Dancing Leaves

Poetry Reading in Philadelphia

2012-01-19T19:42:00.000-08:00

When I received this invitation to read for Philadelphia Poets event last November, I knew that 2012 was going to be the year for my writing. What a way to kick it off! Now, if I could figure out what I should read, I'll be all set!

~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Philadelphia Poets Presents its Annual Ethnic Voices Poetry Reading at the Manayunk/Roxborough Art Center (M/RAC)

This program will feature: Manya Bean, Lynn Blue, Mel Brake, Ashini Desai, Maria Fama, Emiliano Martin, and Al Tacconelli

The poets represent many different cultures—Greek, African-American, Indian, Italian, and Spanish—and while their experiences either as immigrants or the descendants of immigrants are similar, the expressions of their feelings are unique and individual, and their approaches to the writing of poetry, varied and powerful. In some cases, poetry will be read in translation together with the English.

419 Green Lane (rear), Philadelphia

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 3:00 to 5:30 p.m.

Inspirations

2011-04-23T05:23:00.000-07:00

I'd be remiss not to have a post this month for April is Poetry Month. In O Magazine,they had a great quotes by poets on where do poems come from.

I've been asked this before - "How do you know what to write? Where do you get the ideas?"

I like Timothy Liu's quote: "When you go to bed, you can't force a dream, right? In fact, the dream is a gift because it's a surprise. There are different theories about where dreams come from, but a general one is that the day's residue often becomes the little grain of sand around which the dream will then build. i think a poem is like that."

To me, poems are little birds floating around my head. I just have to stop and listen to them.
Literally.
I often close my eyes and type, just listening to the thoughts and words being fed to me.

I've had times when I cannot write poetry and I know it's due to much noise in my life. Until I can resolve or push the noise away, I cannot hear the words.

So poetry is all around us - the stars, the moon, struggles of humanity, our child's eyes, our pasta sauce.

Word Masala Poetry Anthology

2011-01-11T18:32:00.001-08:00

A great way to start the new year!

I have two poems included in the Word Masala Poetry Anthology. It is published in the UK and was edited by Yogesh Patel. I haven't gotten my copy yet, but recognize some of the poets on board and know their reputations as writers. So, please support the publisher.

Moon Child

2011-01-02T20:08:00.000-08:00

I'm a Cancerian, which means the moon is my ruling planet. Actually, it's not technically a planet,but astrologers don't get into the details. They recognize it for it's power.

I do know that it's the inspiration to a lot of my poetry and artwork. I never get tired of staring at the moon and trying to understand why it's there. All I know is that we're blessed to have the moon. I've made the moon an insolent seductress, innocent bystander, anthromorphed with power and emotions in my poems. I've sketched pictures of moonlit nights and trees.

I recently set my alarm for 2:41 a.m. on Dec 21, 2010 because it was the night of the lunar eclipse. The moon blushed red and I had to see. Once I saw the moon, I had to write. Moon, stars, sun - all seep into my poems because it touches a universal nerve. I race home on evenings with full moons and crane my neck to see the full vibrant moon.

The moon is such a central part of human history. Full of mystery thought full of confidence. It changes, but it's reliable. Children are told stories of the 'man in the moon'. In India, it's common for children to call it Chanda Mama (Uncle Moon) because of its strong presence. The poem below captures my daughter's preschool references to the moon shapes - banana, watermelon and orange.

Stage Lights

When life doesn’t make sense, I look
up at the moon.
It’s really just a foam ball
hung by a string

poked through a velvet cloth
draped over a cardboard theater
made just for us.

Tilt the lights to reveal a banana moon.
Turn it more to show the watermelon moon.
Oh, just flash the light --
it’s an orange moon.

So now I feel better knowing
that I’m only driving around in circles
and if I want to, I can lift the velvet
cloak and take a peek outside.

Moonlight Masquerade

2011-01-02T19:51:00.000-08:00

Moonlight Masquerade

Moonlight is a naughty decadent light,
A brazen masquerade
stealing the sun's glow,
breaking the mutually agreed upon rules
between the morn and the night.

Dropping blue and silver
luminescence where there should be
shadows is the violation of the stated agreement.

Focus in 2011

2010-12-19T19:54:00.000-08:00

As a writer, I found my success in publication benefited from my project management skills - establish acheivable goals, define the tasks, set a timeline and frequent status checks. I've strayed from it because my real job (and real world) has been extremely time consuming. I spend the whole day on a laptop, iPhone and Blackberry. Therefore, at night I used a poetry journal beside my bed to scribble and unwind.

My first task is to get my product togehter. So, recently, I've been transcribing my poetry into my main document. It's insane that I have over 200 poems and 100 pages. Not everything is super, but I'm quite pleased with most of it.

And, these poems don't deserve to sit in a Word doc. They need to be shared. Therefore, my goal for next year is to get out my work to as many outlets as possible. And, I need to take it a step further and get the a poetry book published. I've got lots of stories to tell and lots of different creative ventures in mind.

My mantra at work is "one bite at a time." I'm applying it to writing - one poem at a time.

Stillness

2010-09-18T05:40:00.000-07:00

If there's something I should be doing, it would be mediating. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to do this for reasons (or excuses) too numerous to list. Yet I recognize the benefits. Could writing about it be just as beneficial?

Stillness

There’s a certain stillness
that one finds in the eye of the tornado
When you find it, you first have to raise your arms to the side,
then let them drop
taturally

You close your eyes
so you can listen.

There are sounds you don’t hear but
feel in your open palms.

Then you listen to your self speak
without opening your mouth.

There may be a brush of a an object across your cheek, but you don’t mind.
Just because.

The stillness is more critical.
It’s just for a moment that you can savor this.

In just a moment,
The twister will turn its course and you must follow.
And make your choice to seek the courage
to either follow the eye or stand?

Spaghetti Love Dream

2010-03-03T21:05:00.000-08:00

My mind is dazzled by
the twisted emotions I feel.
I want to loop and dip in the succulence.
I want to wallow in the spicy sauciness and
release myself from the rules.

There’s nothing I can do to control
the quiet entanglement on my plate, but
simply slurp all of it into me,
absorb the flavors and the delicious
desires. In my gleeful indulgence,
I let the last bit lash
against my chin
as a reminder of my guilty amusement.

Oh Jealousy

2010-03-03T20:48:00.000-08:00

This was a writing prompt - write a poem that would be response to a song. One of my favorite songs is Natalie Merchant's Jealousy. I'm not trying to match the rhythm or anything, but just the emotional connection.

I’ve seen your photographs
inside the albums he
doesn’t know I’ve seen,
the ones he’s been meaning to change.
Even if he had,
a face like yours will always be
in his memory, cleaved deeply.

I smell your fragrance when he swigs
a glass of bourbon.
I hear your voice when he sings
a song from that island you saw together.
You are always here.

Do his nights with me match the ones
you created together?
Were there sparks in the air
as flames floated away from your bodies?

I know how he would’ve wrapped
his body around yours
because he tries with mine.
I feel the raw hunger,
a ravenous readiness
to devour
but it diminishes.
Yet his desire swells,
the desire to consume your body
as I am consumed by your ghost.

Sounds of Mumbai Morning

2010-01-11T18:34:00.000-08:00

Not one simple sound performs the surya namaskar.

Awake are the birds with clear calls that spring into jigs,
and crows throwing husky shouts into the air like shotputs.
A melange of twitters turn into arias that
compete for a place in the open sky.

The brush of a straw broom as it grazes the ground,
sweeping the ever present dust and
pushes the fallen leaves aside to begin a clean new day

...OM

The sound that broke the universe
into its glorious self
breaks the morning as a neighbor prays.

