Deepa Onkar |
|
Beach Scene
Women in wet saris
look into the mirror
of the shore. Children
play, sand mingles
with the sea’s breath.
My thoughts
turn like slow pinwheels.
An open notebook waits
in my room.
Light dips. What I’m
looking for, ebbs away
from words. The moment
billows against the blue
pallav of the sky, I know
the looking can be endless.
But something is returned:
Waves churn up driftwood,
a garland lies at my feet
like a scrawl.
Blue Coat Centre, Liverpool
Outside the bookstore
in the cafe's courtyard
I sip hot chocolate, read
a dead white poet.
An old couple gaze
into each other’s eyes.
The morning spreads
lazily into place, punctuated
by clouds, trees,
a woman's tinkling laugh:
"coffee and sunshine."
Behind me, talk of
World War II and Vietnam -
my thoughts flit further
from the page, and back,
buzz in my mother tongue,
like bees against a window
pane. Sometimes they dance
in the air tracing the route home.
Outside the bookstore
in the cafe's courtyard
I sip hot chocolate, read
a dead white poet.
An old couple gaze
into each other’s eyes.
The morning spreads
lazily into place, punctuated
by clouds, trees,
a woman's tinkling laugh:
"coffee and sunshine."
Behind me, talk of
World War II and Vietnam -
my thoughts flit further
from the page, and back,
buzz in my mother tongue,
like bees against a window
pane. Sometimes they dance
in the air tracing the route home.
Return home after a sojourn abroad
Distances are seas,
my room an island. I am marooned
on the bed's shore. Tree-fronds
just outside flick slightly in the breeze.
Curtains; blue limp waves. Curled,
I am a child again. I trace the cracks
on the ceiling – winged fish a sea-horse,
a girl, drowning.
A gash of an eye broods.
Every object squarely refuses succour:
figurines paintings rugs.
There's that bit of plaster so close
to collapse; a bunch of purpling
veins sags under its own weight.
The room and I have survived
vicissitudes – of travel and time.
*
Distances are seas,
my room an island. I am marooned
on the bed's shore. Tree-fronds
just outside flick slightly in the breeze.
Curtains; blue limp waves. Curled,
I am a child again. I trace the cracks
on the ceiling – winged fish a sea-horse,
a girl, drowning.
A gash of an eye broods.
Every object squarely refuses succour:
figurines paintings rugs.
There's that bit of plaster so close
to collapse; a bunch of purpling
veins sags under its own weight.
The room and I have survived
vicissitudes – of travel and time.
*