Look Again

Look Again

O how the mighty fall.
Jesus turns to Judas
and Hamlet to Macbeth.
Men fall off their pedestals
when love falls to its death.

(I probably wrote this in late 91 or some time in 1992)

I do like this poem - its sarcasm, bitterness and humour - it reminds me of Dorothy Parker's style of writing. Incidentally, she is one of my favourite writers and I was titillated to discover that we share the same birthday.

DEAR ME: "Even when your heart ..

How desperately we search for solace from what we lose, in what we have.

Even when your heart is breaking
your diamonds shine for you
Even through your tears
their light can still shine through.

Nothing lasts forever
not hopes, not dreams, not love
But the diamonds stay
and shine.

You'll find the women with
the most diamonds
are the most content
or the most lonely.

(written in 1991, sometime after the war)

DEAR ME: "You never said ..

You never said you would.
I never said I do
and yet we knew that you were mine
and I was part of you.
No one witnessed
this sharing of souls
or heard them tear apart.
No one knows
that for a while
we lived in each other's heart.

(written in August 1991)

I like this poem very much. Not sure why, and not sure why I felt the need to announce that I like it.

DEAR ME: "They say that men ..

It's interesting that these four poems quite clearly show the path this doomed relationship took! And also my changing perspective (as you will see in the fourth poem!)

They say that men are hard
But I know a man as soft as
the seldom-touched flesh of my thighs

They say that men are strong
But I know a man who is
scared of the truth

They say that men don't cry
But I know a man who crushed me
tight against him
and buried his head in my breasts

They say that men don't know
But I know a man who said
I was the best and the worst
that had happened to him

They say that men don't feel
But I know a man who recognised my love
and loved me and hated me for it.

(written at 9:40 pm on 19.5.1991 Bahrain)

"Through the eyes of my lover ..

Finally! It took me four years to get over Bops. Then I met and fell in love with the sweetest man (who must remain unnamed!) and, but of course, my next set of poems were all inspired by him. I shall post these poems in order, over the next four days.

Through the eyes of my lover
my mirror lies to me
and I am all the woman I want to see
and my imperfections were meant to be.

Through his eyes I am much, much more.
I stand taller than before
he came.
He gives a name
to feelings I'd abandoned
and though he does not hold my hand
and leaves me to walk alone
I am never quite on my own.

(written at 8:36 p.m. on 11 March 1991)

There are a few little "secrets" hidden in this poem. I will leave them that way.

Come back tomorrow to read the next in this 'series'!

"DEAR ME: "Take a walk ..

This poem came with a dedication!

To D.D.L. (Hamlet - National Theatre, London 1989)

When I had gone to London to visit Akila, she gave me one of the finest times of my life. Those experiences and stories will surface in future "Once Upons". One of the shows she took me to was Shakespeare's Hamlet, with Daniel Day Lewis in the title role. He was brilliant. He BURNED.
And then two days later, it appears, he burnt out: collapsing on stage and having to retire to recover.

When I heard about this, emotionally unhealthy person that I am, I felt his pain, huge waves of it, and wrote this poem.

Take a walk when the rain is gone,
when the clouds hang uncertainly in the sky,
and the trees stand with bowed heads.
Soon the sun will return and
with a gentle hand lift their faces
up to him.
The earth breathes easily, damp,
challenged, refreshed,
and the evening sky speaks to me of heaven.

All around me is beauty born
again and again.
When I am faced with my own frailty,
knowing this brings me some peace.
I shall have to die one day,
but the sky and the earth
will thrill, will soothe other hearts.

I wish you shelter from the storm.
A warm mug of coffee, clasped in your palm.
Someone to love you, nestled
in the crook of your arm.
These are the things I wish for
you and everyman.

As for me, I am content to bear
the brunt of a storm
or the dull dry weight of a windless day.
I will take the bad for the good
that may follow,
the hard that will with time be easy,
the cruel that might teach me
to be kind.
I will take from life what I can.
Laughter and sunshine.
Thunderstorms and tears.