The fruit seller strikes a bell and calls
a nasal ditty as he pushes his rickety cart,
laden with the weight of pineapples

A truck engine burps.
Cars honk their presence to the school buses.

The city brims with life
before the sun has fully stretched its arms over the sky.

Neologism Poem

2009-09-29T19:57:00.000-07:00

The writing prompt was to create a word, and use it as subject of a poem. This was all I could come up with. However, my poem doesn't reveal its true meaning of the word, but its essence.

A meop came to me and asked if I could
take it under my wing.
It would only be temporary and oh, such a brief stay.
Why, it's hardly noticeable.
I welcomed it to shelter
under the shade of my soul.

It scurried quickly to bury its head first
next to me, and then nestled its heart
close to mine.
Before I could realize it,
the meop’s heart was fusing into mine.
My breathe was halting
just as its breathe was.

Suddenly I longed to take shelter in its soul.
The warmth and energy it emitted was
more luscious, more lucent
than my own.
The rise of energy lead
me to a moment of clear elation
yet a light intoxication
of a love and power
so divine that it could not be mine.
I surrendered to the meop and apologized
for thinking I could be its shelter,
when I was the one who needed it.

"It was at that age that poetry came in search of me"

The Dance of Enchantment

2009-07-13T19:26:00.000-07:00

So, my friend D. is courting a young lady and commissioned me to write a poem to help woo her. He's quite smitten and excited about her. I accepted the challenge to write a love poem though I've never met her. Her MySpace page confirmed she was a belly dancer and had eclectic interests in theater. It gave me some ideas. So I banged this one out quickly; he was IMing me while I was writing!

The next day, he told me she did like it. I kinda liked it too, and thought I'd share it.

The Dance of Enchantment
He first heard the tinkle
when he thought he was alone.
It was this stirring chime that
caused his heart to blink
a little faster, a little more in tempo.
It was a rhythm anew, yet familiar.

The golden chimes announced her before
she floated into the room
like a willowy bird.
Each step pulsed a song, guided by the thrust of her hips.
She let him watch the trembling movements,
knowing he was mesmerized
hypnotized,
magnetized
by her alluring dance

Her arms reached up to touch the sun.
She plucked it with the grace of ages and
tossed it around her wrists. Her silver bangles hummed
as he silently mouthed the lyrics to this new song.

A silken scarf flew into the air,
fluttering downward into gentle folds
and casting their charms upon him.
He gathered the scarf and breathed in
the soft aroma, allowing himself to succumb to the intoxication.

Her laughter had sparkled
and left a lingering glow
that he must follow.

Traces of Emily

2009-05-03T19:24:00.000-07:00

This poem landed in my inbox from Poemhunter.com. I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and did a few deeper studies of her work. I don't remember reading this poem, but I found that it reminded me of one my poems. Perhaps I did read this, and traces of this poem had stayed with me in my mind.

"Why do I love" You, Sir?
Because—The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.

Because He knows—and
Do not You—And We know not—
Enough for Us
The Wisdom it be so—

The Lightning—never asked an Eye
Wherefore it shut—when He was by—
Because He knows it cannot speak—
And reasons not contained—
—Of Talk—
There be—preferred by Daintier Folk—

The Sunrise—Sire—compelleth Me—
Because He's Sunrise—and I see—
Therefore—Then—
I love Thee—

~*~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~**~*

Violet Hours

And though they share the breath of Dawn,
the morning Dew does not
listen to the Stars.
She surfaces when she chooses.
One day, she realizes that

there is a song she had not heard before.
The Stars.
They rise alone,
and long to touch the other,
to know what it means to glisten
in the violet hours.

Dew stands atop cushions
of Grass, but she
tumbles
down.
into
Mud.

We mustn’t try to so hard.
We should stay where we are.

Oh, would you have me dance alone,
ne’er be able to wipe your delicate tears?

Dew leaps and the Stars dive,
but each fades into the arms of the Sun.

Fondly

2009-04-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

Fondly

I still think of you fondly, she said to him.

Fondly? It might as well be “pondly,”
a stagnant body of algae-laden water.

No, fondly as in how the sun kisses
a watercolor portrait.
The paints have faded, leaving a dark outline of the images.
Faint pastel colors remember and blush at
the passion and vibrant colors
they knew that adorned my world.

When I think of you fondly,
the flaws and mistakes are erased
and only the delightful moments are outlined.

Writers' Resolutions

2009-04-17T09:49:00.000-07:00

This was forwarded to me and I saved it. Now, I must remember it and live it.

I will write every day. Whether it's an e-mail or a short story, I will write carefully and well, and I will take my writing seriously.

I will accept that which I cannot change. I will accept the rejection that comes with the submission process. I will graciously accept other writers' successes without whining about my own frustrations. And I will accept where I am in my writing career.

I will always have a certain number of submissions circulating while I work on still more pieces.

I will master the query letter, the synopsis, and the book proposal. Period.

I will set manageable and attainable goals—and stick to them. I will break down daunting tasks into realistic goals and enjoy the satisfaction of checking them off my list.

I will try different types of writing and explore new markets. Experimenting in new genres will make me a more well-rounded writer, and I may discover a new talent!

I will read more. I will pay careful attention to character development, plot, and dialogue, and I will emulate those traits in others' writing that appeal to me as a reader.

I will finish unfinished projects and revise old work. In the process, I may find a gem of a piece that risked languishing forever unread.

I will attend a writers' conference and make new contacts. I will find a conference that showcases one of my favorite authors, and I will make the most of the experience.

I will get organized. I will create a workspace that lets my creative juices flow, and I will organize the business side of my craft. If I set myself up as a serious writer, others will treat my writing as a serious endeavor as well.

I will claim my dream of being a writer—and I will not let anyone take my dream from me. I will take criticism into consideration, but I will not let it define me.

I will extend a helping hand to at least one other writer. It's not a competition, after all, but a road we're all traveling together.

I will treat myself kindly. I will celebrate my successes and view rejections as a learning experience.

I will remember that writing is my passion and not necessarily an easy path, and I will treasure the process as I go.

Quotes

2009-04-13T20:37:00.000-07:00

If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, you must be the one to write it.
- Toni Morrison

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
- Wallace Stevens

The poet doesn't invent. He listens.
- Jean Cocteau

Word

2009-03-14T04:15:00.000-07:00

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.
- Emily Dickinson

2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, its no longer
Inside of me, threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
-Anna Nalick ("Just Breathe")

LORD POLONIUS: What do you read, my lord?
HAMLET: Words, words, words.
-William Shakespeare

I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud.
I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on ...
Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words.
- Robert Flack

Mermaids Among Us

2009-01-18T05:43:00.000-08:00

The next generation of women was born
with feet like eggplants.
They married men of the Soil, had
a child born of the Earth and they
stood on the chilly plains with lean legs.

Yet in the moonlight, their blood
ebbed and flowed with the sea.
Their tears were like salty jewels.
They didn’t know why they craved
the sonorous music of blue oceans,
the flavor of green kelp and
the sage teachings of the dolphins.

They adorned themselves with coral
and shells, yet felt empty.
“This is absurd,” they reminded themselves
secretly.

With feet planted on the still and dry ground,
they hid this story deep inside.
They gave generously to the Earth and divided themselves
to attend the needs of the Soil.

In their dreams, they heard the call of the Ocean.
Their legs returned to their natural state, and
they flipped, jumped and warmed their souls in waters
caressed by the moon.

