Silence and I

Silence I

We have a strange friendship
Silence and I.
We meet again, often now,
as when and I was young.
It has been many years.
I have changed.
So has Silence.

As a child, I would meet Silence
in magic places.
on the second branch of the mango tree,
in the sweet smelling laundry cupboard,
on the front seat atop the double decker bus.
Silence was my accomplice
and would make space
for me to spin fantasies that must
one day come true;
She let me listen to the parrots
and the who-did-its,
she led me by the soul to questions
and wide-eyed discoveries -
a whirling technicolour channel...
in silence.

Silence filled up my mind
and maybe made it noisy.
But it was fun.
And we were friends.
Except when she brooded in the dark,
usually at night,
and I would reach out
and grip my brother's hand
to get away from Silence.

Silence II

We lost touch for many years
Silence and I.
I looked the other way when she came by,
turning greedily to people and plots
that filled my raucous active life
Perhaps she couldn't stay
in the midst
of my restless world,
till I was ready to invite her again
and wordlessly say "hello, I miss you."
She's quieter now
and mellow
and has a bubble of her own
that keeps the world at bay.
I've changed as well
and when I'm with her
I am still.
I do not dream of what may be,
just hug the warmth of her presence
the glow of her weightless calm.
Sometimes we talk.
Not often,
for I don't wish to break the Silence
that keeps me with myself
alone but not lonely.
Hush.
I am Silent after all.

(c) Anita Vasudeva, 2005

Soulmates

Sometimes when I touch
the centre of my soul
I grow endlessly.
I am I, I am you
I am him and her
I am it, and this and that
I am all
And I wonder why
you talk of soulmates
when there is no other
when the soul is only one
It is all.
What are you looking for,
if you are the soul?

(c) Anita V. March 2005

Impressions

You see her on your way to work
a brisk efficiency and cheer will
animate her soul as she steps into the office;
now her eyes are ringed by dark circles
set in a flaccid fallen face.
And you think to yourself
that between the tedium of last night’s dishes
and the children’s morning tiffin
she has become
a boring nameless woman
as routine as the daily train schedule.

You see her in the boardroom
completely in control, it seems,
with her power suit and presentations;
the puffiness barely concealed by too much make-up
and a too-bright smile.
And you think to yourself
that between the alcohol-tinged social nights
and caffeine induced mornings
she has become
yet another pill-popping professional,
just an incompetent juggler of life.

But in the guise of love, or lust, or marriage,
in the precious moments she thought she owned,
in the comfort of her dream-less sleep,
the freedom of her body has been mangled
leaving her without tears,
quite dry-eyed, dried up everywhere;
leaving her staring blindly into
a violated night;
leaving her to continue tomorrow
with a tired mask that slips so slightly
that you, the stranger,
see her and think to yourself
Oh look what these women do to themselves.

(c) Anita Vasudeva, March 2005

Strange miracles

In the moments
that you both
indulged in sensual sighs,
men died in hostle lands,
children starved or froze to death,
mothers lost their babies,
other women were abused,
many sold their souls to Mammon,
fear and pain and hunger
roamed the streets.
But your tender lustful passion
found a spot in a manic world
to coyly smile and survive.
These are strange miracles.

(c)Anita Vasudeva, Feb 2005

(c)Anita Vasudeva
Feb. 2005

Haiku, again

Dying, homeless, alone
under bright flowering buds
Whose spring is it?

Toddler in tatters
Doing cartwheels at street-lights
Summer jobs?

(c)Anita Vasudeva
March 2005

Alas!

Often, half-awake,
drifting into a dream-like state,
a host of words
twirl in on lyrics
from another land,
and prance about the stage
that waking thought has laid bare
while departing with langour.

The words are clear -
a dazzle of brilliant blue,
the voice of many muses,
free, unwatched,
in perfect abandon.
Hush! Listen.
Write it down.
But the dreamer-sleeper
basks in the idyll
and entrusts the vision
to an opiate mind.

The day dawns bright
a blank sheet of white paper.
Surely...
there was a waltz last night,
a royal ball so bright..?
The strains of music drift in and out.
Where are the words?
When did they go?
An hour more..
and you can be sure
the memory has vanished
(forever it seems.
The muses sing in
another man's dream.

(c) Anita Vasudeva, March 2005