Monday, December 25, 2006

capturing the moment

if nothing else, poetry captures the moment and stretches it in a way that can be held, felt and wound around oneself... recollections from a morning walk:


The bird
a black shadow
on a still
colourless cloudless blue sky;
A wing flutters
as it swims
across my upward view.
The tree stump
in patience, hope
and a certain
sense of fatalism
(or fatality?)
for a new twig
to burst into leaf.
There's a quiet
in the crisp crunch
of footfall
on gravel.
Heads nod
hands rise
in a hello;
Morning walkers
breathing in
and out
and feet
move on
another mile.

Monday, December 04, 2006

accident of birth

I read the other day about a rally organised in New Delhi to protest female foeticide and call attention to the deteriorating male:female ratio, particularly in the states of northern India. Just reminded me of something I wrote a long time fact, much before I became a mother, perhaps in response to a similar discussion in the eighties, perhaps recalled from 'the depths of neo-natal' memory...? But I must say that memory and imagination are partners in a writer's mind, and empathy often makes curious turns into the space usually occupied by experience, and in doing so, touches memory with a brush that recalls feelings unfelt!

A daughter is born


Dredged up
From the depths of neo-natal experience
A memory stirs.
While head and hands groped for life
In the womb-darkness
Of pre-birth,
Tiny feet found
Their first breath
In the bright hospital air.
A little body
Inched out into
The adult world, defined
By adult-set hopes.
Before even,
The baby eyes saw
Their first rays of light,
The voices fell—
“It’s a girl”.