Inspired by “A Survival Guide for Landlocked Mermaids” by Margot Datz

Flaws

2008-12-15T20:28:00.000-08:00

Running my hands over
your chest and feeling the
flaws. Not knowing
if it is your skin
or my fingers.

Butterfly On My Leg

2008-09-28T20:22:00.000-07:00

Butterfly On My Leg

It was when I sat in the darkness
of my own anger at my loss
that I suddenly noticed the soft and subtle flickers.
White wings came together like an angel's hands in a greeting.
The black eyes studied me.
She moved with steady steps on my calf.
Could I not feel anymore?

I did not move as I looked down. I could feel each footstep.
The wings were translucent, shimmering with
silken fibers. Yet they were opaque.
I wanted to see.
I wanted to feel.
I need to hear.
I strained and did hear the little one's words to me.
Fly with me.
I explained I couldn't.
I must remain to guard my losses.
Her voice beat consistently.
Fly with me.
I told her I could not.

She flew higher and floated to my ears.
She told me of succulent lavendar and heathers,
the inebriating scents of the green grass,
and being quenched by the dew warmed by the rising sun.

She said she understood. She knew.
It was only when she left her cocoon
was she able to savor the lushness of life.
The dark confines were cozy and safe.
But, hunger raged. The fatigue.
The desire to break out, stretch her wings and senses.

She began with a tiny punch.

*~*~*~*~*~*~
This was a writing prompt in my poetry journal - "Imagine a butterlfy lands on your leg."

Tribute to The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World

2008-09-28T19:53:00.000-07:00

I've been reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez lately, and it's impossible not to be inspired and in love with his stories. Here is my interpretation of his short story "The Handsomest Drowned Man"

Entangled in Seaweed

Somehow, in the course of their normal days

without anyone realizing, they lost their

dreams. They were simply tossed

over the cliffs

with all the other loved and spent objects.

It was so uneventful. They didn't even know it.

They slept hard sleep, awakening to remember

only what was not done.

The women lost their softness,

while the men packed away their strengths

like wool blankets found in June.

Their bodies blurred into continuous days.

When the dreams happened to wash onto the shore,

the children did not know how to greet them,

as they had never been introduced.

Though the dreams lay entangled in scales and seaweed,

everyone took a risk to welcome an Unknown,

but possibly familiar.

They revived embers that barely glowed

and gave them a place to nestle, breathing into the fire.

A light of brilliance,

of all things enormous, wondrous and lustrous,

shone upon them. They wallowed

and followed in a sensuous and ethereal world,

that promised a Tomorrow.

They held their new found dreams above their heads,

allowing themselves to be lifted.

Their feet no longer touched the ground.

The Other Boleyn Girl - What the..!?

2008-08-09T04:44:00.000-07:00

I finished Phillipa Gregory's "The Other Boleyn Girl" and was just irritated throughout the book. I only finished it to see how far she would go with this story.

I splurged on this book a few months ago - I find my literary treasures on the clearance table or at the library. Since I have such a Tudor obsession, let's go for it! Plus, there's an Eric Bana movie and I wanted to read it before the movie. (Wait for me, Eric!)

Within the first few pages, I was running to my Antonia Fraser book to look up timelines and events. When I checked online, I was happy to see that I wasn't the only one who spotted all the historical inaccuracies.

I can appreciate Phillipa Gregory's desire to bring alive a person who was forgotten by history. However, in trying to elevate Mary, the rest of the family became caricatures! Anne wasn't smart and strong, but extremely manipulative and heartless. She added modern sentiments to Mary - such as the desire to be with and raise her own children, much like Princess Diana.

I haven't seen the movie, but my father had. He was shaking his head about the story and how the Boleyn family had manipulated and used Mary and Anne as pawns. However, this was part of the author's artistic license. And, to your average viewer/reader (i.e., someone who is not going to check biographical references from 16th c.), these portrayals and stories become "factual." This novel also glossed over all the political and religious upheavals in the country.

To close with Dorothy Parker's famous words:

This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

Bubbles (My Poetry) Eclipse

2008-07-20T05:07:00.000-07:00

I had a great reading at Robin's Bookstore last week where I was one of the 3 featured poets in the Philadelphia Poets Journal's Annual Ethnic Voices event. It went really well and I was inspired to share more of my poems on this site and in future poetry events.
Here are two new poems:

Eclipse

When the moon finally
asked the earth to dance
he gazed into her oceans as
she locked her eyes upon
his marble beauty.
They leaned in closer
and blocked the sun and stars.

Moonlight

Moonlight just happens.
It's a naughty, decadent light
that breaks the rules.
There are brazen lines of blue and silver
luminescence where there should be shadows.
Not the clear yellow light of the sun,
but droplets from the wanton satellite.

Annual Philadelphia Poets' Ethnic Voices

2008-06-22T19:30:00.000-07:00

Annual Philadelphia Poets' Ethnic Voices

This will be my first public reading of my work. I'm still trying to decide what poems to select, since this is a multicultural event. Most of my work isn't related to my ethnicity, but to other influences.

If you're in town, please come and be part of my cheering section!

Building Grass Huts

2008-03-09T06:28:00.000-07:00

I have a bit of writer's anxiety these days.

On one hand, I have one creative nonfiction and two poems that are due for publication in 2008 and early 2009. I've been through this before and until the book is in my hand, I won't believe it. So I will let everyone know.

On the other hand, I've received a few rejections last year. To make me feel better, the editors send me a complimentary copy of their journals. (Gee, thanks!). They send this to you so you can learn what they're looking for next time. When I see the work that's being written, it's not like mine at all. It's more structured. I feel like they're writing skyscrapers and I'm writing grass huts.

While grass huts have their charm, they lack durability. I'm not sure how much of my style I need to change. I send my work hoping editors will see me as a "fresh voice," free of the MFA commanded styles. One editor suggested I refine my endings a bit. I reworked a few points she had identified and I agree it's better; those points always bothered me, but I left them. I would love feedback on my work!

So, I'm willing to refine, but I can't change my voice. Poetry is so personal and I write as it comes to me. My confidence wobbles when I read the bios at the end of my complimentary journals and see the MFA and other academic credentials.

Poking around on poetry sites, I came across a letter from Ted Kooser, the poet laureate. He wrote the following correspondence:

Your statement: "So many writers I've talked to refer to office work as the enemy, as if it's impossible to be anything except poet and teacher at the same time" engages me.

Where, I wonder, or at what juncture in history, did we get the idea that work would be our friend? For many of us, it is essential that we be writing against something, rather than for it. The writers who are teaching and going to the AWP meeting, etc., are in this sense writing for, or writing in support of what they're doing. Their writing is an extension of their livelihood, teaching, and the writing supports the work. And if this follows, where among these writers is the writer who questions this way of life, who writes that we should not be teaching creative writing, that we should not be encouraging people to consider careers in support of the creative writing industry? Every year there are hundreds of jacket blurbs that suggest that this or that poet is "courageous," but where is the courage in working as a poet on a university campus? Where are the dangers in this? The fear of not getting tenure? OF getting assigned to teach a class in composition? (For that matter, I'll admit that a poet need not be courageous anywhere. It's far more courageous to work the night shift in a quick stop.)

I wrote about the poet laureate Ted Kooser and how he's inspired me as someone who kept a day job and sustained his poetry. From the same site, there is another great blurb from Kooser:

You asked what I'm working on . . . I never feel as if I'm working toward the next book. I just keep writing poems as I come upon them and eventually, after maybe sixty of them have been in magazines, I start looking to see if they'll make a book. My books are getting further and further between. The last one was nine years in the collecting. Things are hectic here at the office, so I'd better get back to work.

Thank you! I will hang in there and keep collecting the grass for my huts.

