Tag Archives: poetry

Dec1

Joseph’s Response to The Cherry Tree Carol

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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. 

					


	

		


	
Nov30

	

											
An old poem revisited

					
		

			
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As often happens these days I was searching for another poem when I came upon this one. I thought I’d give it a visual interpretation. I hope it works. 





Let me know what you think…










In Bahrain and other parts of the Arabian Gulf, the Pearl divers went out to sea to look for pearls in, what were at the time exceedingly the rich oyster beds located in and around the gulf. It was a hard life and dangerous and much lore surrounded the profession and the songs. This traditional music, known as fidjeri, is an age-old repertory of vocal music sung by the pearl divers of Bahrain, Kuwait and Qatar. The Nahhaam, or pearl diver singers, were backed by a chorus of singers and clappers accompanied by the Mirwas – a small double-sided drum – and the jahlah – a clay pot. 





In 1972, a film by Kuwaiti Khalid Al Siddiq, titled The Cruel Sea – better known by its Arabic title Bas Ya Bahr – related an artistic representation of the pre-oil life of the pearl divers. It proved to be a masterpiece and tells the story of a crippled old pearl diver who tries to prevent his son from taking up the trade because it is so fraught with danger, but the son is in love with a girl from a wealthy family and needs to make money to marry her.  This poem hints at the story and the theme of the film, the sea: treacherous, unmovable, unchanged, eternal and ultimately cruel.






					


	

		


	
Jul21

	

											
The Dance of Life

					
		

			
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				The Dance of Life			
				






How fast this dance of life does go!





Our heart beats race against our breaths





Who set the beat, this mad tempo?










Like autumn winds we madly blow





Through time and life until our deaths.





How fast this dance of life does go!










We dream, we hope, we tell, we show!





We dance, we flail, out of our depths





Who set the beat, this mad tempo?










We waltz, at double time we go!





Stepped in as deep as did Macbeth,





How fast this dance of life does go!










Through smiles and tears we do not know





The meaning of this shibboleth 





Who set the beat, this mad tempo!










We seize the day, our hearts beat so





Much faster as we near our death





This dance of life so fast it goes





We get the beat, its mad tempo.











					


	

		


	
Jun24

	

											
Literally, Shuffling…

					
		

			
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Onto the literary scene in the Tri-City area in British Columbia










My first venture into the literary community in the Tri-City areas began on June 23rd, 2023. Close enough to the summer solstice. It was a warm and sunny day and St. Johns St in Port Moody was a-buzz! Pink flags marked out Shuffle venues. Guides and helpers in pink t-shirts with buttons were around and very helpful. The whole area had a bright carnival atmosphere. And, no wonder, I believe there were around 100 participants! 










I arrived a little after four in the afternoon on June 23rd, and the feeling of being in the midst of a gala event immediately struck me. I stepped off the bus almost right in front of Barre Fitness Studio, hoping to meet the lively @Carmy Stubbs, but the lady at the reception didn’t know where the reading was being held. 










I then shuffled along to MLA Rick Glumac’s Community Office, where I enjoyed looking at art by Belinda McNeice, Rocio Saucedo, J. Alexine Law and Christine Yurchuk. En route I stepped into The Stitchery.





By now, I was close to the recordings of @Pandora Ballard’s poetry, but I couldn’t find them! Fortunately, a couple of Shuffle Guides, who were shuffling by, stopped and showed me where the recording boxes were mounted. I may not have found them otherwise! To be honest, with all the hustle and bustle around, it was hard to hear.





I then rushed down to Clarke St. (no more shuffling, I was meeting friends near my exhibit, and they’d been sending frantic messages because they thought they’d lost me! Phone-stuck-in-handbag syndrome). And my what fun! Clarke St was the busiest little spot – it was like a street fair; it was a street fair! There were kiosks, and tables with art, crafts, and even a poet who offered poetry on the spot! I wasn’t able to speak to him. 





A little beyond my exhibit I saw Karen Hein’s kiosk with her poetry and had the wonderful opportunity of meeting her! 










Now, to my little footprint in the sands of Port Moody, plastered onto a wall on the side of Grit Studio and café that’s where it was. In the midst of all that was hectic, my translation of Gulzar’s Ahista Chal Zindagi – Slow down, Life, slow down…. And oh, the difference to me.










Thank you, Tri-City Wordsmiths, for the connection. Thank you, to the organisers of the Port Moody Art Walk, The Shuffle and Gregory for contacting me and creating the poster. 

