whole experience is beautifully sensual to watch and listen and feel.

Branches stretch and ache.
Leaves, waiting, shiver and hiss.
Thunder growls, so male.

"Hunting for sanity ...

I guess I had realised at this point that I needed it not to get high, but just to stay sane. This poem makes me very very sad every time I read it. Dear, dear little me ..

Hunting for sanity,
searching empty vials, searching my soul
for answers I know don't exist.
When there's nothing left to look for,
where am I to go?

There's a castle in my mind
but the walls are wearing thin
so anyone can look in.
The rooms are empty, and echo.
There's incense in the air.
Everywhere.
A bittersweet aroma that I've grown to love.

There's someone wandering through these halls.
Can you hear her frightened calls?
She's lost, she wants to get things straight.
She knows the way out, she has the key.
Strange .. she looks a lot like me.
She only has to turn around
to get her feet back on the ground
but she's hunting for some sanity
scraping empty vials
though there's nothing left inside them
and her wishes won't come true.

So if you look me in the eye
try not to look behind my eyes.
You'll see grey stone and stormy skies
and pain I must keep hidden.

Should I lock the door and drop the key,
alone in my castle, just smack and me?

And the seaspray'll eat the wood away
and the lightning break the stone
till I'm out in the open and vulnerable
and feeling so very alone.
But I'll know where the walls once stood
and I'll trace my way along.

Out beyond the beach,
beyond the waves,
behind the sun
whatever I'm looking for is waiting for me.
If you come there you will see
footprints in the sand
leading to the sea
but you won't find me.

(written on Sept 26, 1985 at 11:12 a.m.

"Smiles are cheap ...

Dear me! Suicidal undertones, but I still kind of like this one.

Smiles are cheap,
and easy to fake.
Smiles hide so much heartache.
And all I need to hide the lies
Is a quickly woven veil thrown over my eyes.
It’s not deceit when my laughter
Pushes my conflict to the back of their minds.
My smile keeps them smiling,
And doesn’t let them in
On the fact that my plastic laughter
Is nothing but a death-wish grin.

(written on Sept 2, 1985 at 9:26 a.m.)

"Now I'm stoned ...

Dear me! I hope you didn't think I meant NOW. I'm not that kind of girl. Any more. This was back when I was a miserable teenager.

Now I’m stoned
Now I’m high
Now I know the reason why
The world goes round.
I hear the blue and see the sound.
And I feel happy,
And I feel gay
And I know that this is the way
This is the way to lead my life
To lie no more
To open a door and let my heart go
And show what I truly am.

21/3/85, Missouri, USA
(written in that code language I made up )

"Silent screams ...

Dear me! I wrote this minutes after I experienced heroin withdrawal for the first time. Collapsed with stomach cramps halfway down the red oxide staircase that isn't there any more.

Silent screams for a virgin's kiss
For a few hours of euphoric bliss
My daily dose of bitter happiness.

(Written at 11.52 a.m.
June 27, 1985 Bangalore, India)

"Alone under the tree ...

All these years later, every time a leaf flutters down, I remember this poem. What can I say but - Dear me!

Alone under the tree
Waiting for my fruit to fall
Softly, slowly I call -
Break free ...

I look down at my clasped hands
At my body cold damp and bare
Shading me from the sun's glare
The tree stands.

I look up and the sun pierces my eyes -
And beneath me the stones my skin
Quietly, silently, deep within
My heart cries.

Something has broken apart
My fruit my future is here -
I reach out to hold it near!
A dead leaf lands on my heart.

(written on March 26th, 1985, 9:40 p.m.
204 W. South, MO)

"Behind my eyes ...

Dear me! So many of my poems mention this vast space behind my eyes. I lived in my head for so long that I created an immense world back here, and it was a good and safe place to stay.

Behind my eyes
rests so much love.
Dressed in friendship
I can only touch you with my eyes
and shall never speak my love out loud.
Which is worth more -
love or friendship?
Friendship touched with desire
is a feeling They do not condone.
So I shall keep my thoughts silent
and dream of you when I am alone.

Behind my eyes
is a love that will last.
So much more than friendship.
I can only wish that if I let up the blind
I would see my emotion mirrored in you.
Which is worth more -
honest or lies?
My words would shatter the crystal
perfect friendship we share.
So I shall keep my thoughts silent
and dream of you when I am alone.

Behind my eyes
are tears for a love that is "wrong"
A wasted emotion on infertile ground.
There will be no spring blooms, no gentle kisses.
I shall hide from you, and love from afar.
To let you look behind my eyes
would be too wonderful for me,
and too painful for you to face.
So I shall smile at you in friendship
and keep my love locked in its place.

(written on Dec 11th, 1984, 12:48 p.m.
on flight KC-NY)

"My feelings ...

Dear me! I'm a bit embarrassed by this poem and the next, although I needn't be. Perhaps back then I didn't understand that there are many different kinds of love, and that not all of them need to translate into a physical relationship. Perhaps I didn't know what love is. Or perhaps I did. I loved her then and I love her now, and I wrote these for her. They're not my best poems, but they deserve their place here.

My feelings for you
are more than a spoken word
My love goes deeper
Too deep just to be heard.

Deeper than the passion of a kiss
is the thrill within my heart
A kiss is a mere touch of the surface
of a love more than physical bliss.

Within the depths of my lonely soul
further than the look in my eyes
is the thrashing, chained emotion
of a love that can never be whole.

(Written on Dec 16th 1984, 3:01 a.m.)

A love poem?

A place free of pain
is somewhere very alone.
Leave. Live. Bleed. Heal. Love.

If this is a love poem, it's an odd one. And yet it is, because it talks about the germination of love. Without being willing to risk growth, I'm not sure there can be room for love to take root.

Those of us who have been warriors and survivors are the ones who perhaps find it hardest to love, because life has taught us too much about other things. The struggle to survive is so hard, that when at last we've reached the easy way out, we find ourselves in a cold and empty place. And we don't notice, because we've spent so much time and energy and blood and tears to paint the walls just the right colour, to arrange the furniture and dust the bookshelves. We make ourselves safe and comfortable and we forget that the war is over.

Love is about taking chances with those frightened, fragile hearts of ours. It's about trust, which in turn is about opening. Opening a window and letting in germs and dust, because sunshine and air come in too. Opening a door and stepping out into the unknown, where muggers and cheats lurk, where people await us with knives and smirks and ridicule, but we do it against all our own odds, because we catch a glimpse of something that we need more than our defences.

I want to step outside, there's a garden out there.

Faith.

It's a funny thing.
I empty myself and now
I'm full, and laughing.

This is what I think faith is about. It's about emptying myself: surrendering to a Higher Power, submitting to the will of Allah, turning my life and trust over to Jesus.

The funny bit is this: I do that emptying, and I suddenly find myself filled, with the last thing I'd have expected -- and this fullness doesn't weigh me down. It leaves me free to live strong and sure, clearly guided AND guided clearly. And it makes me not just smile, but laugh out loud in the sheer joy of it all. It's not just funny. It's fun.

In this call to Faith
the devil will try and try.
But then, so will I.

It's not always easy. In my experience, whenever I've turned to God is when the temptations to turn other ways come strongest. Sometimes they're obvious, but mostly they're well disguised. Some come in the shadow of a well-meaning friend: asking questions, raising doubts, reading palms. Some come from within: from impatience, hunger or loneliness.

Evil tries hardest when that flame of faith is first lit and burns confidently. Evil gets me and makes me waver. But the Good Guys win every time. I may screw up, falter, backtrack, it doesn't matter. I don't succeed outright, but I never stop trying. And that's all it takes.