Catalog Wisdom

2007-11-21T14:56:00.000-08:00

Tis the season for catalogs! Amidst the visually sensual and seductive Harry & David catalogs, I found Signals. This is definitely targeting artsy-fartsy people like me because I wanted something on every other page - jewelry with Emily Dickinson and Shakespeare quotes, unique Harry Potter paraphernalia, abstract figurines in metal, jewelry reminiscent of ancient artwork and symbols, Asian-inspired decorative artwork, etc. I'll admit, some of the items are too much for me (e.g., the "I love Mr. Darcy" sweatshirt)

What caught my attention were quotes on jewelry and sweatshirts. Since I wouldn't wear these (I am always looking over my shoulder for Clinton and Stacy), I thought I'd share them here:

National Sarcasm Society Like we need your support
~*~
Never Judge a Book by the Movie
~*~
She is too fond of books and it has addled her brain - Louisa May Alcott
~*~
English Major You Do the Math
~*~
There are only 10 kinds of people.
Those who understand binary and those who don't.
(Whew! In spite of my professional geekiness, I'm glad I missed that 10 = 2 in binary!)
~*~
Not all who wander are lost
~*~
Walking.calm
~*~
Patron Saint of External Optimism:
Rely on her to help you see your cup is half full and that there's a silver lining in every cloud
and tomorrow is going to be a better day.
(I think my readers might bestow this title on me!)
~*~
(my favorite..)
Careful, or you'll end up in my novel.

Online Workshop

2007-11-11T05:16:00.000-08:00

I have a manuscript of poems that I've been peddling this year. So far, no luck. However, I did receive two comments this year that some of my poems could be workshopped further, enhance the endings.

If anyone would like to form an online writing circle, please contact me directly. I've found the online writing groups that I've done in the past helpful. Ironically, I've read drafts of work that have been published novels. (A bit frustrating because the author had ignored the group's feedback!)

It's hard to find poetry enthusiasts, but I like to write poems that anyone can understand. My intention with my poems is to reach the people who are intimidated by poetry and have them say, "I get it!"

I have no predefined purpose for the group, but hoping to see what kind of participation and interest I receive!

Books, Books, Books

2007-09-13T19:16:00.000-07:00

So, I don't normally post these "meme" type things on my blog. There's enough about me on here anyway. So, Sir RibbonFarms publicly tagged me and I have to do the honorable thing and respond.

~ Book that changed your life – Gandhi An Autobiography: The Story of My Experiments With Truth (yes, as corny as it may sound, it helped lead me onto the road of vegetarianism).

~ Book you've read more than once – Jane Eyre I have read it and watched the films at different points in my life and have found myself relating to different aspects of it each time. Also, listened to "Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now" by Maya Angelou. My father had commented that the life lessons in this book were more inspiring than listening to lectures by some religious leaders.

~ Book you'd take to a deserted island - I'm going to steal Toni Morrison's response to this question. When asked this question, she replied she would want paper to write her own book. I feel the same way. I'd have to create my own book. And, if I were on a deserted island then I would have the peace and quiet that I so need in my life to net all those stories in my head onto paper!!

~ Book that made you laugh – David Sedaris "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim". I sat in the waiting room at ballet with my mouth covered because I wanted to laugh out loud, especially about the Christmas traditions in Holland.

~ Book that made you cry – "A Fine Balance" by Rohinton Mistry, "Nectar in a Sieve" by Kamala Markandaya and "The Joy Luck Club" by Amy Tan (the mama leaving the twins behind on the side of the road so she wouldn't curse them with her dead body.. oh my god..just thinking about it is overwhelming!)

~ Book you wish you had written – "The Namesake" or "Interpreter of Maladies" because they ain't all that. (Let me know if anyone can give me a lift to that deserted island)

~ Book you wish had never been written – This is a tough question for me because I believe every book that exists should have been written. The only one that comes to mind is that OJ Simpson tell-all book.

~ Book(s) you're currently reading – Just finished "The Brick" journal, which had various short stories and interviews. I was especially taken by Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

~ Book you've been meaning to read – 3 Salman Rushdie, 2 Amitav Ghosh and 1 Kiran Desai books on my bookshelf.

~ Book you've been meaning to finish – "Fury" by Rushdie, "The Fellowship of the Rings" by Tolkien. Both books have such intense language and meaning, and require focus.

So, now I will tag bloggers Zen-Denizen, TAAMommy, Appletina, Phoenix, Jane, and Disha to continue their list!

Bubbles (My Poems): Pottery Barn Days

2007-06-23T10:10:00.000-07:00

Pottery Barn Days

These precious people live in homes with soft creamy linen slipped sofas
and clear glass cylinders brimming with white seashells
on the Espresso end tables.

The Ivory and Havana Dark Weave furniture enjoy the
clean ocean breezes, immune to the rage of elements.

They eat heartily at clambakes. Tables set
with colanders in a nautical blues and reds,
plump lemons for the lobsters and white pails to collect the shells,
and bottles of Pinot Grigio knotted with sand-dollars.

The catalog says it brings family back together.

Leaves That Fell In The Middle Of Spring.

2007-04-30T08:33:00.000-07:00

We saw the leaves fall this spring.
Wasn’t the tree always going to be lush,
adorned with green buds and white blossoms?
All the others were.

Why, the leaves are life of the tree!
They dance and sing with the wind,
and they tickle the young buds until they laugh.

We don’t know why, but the leaves loosened themselves.
It was too early.
Not fair.
No, it cannot be.
They had not felt the June sun nor tasted the August heat.
The young buds need their shade to grow
into delicious fruits of September.
They must stay.

The tree tried to hold onto them
“Just a bit longer.”
And, even when the stems were thin
the pain to cling was too much,
the leaves still believed they would stay
and keep the branches warm.

Along came a calm April breeze, which circled her arms
around the leaves. Quietly cradled each leaf and
carried them afar.
They were free to float and frolic.
They missed their tree,
but had another journey to follow.

The tree stands with a wide, open embrace.
If you listen to the rustle of the leaves in May,
you’ll hear the whisper of the melody they left behind.

In memory of leaves that fell this spring

- Dr. Padmaja Shinde 1966 – 2007

- Boney Dhar 1964 - 2007

Shakespeare's Day

2007-04-23T14:45:00.000-07:00

William Shakespeare was born on April 23, 1564 and died on April 23, 1616.

We were reading "Romeo and Juliet" in 9th grade and Mrs. Ekholm brought in cupcakes to celebrate. To add a twist, she asked everyone to quote a line from Shakespeare in order to receive a cupcake.

Just about everyone went up and said, "O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" or "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?" I had to be different and chose, "He jests at scars that never felt a wound." Mrs. Ekholm actually gripped my arm and froze. She loved it! This was said by Romeo when the guys were making fun of his lovesickness. Ironically, I often think of that line when people make comments or make light of someone else's situation.

Another favorite line of mine from Romeo and Juliet was "See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!O, that I were a glove upon that hand,That I might touch that cheek!"

I always liked the following scene, more so after I saw the Leonardo Di Caprio and Claire Danes performance in Baz Luhrmann's film. The way it was depicted was beautiful, as they started with their palms touching to their first kiss. The language is so full of double meaning, it's pure desire.

ROMEO [To JULIET]
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

JULIET
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

ROMEO
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

JULIET
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

ROMEO
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

JULIET
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

ROMEO
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged.

JULIET
Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

ROMEO
Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!
Give me my sin again.

JULIET
You kiss by the book.

How hot is "give me my sin again"!?
Another powerful scene is the final death scene. Again, in the Baz Luhrmann version, as he dies and she awakens they see each other. Yet, it is too late. That makes it hurt even more.

