and memories
Dec4
Golden Woods
and memories
Category Archives: Could be Verse
Dec1
Joseph’s Response to The Cherry Tree Carol
I have often wondered about many of the minor characters in the Bible especially the New Testament. As some of my friends may know I have written about some of them. The last was about the woman with the bleeding sickness: Mark 5: 25- 34 you can read that poem here: https://www.classicalpoets.org/if-i-could-but-touch-his-hem-a-poem-by-rohini-sunderam/
For the past few days this thought has been buzzing in my head. How did Joseph feel? After all he was a man in a strongly male-oriented society. He was marrying a woman who was already ‘with child’. He agreed. But he must have had doubts. Was he being conned by this whole ‘immaculate conception’ story? So here it is. What do you think?
Joseph prays
My Lord, my Lord, I know I’m old
And duty-bound to thee
To the virgin Mary, I am sold
The Queen of Galilee?
How can she a virgin be
My Lord, I ask of thee
The child she bears, she claims,
Is yours, my Lord, how can this be?
And am I then a cuckold fool
Oh Lord please answer me
Or dare I hope that I’m a tool
In your plan for eternity?
I need a sign my precious Lord
Please give a sign to me
We’re walking through a green orchard
And now she wants cherries.
Oh Lord, I swear, in rage I swear
Oh Lord, forgive me, please
“Let the father of the baby, dare
To gather your cherries!”
Oh Lord, I thank you Lord indeed
For now, before my eyes
The tallest branch it bends to feed
Cherries, until she sighs.
Her cravings are then satisfied
I thank you, Abba Lord
For now, I know she is your bride
Of that I am assured!
And through this earthly journey, then
My wife she shall remain
For somewhere in your vast, great plan
My name a place will gain.
And I shall take a backward stance
For salvation’s in her womb
I’ll never take a backward glance
For her sorrow’s in His tomb.
My role is merely as a dad
A constant figure, true
Another rock, for that I’m glad
My thanks, dear God to you.
Feb26
Clap your hands and we are gone
Flipping through my “work” notes I came upon this poem. Procrastination hits my work assignments too, sometimes. Many were the mornings I’d play a game of solitaire on my computer or do the cryptic crossword to get the cogs in my brain moving. In Halifax a young friend, Crystal, taught me how to do the ‘Cryptoquote’ a good solid brain-teaser, perfect to start the creative juices flowing. And now what do I find among my notes…
We are stardust, we are ephemera
Is that why our lives are so shallow in every way?
Unconsidered, unthought out, unplanned
There was a time when spontaneity
sparkled, lit up our unplanned lives
Today it’s lost its sparkle
Today everything sparkles
Flat, planned permanence and stability
Rock-solidity are spurned
Labelled boring, dull, unexciting
So we chase another dream
And yet another
Flickering flames of fantasy
Chimera
Forever just there
Just out of reach.
And so we are forever running
Like Alice, twice as hard
Not realizing that Time and Space
Run with us
So we get nowhere
Our eyes always on tomorrow
We don’t see today
Nor realise that the here and now
Are a gift
That the ancients called
The present.
Sep10
What is happiness?
A prose poem by Rohini Sunderam
The following piece was written for a collection of inspirational stories, articles, and poetry produced and edited by Robin Barratt called Happy. If you want to read it or indeed buy it, do visit his website where you will also learn more about this wonderful man who is totally committed to writing and promoting writers, and whom I am pleased to call a friend. http://www.collectionsofpoetryandprose.com/happy/
“What is happiness?”
The infant gurgled in the old man’s arms.
“You are happiness,” The old man replied. “Your innocent enjoyment of every breeze. Your laughter at the sight of your mother’s smile. That’s pure happiness.”
“But, how do you know if you’re happy?” the child asked the old man.
“You don’t,” the old man replied, “But your pleasure in every morsel of food, the fact that your tongue can taste all the nuances of each mouthful, discern all its textures, its layered flavours, top notes that tell of meat that’s been braised, its delicate juices released as you bite into it. The sweet-sour melting tones of a fruit, some with the sweet blossoming just as it slides down your throat. Your ability to catch all the subtle nuances of a single grape as it’s crushed on the tongue. That’s happiness.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” the young boy said, “How do I taste things so differently than you do?”
“Your palate is young and hasn’t been tested by the acrid tastes of disappointment, nor yet savoured the bitterness of sorrow. Your lively taste buds are still easily aroused by hundreds of smells and sights. Your eyes are still bright with the hope of youth.”
“I still don’t understand you,” the young lad said. “Surely I see as you do. The sun as it rises and sets. The leaves on the trees, the fine delicacy of a bud on a twig. Granted my vision is sharper, but yours is softened by wisdom.”