					


	

		


	
Nov29

	

											
Class Reunion

					
		

			
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Read & Listen





One after another nine of the stories from my short story collection, Twelve Roses for Love, are being featured by Vachi Audiobooks. This is a unique and refreshing way to listen to or read-along as a story unfolds. As one listener said to me, just close your eyes and let the words flow directly into your mind.





This story presents a mystery. Anita, the main character in our story, has nurtured a soft spot for her old school friend, Jake for many years. He was her secret love. Now, ten years later she is being invited to join the class reunion. She’s apprehensive. Life has been a bit hard on her and although she was once the school beauty she has let herself go. Now, she doesn’t want to attend the reunion for fear that they’ll tease her for putting on weight. And, for fear that Jake, who once seemed to care for her, may not care for her any more.





She meets him… or does she? You decide. Is he for real or a figment of her imagination?





Watch and listen:









					


	

		


	
Jan21

	

											
A Prose Poem

					
		

			
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Bereft










Your leaving would take the middle out of my life. To say that I would miss you is like beggars’ alms, for they are a beggar’s words. I would be desperately alone and the world would not know it. I would laugh as I always have: too heartily. But, I would not cry. To think of life without you would be like drinking tea from a saucer, too hot and then too cold. It would be like climbing Mount Everest and not finding ice and snow there, yet having lost a limb to frostbite. To think of every day, crystallising without you is emptiness so vast I cannot comprehend it, like light not comprehending darkness. The very aliveness of the world, the very death in me, a zombie; gyrating from one true pure function to another; that would be me without you. 





The loneliness of the heart you have already known, but picture the strangeness of my soul without you.

					


	

		


	
Feb26

	

											
Clap your hands and we are gone

					
		

			
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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.

					


	

		


	
Aug4

	

											
Drinker of the Wind

					
		

			
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Untitled design


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)


 

					


	

		


	
Jul21

	

											
Twig & Leaf

					
		

			
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All I need is a compliment… I posted a fragment from this piece on Facebook and one person’s reaction prompted me to reproduce this dramatic little dialogue that I wrote many moons ago when there were fewer high rise buildings in Bahrain, when our apartment in Muharraq looked out to the sea where dhows lounged on the beach and the causeway to the Diplomatic area was a quiet passageway and the country was asleep by ten at night.


A TWIG AND A LEAF


A bird introduced the story. It twittered: “This is the story of leaf and twig. Of self and self. Which destiny is yours dear listener? Which road to dusty death would you take?”


Twig:   “The wind blows and I move.”


Leaf:   “The breeze breathes and I dance. I quiver with its tiniest breath. Silver. Golden green. The sunlight warms me and I glory in its warmth. The moonlight shimmers on me and I play a dainty game with moonbeams. But you, you are stiff and angular. Your movements are scratchy. Scritching. And scratching. And squeaky.”


Twig:   “Just because I am more firmly set it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel the wind or the sun. Or that the silver moonlight does not make dramatic patterns with me. I am strong. And you are weak. Too emotional. Too full of movement. Too light. You dance today. But all too soon that loving sun will make you wilt and you will fall and be crushed.”


Leaf:     “Drop I shall some day. But not before the sun and the wind have caressed me into the most exciting hues of green and yellow and russet, a russet that would rival a sunset. Colours that have made poets sing. What poets have sung of you, Twig?”


Twig:     “No. That is true. No poets sing of me. I am the coarse, unlovely of the world. The bark grows hard around me. It shelters me from the sun and the wind of life. But it constrains me too. Confines the sap that flows within. Warm sap that longs to leaf sometimes. That aches to dance.


And, yet I know that if I were a leaf, I would dread the day when I should fall. Having metamor­phosed from glorious green and yellow on to russet and hectic red. Fall and be crushed. Stamped out. And forgotten. No. I would rather be a twig. And never live or love so much, so close to life that some day I shall, I must be turned to dust, ignominiously…under the foot of some uncaring, unthinking, unloving passerby.”


Leaf: “Perhaps. But twig, dear twig, to love is all. Why should it matter how you leave this world? We must all be crushed and torn some day. So live. Live and love and laugh and dance today!”


Twig:   “No. No. I cannot… And yet, should I? No. I must not. For I support the leaves.”

					


	

		


	
May9

	

											
Squid

					
		

			
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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.