JULIET:
What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:
O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after? I will kiss thy lips;
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make die with a restorative.
Kisses him

Thy lips are warm.

First Watchman
[Within] Lead, boy: which way?

JULIET
Yea, noise? then I'll be brief. O happy dagger!
Snatching ROMEO's dagger

This is thy sheath;

Stabs herself.

I don't get entangled in the scholarly controversies of whether Shakespeare wrote his own work or not. I simply enjoy what the world has.

Speaking the Words We Write

2007-03-07T14:41:00.000-08:00

I was thrilled to catch Def Poetry Jam on HBO last night. If you haven’t seen this program, it’s a spoken word and poetry performance. These poets do not speak from the heart. They whisper and roar from every molecule in their body and your body.

People often say, “Oh I don’t get poetry” and wouldn't try to read two lines. Performances like these visually illustrate the simplest purpose of poetry – the need to express and communicate to another.

I have to admire these artists because they can voice their poems. For me, writing is an act that is necessary as breathing. Yet, I’ve only read my poetry aloud to a few friends in writing groups. A year ago for the first time among strangers at a workshop, I read my work aloud. Afterwards, I was overwhelmed physically - blood was rushing and my body temperature must have risen 100 degrees. I received a positive response, which was encouraging and gave me confidence.

I don’t have a problem with public speaking. I taught and led presentations to clients, colleagues, professors and classmates. I’ve been the MC and made speeches at various Indian events. Not a problem.

I have public speaking confidence when what I’m presenting is not me. To read poetry or my writing would be to step into a zone of vulnerability and exposure.

When I watch spoken word poets, I know they’re taking their talent to the next level, which is where I need to be.

Another point for me is that writing is as solitary and silent act. I do read my work to myself, usually to check for rhythm.

When I read or write, I have this ‘voice’ in my head. The voice doesn’t trip over words, she glides and breathes into them. I like to write about ethereal topics. By actually articulating the poems, my voice makes the words seem so ordinary and lose their magic.

This is why I have to admire the talent of the Def Poetry performers. They know how to breathe life into the words and make them the voice you recognize in your head.

There was a girl in one of my writing groups, who was a poet. We found ourselves having difficulty connecting to her as a person because of her insecurities. She was inconsistent; she resisted sharing simple things, but then revealed too much. I saw her present one of her poems in a public performance. I was amazed how she transformed. She owned the stage. That was her space, those were her words, and that was who she was! For some poets, the public performance is a validation of who they are.

Broken Music - Sting

2007-03-04T05:29:00.000-08:00

So, the Universe is pulling me to Sting this week.

I had an hour to myself yesterday and my car drove itself to the nearest Barnes & Noble. I went to the first place I always go in a bookstore - the Bargain Books. I believe one person's junk could be another person's treasure. I collect classics and books by Indian writers, which they may not mean much to the mainstream reading populace. So, I've found some great finds for under $5 or $10.

Yesterday, I found Sting's memoir "Broken Music" for $4.98. I've read only 30 pages and I'm captivated by his writing style. His prose is so lyrical and poetic it leaps off the page. For example, here's a line from the first paragraph:

"My wife, Trudie, and I are sheltering beneath an umbrella, while high above our heads two seagulls wheel recklessly in the wind; and the sea is a roaring threat in the darkness"

He could've said "Trudie and I stood under an umbrella and we could hear the seagulls and the water."

Actually, what made me buy this book were 2 paragraphs on page 298. Sting is in an old French hotel next to the alleyway where prostititutes have stood "for a thousand years." In the hotel foyer, there is an old poster of the play by Edmond Rostand, "Cyrano de Bergerac," which prompts this musing:

"He is a tragic clown man with an enormous nose and a plumed hat. He is a man entrusted with a secret; an eloquent and dazzling wit who, having successfully wooed a beautiful woman on behalf of a friend cannot reveal himself as the true author when his friend dies. He is a man who loves but is not loved, and the woman he loves but cannot reach is called Roxanne. That night I will go to my room and write a song about a girl. I will call her Roxanne. I will conjure her unpaid from the street below the hotel and cloak her in the romance and the sadness of Rostand's play, and her creation will change my life. "

I think that's what is appealing to me about this book that it's a memoir, not so much of an autobiography that zips through significant events. It pauses long enough to evoke significant moments.

Lost Clouds

2007-02-17T05:26:00.000-08:00

Thanks to SirenSongs, I experienced this beautiful site, "50 Million Missing" photographs of Indian women and girls. This collection is a reminder of the beauty and diversity of the many faces of Indian women.

Sadly, the value of an Indian female has not improved where female infanticide and dowry deaths are still occurring. We hear about the tech boom, the educated classes and modern advances made in India, but when girls and women are still considered a burden, where will society end up? It is the "dehumanization" of women when they are valued with monetary measures. Here are some links to articles about this urgent issue: Missing: 50 Million Indian Girls and India's Missing Daughters.

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I had received this poem this morning in my inbox as my Poem of the Day and it seems appropriate for this mood.

A Cloud withdrew from the Sky (895)

A Cloud withdrew from the Sky
Superior Glory be
But that Cloud and its Auxiliaries
Are forever lost to me

Had I but further scanned
Had I secured the Glow
In an Hermetic Memory
It had availed me now.

Never to pass the Angel
With a glance and a Bow
Till I am firm in Heaven
Is my intention now.

Emily Dickinson

For my poetry-phobic friends, the poem speaks about a cloud that was missed, an opportunity to see "superior glory." The moment could have been saved and reused again.

We need to stop and save the images of the Indian women and girls lest they become clouds that fade away with the sun.

New Articles online

2007-01-30T13:50:00.000-08:00

I wanted to mention I have two reviews up on Desijournal.com:

"Mixed", a review of an anthology by multiracial authors

"Dor", a review of this film, which I had previously posted on my blog.

I've told my friends about my reviews.I was pleasantly surprised that one of my friends said he ordered the anthology from his library after reading my review. His library did not have it and will be getting it. By the way, I have a friend who always read the latest South Asian writers. I would ask him, "Where did you even find it?"

He replied, "I just go to the library and ask for it. Then they'll get it. They need to build up the multicultural collections, so they're happy to get it."

I love my library because it's so full of books by South Asian writers. It's crazy that I can't find David Sedaris, but Shyam Selvadurai and Monica Ali are right there.

Anyway, I'm happy these reviews are working and getting people inspired to read!

Haikus in the Sky with Diamonds

2007-01-18T14:26:00.000-08:00

After I got the taste of haikus, I started playing with some more words. I wrote these on the plane to CA last month, so you can see my inspirations. And, Henri Matisse's "Icarus" fits perfectly with the poem!

A mile-high sunset
scorches the horizon and
with a hint of green.

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Had Icarus flown
at night, the stars would have bowed
and the moon cheered.

Haiku This!

2006-12-03T06:31:00.000-08:00

So, among the many calls for submissions I receive, there was a recent one for haikus. Specifically, there should be haiku about wine (red and white).

The last haiku I wrote was in 4th grade:

Lonely boy and girl
on a rainy Saturday
Soon the sun comes out.

It was published in our 4th grade class magazine and I also provided illustration (a dismal looking boy and girl, peering through a window with their tears mixing with the raindrops).

Since then, I haven't written haiku, so I took some time to browse haiku books at Barnes & Noble. I remember haikus being about nature, trees, cherry blossoms and such. Those topics don't interest me, so I stayed away from the haiku. I was pleasantly surprised to find modern American haiku writers that took the Japanese style of 17 syllables and ran with it.

Here are some online samples.