“Ah!” the old man sighed, “Wisdom. That is just youth’s way of taking the edge off the blows of old age. Our faces are weathered by the winds of sorrow. Toughened to leather by the salt of our tears. Our once young, soft hands are calloused with care and our shoulders hunched by the weight of our regrets. Your youth gives you strength to handle the onslaught of life.”
“I think I now get what you’ve been saying to me,” the young man said taking a deep breath. “I now have concerns and worries, like you. Responsibilities too. I have a family and their needs overtake my own.”
The old man smiled, his eyes lit up, bright as the sun as it sinks in the west. His weathered face glowed a mellow red and the whites of his eyes had a hint of blue. “Thank you for making me happy,” he said.
Aug4
Drinker of the Wind
Some time ago when I was at the ad agency in Bahrain, I worked with some very talented artists and illustrators. One was Linda Strydom – who created the illustrations for Corpoetry and among so many others there was Francis Tiongsen, his brother David Tiongsen who is nothing short of amazing and many others who do so much more than computer graphics. If you check out their portfolios in the links provided you’ll know what I mean.
All that is by the by. Just thought I’d give some friends a plug!
This poem came about because Francis loved horses and at the same time we were doing a brochure for a real estate project created around the theme of horses, in particular the Arab. He’d created some captivating illustrations which then prompted this poem based on an old Bedouin legend.
DRINKER OF THE WIND (sharaab alrreh)
He was Erebeh, he was mystery, The Arab steed that flew Across the desert sands Chasing the storm His hooves thundering a warning To those who had sinned He was the first Drinker of the Wind.
His mane was midnight, His eyes were the stars The light from his hooves, Four galaxies that shone from afar. One look from him, one shake of his head The other steeds followed wherever he led He ruled the old dunes, He ran wild and free And his sinews were limned With good honest sweat: The Drinker of the Wind.
Long was he hunted, Hard was he sought And the Bedouin tribes Over him once had fought His was a spirit born to be free A being not to broken, nor ridden was he.
But legends tell us, One wild winter night A lone Beddu approached him, So humble, polite And our Arab stallion He pawed the hard dunes And took unto him a mare Pale as the moon Then he left as he came That dark winter night Like a vision, a dream, A mere flicker of light Never again seen by mere men For he truly was The first Drinker of the Wind.
Some say they saw him Against the dawn sky Some say they hear him, When the wind rumbles by But the Bedouin know And their legends declare The Drinker of the Wind Can’t be seen anywhere For he left as he came On that wild winter night When the sky was a mantle As dark as could be And the wind moved the dune tides Like waves on the sea. No moon, not a star Shone that magical night When the Drinker of the Wind Disappeared from all sight He flew up to the heavens The night sky took him home Where, as he was meant to He still freely roams The first Drinker of the Wind.
Note: The Arabian Horse –
And God took a handful of South wind and from it formed a horse, saying: “I create thee, Oh Arabian. To thy forelock, I bind Victory in battle. On thy back, I set a rich spoil And a Treasure in thy loins. I establish thee as one of the Glories of the Earth… I give thee flight without wings.”
— Bedouin Legend
(Byford, et al. Origins of the Arabian Breed)
May9
Squid
A poem presented at Colours of Life 2017 – the annual poetry festival of the Bahrain Writers’ Circle.
Now I’m not vegetarian
Nor yet pescetarian
Not even a pure carnivore
I’m an eat-everything-atarian
There’s not much that I don’t adore
When it comes to the fishes
I can devour most dishes
But there is one thing I abhor
It’s that strange little creature
With a tentacular feature
It’s name down my throat wouldn’t slid
Although my ol’ teacher
Demanded that I just say ‘squid’
I shuddered, I quaked, I all but flaked
I felt my life, on it was staked
“Oh, please don’t make me!” I pled
“Why not squid, you’re so silly,” she said
“Er…Ummm,” I so wished I were dead
“It’s so slimy, so squiggly, so terribly wriggly.”
“Oh child, it’s just all in your head.”
“No, ‘taint.” I retorted, albeit feebly
And blanched at the thought of the squid
My face on my desk I then hid
While my breath went all wheezy’n’queasy
Many years soon sped by
So I thought I should try
To dine on this marine delectation
So….“I’ll have calamari,” said I
With a measure of great trepidation
Along came this dish
Of the offending fish
All battered and fried to damnation
But…In spite of the batter
In spite of the crunch
In spite of the fact that I’d have it for lunch
The rubbery squid, it all but did
Me in… as it stuck in my throat
I gasped, I choked, I nearly croaked
And swore once more as I had before
That I’d never again eat squid!
