Train Journey II

Woman with backpack arrives at the station.
The indicators flash names of towns far off,
which call out to her.

Buys a ritual coffee on the platform.
She watches hawkers sell books, tissues, bhel, fruits,
and yes, chocolate.

The smell of chlorine mingled with that of food
Together form essence of railway station-
the smell of travel.

The announcements go on, try to catch the words
The train whistle is condensed wanderlust.
Are the trains on time?

Finally the platform vibrates; her soul thrums.
Happiness is the race to board one’s carriage,
She’s going away.

Companionship

I sit outside writing by moonlight and smile,
delighting in the moon’s embrace
She caresses my body with silver
How lucky to find such a friend tonight!

I look up, grateful for her attention
She kisses my eyes, lips part in welcome.
Moves downwards to caress my neck, arms, breasts
My toes curling in anticipation.

But now, the moon is a gentle lover
Stays close, is a silent companion.
Was happiness born in this moment?
Or is this a warmth I remember?

Someone stirs. I must end this, or try to
All that’s left is a question in my mind.
Dear moon, while you were here with me,
Somewhere, were you making love to him, too?

on writing

Emotions trapped inside
Clamour to get out

Knock on the walls
Spill out in a red tide

Only to fade and die
Suppressed by a lack

Of the tools to create
Or the will to try

Finally wait no longer
In fury, seize the

Shell they inhabit
Drag hand across paper

sorry

It has been a long time since I left
Since then, I have thought of you as my past.
You, however, continue to reach out
Undeterred by the walls I have put up.
Do I like, or resent your trying?
This faith that there is, and can be a us?
An instance of your innocence
That conforms to the image in my mind.
A boy saying his prayers before bed
Eyes shut tight, face tense with concentration.
Is this the same man I am grateful to?
You smiled at me curled up against your chest,
Looked at me with desire in your gaze.
Taught all my life that nothing is my due,
What I feel the most is gratitude.
Thank you, thank you for making love to me.
I woke that night, and all because of you
I am indebted to you, but oh,
I am not in love. I do not love you.

three loves

3. Your kisses rain down
My mouth is still parched
Outside, normality waits.

2. A cold wet road
You and I going home
This car is so wide.

1. This world of the living
Others know you
Why not I?

Predator

The scavenger waits her turn,
Lets all others leave the feast.
Stays outside peering at the kill
Bloody meat, eaten with pleasure
Not for her, not for her.

She shuffles towards the remnants,
A scrap of sinew, cracked bone.
Eaten in fear and guilt
Full maw, sated hunger
Not for her, not for her.

The thrill of the chase,
The panic of the flight.
The terror of the prey
The joy of the hunter
Not for her, not for her.

One day she takes to flight,
Spies a runt, swoops down.
Bypasses bigger game
Strong prey’s a fighter
Not for her, not for her.

Finally the prey’s down,
Red blood, warm flesh.
But in her mind’s eye,
Terrified glance, torn fur.
Not for her! Not for her!

Days pass, hunger returns.
The wretchedness of a scavenger,
The ruthlessness of a predator.
Not for her. Not for her.
More an outcast than ever.

stranger

All stories, of course, have one of only two plots. A story is either about waiting, or about the stranger who rides into town. This story is about, well, stories.
Once, there was a woman who lived in a town and did not know that she was waiting for anything. Until the day when that which she was definitely not waiting for appeared on her doorstep. She did not acknowledge him, of course; and neither did he seem to notice her.
And so things might have continued. But one day there was a crisis to meet which these two had to combine all their energies and passions and work together. This crisis took a year to resolve. In this time, something odd happened. These two began to notice each other. But each of them had lives beyond this crisis, and the stranger had promises to keep. This they both knew from the start, but like children, they felt that tomorrow was so very far away!
But tomorrow always comes. And one day, the stranger saddled his horse and sorrowfully, but resolutely rode away. She was left waving at a cloud of dust.
'I do not like this story", she decided, spitting the sand from her mouth. "I will now schedule love into my itinerary and ride off into the sunset when I decide. I will be the stranger who rides into town."
And so our woman set off on a journey. She crossed forests and rivers, and traveled through lands she had never dreamed existed. And in the exhilaration of her travels, she quite forgot her quest- if indeed she ever had one.
Until one day, after reaching the top of a mountain, she reined in her steed. And there he was. The man who had been waiting for her to ride into town.
They could not help noticing each other and laughed and sang long into the night before parting, far too decorously. But somehow, the next day, he had decided to accompany their little group for the day. The narrowness of the way caused them to ride close together, and if they sat with their hands clasped, surely it was only because of the cold? Curse the fates for bringing two shy souls together! For this is all these two did. At sundown, they parted. They hugged, and she got onto her toes, but somehow could not manage the last few inches to his mouth.
Or perhaps, it wasn't just shyness that kept her there. Maybe in this shy, gentle youth, she saw herself as she stood once, watching her heart ride away. This wasn't love, after all. Not yet, not ever. So it is that she rode away and refused to look back.
The story should end here. But it doesn't. Because you see, they met again, the very next day. And this time they clung to one another with all the passion of people who know that stories inevitably end. And so does this one.
This time, she was fuming as she leapt onto her horse. "I do not like this story either," she thought," No story should end with one of the characters choking on a cloud of dust. The world needs another story".
Thinking this, she stopped at a small wayside shelter. She pulled out a few sheets of paper and a stub of pencil and settled against a tree. And then she began to write, "All stories, of course,"

Random poems.

'Dream Deferred'
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry uplike a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

-- Langston Hughes