Creative Haiku
Erotic Haiku
Ocean Haiku

Reading through these sites, I can see the seriousness of the art of haiku. I've been doing free verse for so long, it was hard to restrain myself. However, it was fun trying to force myself to think within certain guidelines. While poetry is all about selecting the right words, the syllable constraint made it tougher to choose the right word.

Here are my haikus. Even if they don't win and appear on wine labels, at least they made my site.

1. Red

So the Merlot turned
a pirouette, tossing
a bouquet in the air.

2. White

The Sauvignon Blanc
smiles and sparkles a bit
of summer in a glass.

Bubbles (My Poems): A Mid-Autumn Night's Dream

2006-11-12T05:52:00.000-08:00

A Mid-Autumn Night's Dream

A friend beckoned me to Cabo San Lucas. I wasn't sure.
"Come and see it. Then decide if you want to go."

There were islands there now. We could hop to each
by wading through crystalline waters.
Total wade time was six minutes.

There were warm breezes awakening the palms.
The edges of the brown sand melted into blue-green ocean.
My toes broke into the shimmer of the sand,
leaving an imprint to be washed away momentarily.
The air lifted and lightened everyone.

"I will stay!" I decided.
Yet, I only have the clothes on my back.
I'm not ready for swimsuit season.
My daughter is dressed only in an orange swimsuit.
What about food? Everyone else brought bhel-puri.
My husband and I now have to help construct
the underground passage to the islands.
A menage of friends, parents and Disney princesses
came to my side. It would be fine.
Think of the six minute wad.

So, I stayed until I awakened.

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As a side note, this dream obviously indicates how much I long for a vacation! I'm happy to announce I'm slowly stepping out of my writing funk. (Thanks for putting up with the simple poem above!)

Reading Hillary R Clinton's autobiography is a good mental palette cleanser. Historical and political Americana is always good for encouraging creativity. I don't find myself comparing my own writing to hers.

Colored my hair one rich mahogany color. It was kinda uneven with some touch ups in the middle, plus natural summer highlights. Only two people noticed and they are really good friends. :-)

Speaking of hair, I plan to grow out my bangs. Last summer, I ran into a hair stylist I used to go to in college. He said, "Are you growing out your bangs?" I told him no and gave my standard instructions for my bangs. He made a face. I asked, "Wait, why did you make that face?" He thought I should grow them. Well, fine, but not today. I have a big party tonight. So, against his better judgement, he cut them and gave me a fabulous hair cut (got lots of compliments!). Anyway, now I'm going to take his suggestion. I've had bangs since I was in college. No wonder people say "You look the same!" to me. If it doesn't look right, then off with them. It's only hair.

I'm taking Monday off. My plans are to work on 2 articles and go to Marshall's to look for a new purse. There has been something especially freeing to tell people at work, "I'm going to be out on Monday." In reality, it's 8 hours. However, with my job the impact of missing 1 day could be actually 2 days worth. But, they'll survive.

The Democrats have taken over the House and Senate, Nancy Pelosi is the first female Speaker of the House (in line for Presidency right after Dick Cheney!), Rick Sentorum is officially not representing me, my values or my state and Rumsfeld is gone! Britney came to her senses and kicked out the dead weight. Astrologers have been predicting November to be a critical month for positive changes. I think these changes on the national level give me assurance about upcoming changes on the personal level.

Block and Write

2006-11-05T06:15:00.000-08:00

How ironic my 101th post should be about writer's block.

I usually tell people there's no such thing as writer's block. It's all self-imposed. Truckers don't have truckers' block. They just keep on truckin'. Writers have to keep on writing.

Since last Spring there's been a lot of things in my life on the homefront, family and work. I feel I've had to shoulder a lot of emotional and sometimes, physical burdens. I have had to be strong for a lot of people. Some of it has gotten better and there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Others are still open and all we can do is hope for the best, knowing it will all come together in time. Nothing in life is permanent. Bad times end like good times end.

I feel that my creativity has been a victim of this unexpected stress. It's been sucked out. I've lost passion for writing and tapping into my creative Spirit. It sounds very Oprah-esque, but I really do believe in my creative Spirit.

When I write poetry, I close my eyes and type. I listen to my thoughts, not editing or correcting, just listening and writing. Oftentimes I open my eyes and am amazed by what I've written. I've found old poems and do not remember writing them, though it's definitely me. (Ok, now my faithful readers are saying "chick's gone psycho from the stress." Maybe.). I would write a few poems a week - sitting in a weekly meeting, waiting for a file to unzip or process. Whenever and wherever it struck me to write, I wrote.

Last April, I got organized about my writing and tapped into my project management skills. Organizing my poems was an overwhelming task. I have them on disks, on work laptop, home PC, work notebook, pieces of paper in the kitchen and wherever I was when the creative spirit moved me. My other problem was I would come across Calls for Submissions and would miss the deadlines.

I estimated I had 16 hours of poetry compilation into one master document. I don't have 16 hours to spare in my life. However, I do have 1-2 hours over 8 days so I could handle that. I created a Word document table to track submissions, highlighting upcoming dates, contact info and recording what work I sent (filename, date, etc.) I was quite on top of this and saw immediate successes to being organized. I started categorizing and indexing my 200 poems.

Now, it's Fall and the stress of this summer has zapped me. I was bringing working on spreadsheets rather than my creative efforts. I've had to write "Missed Deadline" on my tracking form.

I need to get back into my creative efforts, but lately my work has been book reviews, articles and blogs. I don't know if anyone has noticed by I'm posting other people's poems and not my own anymore. I preferred to redesign my blogsite rather than write when I had a quiet evening to myself. I picked up an anthology of poetry off my bookshelf and was so disinterested. I'm actually reading Hilary Clinton's book right now. (I've had my head in Rohinton Mistry, anthologies by Indian, British writers and multiracial writers for the last few months. I need to clear my palette).

I'm not sure what I need to do to kick start and wake up my creative Spirit. I've trying doing a Yahoo Search on "Writer's Block" and found some "ok" websites that tell you basic things. I searched "find passion" and ended up with personal classified listings (oops! wrong search words!).

I used to write about this stuff and give advice to others. I have a few books for writers. My favorites are Gail Sher, "One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers" and Anne Lamott's "Bird by Bird".

However, I don't know if that's enough. I need to find that spark, a fire, ma raison d'etre for writing. I think I need to do something different in my life - take a trip, take a risk or step away from the uncomfortable rut.

Il Postino, Pablo and Poetry

2006-10-22T06:04:00.000-07:00

I was listening to my one of my favorite CD's yesterday - the soundtrack to Il Postino.
I received it as a Christmas present years ago and it's absolutely a treasure.

The first part of the CD has Pablo Neruda's poetry read aloud by actors. First of all, I love literary readings performed by actors because they know how to bring life to the words. Julia Roberts reads "Poor Fellows" and you could feel how much the words resonate with her as a celebrity. When Andy Garcia reads "Tonight I Can Write," you just want to cry along with him. Ralph Fiennes, Sting and Ethan Hawke read other poems and well, you just want to be with them.

The other half of the CD is instrumental and to me, it all sounds the same. It's pretty much the same theme song performed by different instruments and given different titles on the CD cover.
Anyway, I can't believe I haven't talked about Neruda on my blog yet. I love his poetry and if I learned Spanish, it would be only to read the his work in the purest form -- his own language. There is such an unashamed sensuality and passion to his poems.

I have always loved and identified with the poem below. To me, it not language or admiration between two lovers, but my feelings toward my daughter, especially the bolded lines (bolding is mine).

I Love You As

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Now, as a poet, I find this poem always strikes a crisp chord in me.