To view the live presentation please click here.
Jan4
Nothing
So here’s another old, “dark” poem. It was written to inspire a story and then I never wrote the story!
The silence had enveloped her
In its warm black anonymity
She was safe.
No rasping voice
No sound
Penetrated it
A gag order
On insanity.
A restraining order on life.
She buried deeper into it
A mole, escaping the light. Read the rest of this entry
Jan1
Solitude
Some poems take a lot more out of me to present to the public. This one was written more than thirty years ago. It lay among my papers, then I had to “de-clutter”, so I transferred, those I was somewhat partial to into soft copy versions. It was one of those pieces that I kept coming back to wondering if it was “naff” or okay. Finally last year, it was published in Robin Barratt’s collection of prose and poetry titled Lonely. It’s also available on Amazon.
Robin approached me and asked if I wanted to write for his rather sad, but cathartic collection. Along came this poem and three others all written at roughly the same time.
I guess it’s time to share it here.
Such solitariness I have known
Total. Complete.
The satisfaction of being myself
And me alone.
The breezes were my playmates
The rains were made for me
Who else had I need for
And who had need for me?
But then a yearning filled me
Strange and hitherto
Alien to my soul.
A disturbing thrashing around of my spirit.
I searched
I called
I wept
To the unfeeling skies above me
Surely, somewhere
There was someone else like me!
This solitariness I too have known
That I live and die
Alone.
Nov6
Lest we forget
A painting by my friend Serena Stevens may she rest in peace she battled cancer as valiantly as any soldier
November is a month to remember. Loved ones lost to all kinds of battles… on the front in war, of course, but there are other battles that some folk wage against disease – that dreaded, insidious, cancer; stroke victims, who wage a daily battle with bodies unwilling and unable to respond to the simplest of their wills; so many other ailments and conditions that render folk dealing with pain on a sub-chronic daily basis, the list is a long one. This November I’d like to remember them all.
I can’t name them, but they are all my heroes.
You and you and you, who see
Life ebbing by in slow degrees
For whom there was a time, I know
When nothing ever went so slow
Today your speech is locked behind
An uncooperative mind.
And you, why half your body can’t
Respond to anything you want.
And then there’s one who cannot turn
For pain that through his body burns
And there’s another one who, while
Her spirit breaks, yet she can smile.
Some have lost their limbs to bombs
And still they somehow all limp on
We know not who has been in war
But this we know, and know for sure
There are brave soldiers everywhere
Who need to know that we do care
For them, our poppies red
We wear and still a tear or two we’ll shed.
Fight on you brave immortal souls
The day will come, you’ll reach your goal.
And for those who are thinking of loved ones lost in war I have this to say in remembrance of ‘Poppy Day’.
The famous poem by John McCrae is reproduced below:
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
With so many wars that have been fought since that poem was written, I’d like to change it around a bit
Forget that quarrel with our foe
‘twill only lead to e’er more woe.
And who is foe may in the end
Turn ‘round and some day be a friend.
The only faith, that we need keep
Is, to try and end each day in peace.
Let the poppies, sweetly blow
Lest we forget those laid below
And should our leaders want a fight,
And rant and rave about what’s right,
Let’s hide the guns and send them in
To face each other in the ring.
Note: This post was first published a year ago. I have reworked it for the reasons above.
Apr18
A poem presented at the Colours of Life, Bahrain
Two of the poems I presented at Colours of Life are already on FictionPals. I guess the third one should join them here.
Apologies to Maya Angelou
I will not go down in history
And no one will write lies
About my daily mystery
Or if, like dust, I’ll rise.
Am I sassy or even sexy
Do I upset you in any way?
The chances are you haven’t noticed
I’m wallpaper plain today.
But like the aged dying tree
I once was young and green
I’m not like the moon or sun or tides
And yet I shall be seen
Though my hair is white as hoar frost
Though my limbs hang loose with flab
Though my voice is hoarse and rough
You know, I have the strength of words
And if you will, or won’t or can’t
Hear what I have to say
Above the noise, the static chant
I know I shall be heard
For I speak of your tomorrows
Your coming ills and ails
Your aches and pains and hollow
Moans, just as your daylight fails.
So listen to me young ones
Hear what I have to say
No matter what you dream and hope
Just do it right away.
When you think that you have lots of time
The sun sets on another day
The hundred little things of life
Keep getting in your way
You think this will not happen
Who me? Oh, no! No way!
Your tomorrow it is coming
And that is me…Today!
FictionPals 