(written on Dec 13th, 1989)

I love the line about the earth - challenged, refreshed - it says so much, it's so wise. I also like, at the end, the way I have used 'may' and 'might' to underline that in life there are no guarantees, no entitlements.

Dragons: better eaten than chased.

I had a new experience recently. I got to eat a dragon! On one of my evening jaunts to Namdhari's, the veggie shop down the road (I count these jaunts as "my evening walk"), I discovered the most exotic-looking fruit I had ever seen. The teller informed me that it was a dragon fruit. It certainly looked like it might have been born from one of these mythical creatures, with its rich colours and "scales".

Of course, I had to buy it! I had never eaten a dragon before. My only previous experience with a dragon had been in my juvenile delinquent days, when "chasing the dragon" (junkie jargon) was the thing to do. Oh - and a few years ago, my Jungian therapist recommended visualising a dragon who would go with me and protect me, whenever I got panicky walking down the road, which, at the time, I found hard to do. Walking, I mean. I had no trouble visualising the dragon, and took many pleasant walks after that, leaving in my wake many oily men with singed bottoms!

The dragon fruit turned out to be just as delightful! I googled to discover that it is a native of Mexico, and also cultivated in Vietnam and Taiwan. It's called a pitaya, and is the fruit of a flowering vine-like cactus hylocereus. This plant has large white fragrant flowers that only bloom at night!

If you ever come across this fruit, don't miss the opportunity to try it. The pulp is firm, with tiny crunchy black seeds - somewhat remeniscent of a kiwi fruit, but with a sweeter, gentler taste. Just cut it across, and scoop out the insides with a spoon.

The dragon fruit won't be the cheapest fruit on the shelf, but it's worth it. After all, how many of us can say we've eaten a dragon?

P.S. the little bird is Gobi, who lives with her grandparents - an absolutely amazing character full of personality!

Anger

I like this one, it's interesting. What I find, looking at it now, is that the anger is all symbolically expressed, and violent but never physically so - at another person, I mean - also how it points out the potential for anger to have a healthy expression, although clearly mine in this poem does not. And the most interesting line to me is the last, because that is what we do with anger when we don't let it out in healthy ways. It turns inward and that repressed held-in anger destroys us.

Anger

I am the sun but I do not shine
on the cold and I don't warm the night.
I am the sun and I burn in my rage
and it flares but I don't spread my light.

I am the storm
and I roar as I lash
the earth but I bring no rain.

I am the fire
cradled by my prey
I gorge on its gentle embrace.
As long as there's food for my
flames I shall burn
and when there is nothing
left I shall turn
on myself.

(written on 23 July 1989, at noon).

The shortest, and the saddest.

Prayer

To be free.
To forget,
As you forgot me.

(written for B, 6 May 1989, 12:37 p.m.)

"Is it a memory ..

Here's an odd poem I found, written in 1988. Not too sure what I had in mind - old friends, I think. Bops, probably! I do remember that this was a sad time when I had left India and moved to Bahrain, and he had broken all contact with me - and my heart in the bargain. Later on, I realised he had done the best he could, because had he kept in touch I would have returned to be with him - and smack. But he didn't, and I didn't. And the result is the Me you see today, clean and sober.

When I look at this poem now, I think of dissociation: that confusion between memory and dream, between the world's reality and one's own. I would often dream of friends back then, but never of Bops. I remember once sitting in the ladies' room at Arab Advertising and crying because I wished I could just DREAM of him - that would have been better than nothing. But it never happened, and it's only now, years later, with him dead and gone, that I am sometimes visited by him in dreamtime.

Is it a memory or was it just a dream?
I never know, for they both seem
So real.
It was just yesterday and I can still
Smell the rain in the air,
Draw upon your faces at will.
Then the faces blur and change
And I see strangers.
And the road winds down another way
And the colours are pastel, tinged with grey
And I'm going somewhere I've never been,
Though I know the way.
I hear a voice and touch a face.
But something is wrong
and everything is gone
when I open my eyes.
So how can I know if it ever took place?

(written on 26 July 1988, 8:33 p.m.)