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Here's one more that I had found and saved:

In my sky at Twilight

In my sky at twilight you are a cloud
and your form and colour are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.

The lamp of my soul dyes your feet.
My sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song.
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!

You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the afternoon's
wind, and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depths of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

Edna St. Vincent Millay Poem

2006-09-21T15:07:00.000-07:00

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why (Sonnet XLIII)
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

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I never thought too much about Edna before, but I came across this poem yesterday on PoemHunter.com and thought it was beautiful and melancholic.
Photograph is The Kiss, Paris 2003 by Gavin Martin.

The Queen and the Soldier

2006-09-21T12:16:00.000-07:00

The Queen And The Soldier
- Suzanne Vega

The soldier came knocking upon the queen's door
He said, "I am not fighting for you any more"
The queen knew she'd seen his face someplace before
And slowly she let him inside.

He said, "I've watched your palace up here on the hill
And I've wondered who's the woman for whom we all kill
But I am leaving tomorrow and you can do what you will
Only first I am asking you why."

Down in the long narrow hall he was led
Into her rooms with her tapestries red
And she never once took the crown from her head
She asked him there to sit down.

He said, "I see you now, and you are so very young
But I've seen more battles lost than I have battles won
And I've got this intuition, says it's all for your fun
And now will you tell me why?"

The young queen, she fixed him with an arrogant eye
She said, "You won't understand, and you may as well not try"
But her face was a child's, and he thought she would cry
But she closed herself up like a fan.

And she said, "I've swallowed a secret burning thread
It cuts me inside, and often I've bled"
He laid his hand then on top of her head
And he bowed her down to the ground.

" Tell me how hungry are you? How weak you must feel
As you are living here alone, and you are never revealed
But I won't march again on your battlefield"
And he took her to the window to see.

And the sun, it was gold, though the sky, it was gray
And she wanted more than she ever could say
But she knew how it frightened her, and she turned away
And would not look at his face again.

And he said, "I want to live as an honest man
To get all I deserve and to give all I can
And to love a young woman who I don't understand
Your highness, your ways are very strange."

But the crown, it had fallen, and she thought she would break
And she stood there, ashamed of the way her heart ached
She took him to the doorstep and she asked him to wait
She would only be a moment inside.

Out in the distance her order was heard
And the soldier was killed, still waiting for her word
And while the queen went on strangling in the solitude she preferred
The battle continued on.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I used to listen to Vega's songs back in college. Remember "Tom's Diner" and "Solitude Standing"? I used to put on my headphones and listen to the tape as a meditative tool, lying on the dorm bed and unwinding my brain.

This song always stayed with me as a poet for its simplicity and the ability to tell a complicated story. The plot is quickly established and the characters are familiar. It has a fairy tale appeal with the surprising message. It moves very quickly.

I always loved the line, "And to love a young woman who I don't understand" because it makes it seem that men and women do not "get" each other and that is a fact of life. It's not a Mars/Venus phenomenon, but what it is and always has been. Also, the soldier's request for it makes male/female relationship become on of the pleasant struggles in life. The soldier wants that since he's seen enough of war and death that ensues.

This song came to mind earlier while listening to the news. In times of war and the unknown motivations of our leaders, it makes us realize that our story is not new. It also shows the common man being more grounded than the queen, and the queen is so vulnerable inspite of her strong facade. Those we deem as powerful are probably the weakest and use their power as a shield. And, the soldier chose to question and once he had the upper hand, she destroyed him for his actions.

(photograph of Arundel Castle, West Sussex England is from Photo-zen.com)

Fall-ing

2006-09-10T05:54:00.000-07:00

The Apple Tree
- Dorothy Parker
When first we saw the apple tree
The boughs were dark and straight,
But never grief to give had we,
Though Spring delayed so late.

When last I came away from there
The boughs were heavy hung,
But little grief had I to spare
For Summer, perished young.

*******************************************
I feel strongly about the last line this year. Summer slipped away so quickly. Living in the northeast, we feel the seasons. I always wondered what it'd be like to live in a place without drastic seasonal changes, like FL or AZ. I don't think I would miss the seasons. I thrive in the sunshine and warmth.

Fall, albeit beautiful in its colors, is very grim to me. We're finding beauty in its decay. The smells of autumn we cherish are only the fallen leaves mixing back to the earth. It's almost as if it's a last exciting show before the curtain falls. Then the theatrical crew cleans up and leaves the stage bare, revealing its harsh structures.

The weather today is in the 80's and there is still much green on the trees. Because we live in the northeast, we treasure our time with summer as long as she'll stay for us. While I love warm weather, I also love the vibrant greenery and lushness my state has to offer.

More on Writing

2006-08-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for the love of it, then you do it for a few friends, and finally you do it for the money.
- Moliere

So, I was happily surprised yesterday to receive a $10 check in the mail as payment for a poem. It was accepted into Thema Literary Society's issue "A Perfect Cup of Coffee" for 2007. This is my first literary journal acceptance. I'm also excited because this brings my total literary earnings LTD (Life to Date) to $30.00.

It's even more ironic because two blogs ago I was wishing for a poetry acceptance (remember the ego boost I needed?). Now, I am wondering if making public wishes mean they will be granted. Were we all misled by believing wishes must be secrets?

Anyway, what I wish for now is help at work. An assistant. A smart person to help me with my workload. I have too much going on and not enough help and it's affecting my work-life balance. If only I could get my literary earnings up so I could quit my day job!

By the way, I also got a rejection today from a South Asian anthology, which is a downer. However, now that I've been keeping track of my submissions, I see there might be problems with the specific piece that I'm peddling. I need to work on that.

However, I'm taking work home these days so it's cutting into my writing time. I need to write so I don't have to work, but I can't write because I have to work.

The quote that drives me the most in my writing endeavors is this one:

There's nobody out there waiting for it, and nobody's going to scold you if you don't do it. - Lynne Sharon Schwartz

I know I am the only one waiting for it and I am the only one to scold myself.

DesiLit,Writers, Writing

2006-08-27T19:35:00.000-07:00

So now that I've organized my writing efforts and put my project management skills to work, I'm getting my work published online. I've gotten rejections, but the acceptances outweight the effects of the rejections. Though I could use an acceptance of my poetry somewhere (just for an ego boost!)

Anyway, check out DesiLit's first online magazine for my review of Shashi Tharoor's Bookless in Baghdad. The DesiLit editors did an impressive job in selecting quality work for their magazine and I enjoyed reading the bios of the contributors, since each seem as fascinating as their work.

As for Tharoor, I had the opportunity to meet him last year and saw him speak on two different occasions, just months apart. I wanted to see him at another event, but feared he'd call me a stalker. Here's a picture from the SAJA writers conference last year. I had asked him to sign my "Mirrorwork" book while my cousin and friends took the pictures. (We turned from smart, confident women into giggling author groupies at this event, dribbling phrases like "I loved your book.") He had read a chapter from "Bookless in Baghdad" and it would not be released in the US for a few months. Fortunately, someone brought this book for us from India.

That was a great event with speakers like Anita Desai, Suketu Mehta and Jhumpa Lahiri. For me it was most powerful to see Jhumpa on stage. I admit - as an aspiring and passionate writer - I've been jealous of Jhumpa's success. Usually I think, what does she have that I don't? From what I know, our lives and upbringing are quite similar, except that she continued with her MFA and has a Pulitzer, while I took detours and ended up with an MS in Information Science. (Damn proud of that I am!)

That day, she had come to the event with her husband and children. Her husband was taking care of the little ones and while on stage, she would nervously glance at them. Her husband was taking the crying kids out of the auditorium. As soon as she was able to get off the stage, she raced out of the auditorium and they all left. That made me realize that at the end of the day, when you're done with your Pulitzer and author presentations, you are a mom with a crying baby. This is what is always on the forefront of who you are. In that light, everything looked so different about being a literary success.

I also got over my feelings of frustration, too. I always felt, she's taking my stories. That day she read an excerpt of an upcoming novel. I listened and realized these are her stories and mine are totally different. There's not just one queue for literary success. There are many and we're in parallel queues (and mine just happens to wrap around the block!)

By the way, I blogged about this event for DesiLit.

Neruda, Love & Us..

2006-07-13T18:28:00.000-07:00

XVII (I do not love you...)

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Translated by Stephen Tapscott

~*~*~*~*~

I've always loved this poem in the context of my daughter - even before she was born. The last two lines came to mind the other day when I was reading a bedtime story. We're sitting on her bed, she's in my lap and we both have pj shorts. Her bare knees, my bare knees were touching. I wove my arms through hers and let my elbows angle into hers. I just felt my body and her body were so entwined. Ever since she was born, I had this weird sensation. If I'm holding her and I pat her on the back, I'm always surprised that I don't feel my hand through her body. I feel we're still part of each other.

Women Writers

2006-07-13T15:02:00.000-07:00

I had this list saved, and wanted to share it. I got it from Chicago Public Library and I've starred my favorites. A bit tricky since I may have read the author's other works and not this particular one (e.g., Isabel Allende)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jane Addams, Twenty Years at Hull House
Louisa May Alcott, Little Women *
Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits
Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings *
Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice *
Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex
Ruth Benedict, Patterns of Culture
Boston Women's Health Book Collective Staff, Our Bodies, Ourselves
Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre *
Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights *
Susan Brownmiller, Against Our Will: Men, Women, and Rape *
Pearl S. Buck, The Good Earth *
Rachel Carson, Silent Spring *
Willa Cather, My Antonia *
Mary Boykin Chesnut, A Diary from Dixie *
Kate Chopin, The Awakening *
Agatha Christie, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
Emily Dickinson, The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson *
Mary Baker Eddy, Science and Health
George Eliot (Mary Ann or Marian Evans), Middlemarch *
Fannie Farmer, The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book
Francis Fitzgerald, Fire in the Lake
Dian Fossey, Gorillas in the Mist
Anne Frank, Diary of a Young Girl *
Betty Friedan, The Feminine Mystique
Emma Goldman, Living My Life
Germaine Greer, The Female Eunuch
Radclyffe Hall, The Well of Loneliness
Edith Hamilton, Mythology
Betty Lehan Harragan, Games Mother Never Taught You
Karen Horney, Our Inner Conflicts
Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God *
Helen Keller, The Story of My Life *
Maxine Hong Kingston, The Woman Warrior *
Elisabeth Kr-Ross, On Death and Dying
Frances Moore Lapp, Diet for a Small Planet
Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird *
Doris Lessing, The Golden Notebook
Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea
Audre Lorde, The Cancer Journals
Carson McCullers, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter
Katherine Mansfield, The Garden Party *
Beryl Markham, West with the Night
Margaret Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa
Golda Meir, My Life
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems
Margaret Mitchell, Gone With the Wind *
Marianne Moore, Complete Poems of Marianne Moore
Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon *
Lady Shikibu Murasaki, The Tale Genji
Anais Nin, The Early Diary of Anais Nin
Flannery O'Connor, The Complete Stories
Zoe Oldenbourg, The World Is Not Enough
Tillie Olsen, Silences
Elaine Pagels, The Gnostic Gospels
Emmeline Pankhurst, My Own Story
Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar *
Katherine Anne Porter, Ship of Fools
Adrienne Rich, Of Woman Born
Margaret Sanger, Margaret Sanger: An Autobiography
Sappho, Sappho: A New Translation *
May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein *
Susan Sontag, Illness as Metaphor
Gertrude Stein, The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas
Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom's Cabin *
Barbara Tuchman, A Distant Mirror
Sigrid Undset, Kristin Lavransdatter
Alice Walker, The Color Purple *
Eudora Welty, Delta Wedding
Edith Wharton, Ethan Frome *
Phyllis Wheatley, The Collected Works of Phyllis Wheatley
Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Women*
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own *

ABCDLady Articles

2006-07-07T06:52:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to share some news that I'll be contributing to the Parenting section of ABCD Lady. Here's my first article, "Making the Most of Summer with Your Kids."

If you have suggestions for future topics, please let me know. I'd like to continue this tone of being informative without being preachy and realistic without whining.

Alice Walker Poem

2006-07-06T09:16:00.000-07:00

Because
you rubbed
my shoulder
last night
a poem
traveled down
my arm.

~*~

Living
this year
in
disaster:
How
is
it different?

~*~

No one
has
escaped
a blessing.

~*~

Every time
you
die
you live
differently.

~*~

You cannot
eat
money
and
if you could
it would
make
you
sick.

~*~

Removing
the
boulder
reveals
the
message
underneath.

~*~

Buddha
helps
us up
while
lying
down.

~*~*~*~~*~*~~*~*~*~~*~*~~*~*~*~~*~*~~*~*~*~~*~*~~*~*~*~~*~*~

I love Alice Walker's poetry for her simplicity and the beauty of her words and ideas. I have a few of her poetry books and they're like little treasures. The poem above is printed on multiple pages in her book "A Poem Traveled Down My Arm." So, it's as if there's a nugget of gold on each page - letting you marvel and relish the words and feelings.

Verdi Cries

2006-06-30T07:16:00.000-07:00

Verdi Cries

-10,000 Maniacs "Blind Man's Zoo"

The man in 119 takes his tea all alone.
Mornings we all rise to wireless Verdi cries.
I'm hearing opera through the door.
The souls of men and women, impassioned all.
Their voices climb and fall; battle trumpets call.
I fill the bath and climb inside, singing.

He will not touch their pastry
but every day they bring him more.
Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away
and then go and eat them on the shore.

I draw a jackal-headed woman in the sand,
sing of a lover's fate sealed by jealous hate
then wash my hand in the sea.
With just three days more I'd have just about learned the entire score to Aida.

Holidays must end as you know.
All is memory taken home with me:
the opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing, the verging sea, all years ago.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I loved the 10,000 Maniacs like anything back in the day, and this song is absolutely beautiful. I loved the simplicity of the music and the story in the lyrics. It's a short song, but it says so so much. There's a viola at the end of it, which is exquisite. I was writing earlier this morning, and this song just popped in my head. So, I wanted to share this.

Poetry: Margaret Atwood

2006-06-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

Variation on the Word Sleep

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descent,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*
I liked this poem because of the playfulness of the words in the first paragraph, where the narrator moves from just being a spectator to being the participant, the Dreamer. There is an intimacy, but there's also a request for permission to dream. And the dream becomes an active process between the two (walking, leading).

The sentence is so powerful. It is as if the narrator had requested permission and now just wants to be there in any form - a necessary form.

I'm a fan of Margaret Atwood's and love her stories, novels and poetry. I don't know how she does it, but every word is carefully placed. I had listened to "Alias Grace" on audiotape and while it was so pleasant to the ear, I kept wishing I had the book in front of me because she's so poetic. (I was listening to her while driving to work, so book wasn't a logical option).

When I read "The Handmaid's Tale" years ago, I couldn't sleep at night because I felt the character's anxieties. I think fiction and dreams blended.

And, if that's not enough Atwood for you, here's more: Gertrude Talks Back giving a voice to Hamlet's mother.

Wow.