Poetry evening

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Last week there was a poetry evening  at Nordic Club featuring some of Bangladesh’s most enthusiastic – and successful – writers.

They included Sabahat Jahan, who is well known around the community, a poet with a wonderful view on the world, that she expresses in a rich and inventive vocabulary. She has just published her second volume of poetry entitled Hands Full of Nothing.

Randall P. Girdner is a writer and artist of middle grade and young adult fiction, including the Boyd McCloyd series. His latest novel, The Wizard of New York City will be out in early 2016.

Bob Pateman is a published writer of poetry and short stories. His poems have been published in magazines such as ‘Brittle Star’, he has worked as editor of Tanzania’s leading tourist magazine, was a long term correspondent to the UK magazine World Soccer and is the only person to ever write a poem about Lavender Supermarket.

Gina “Elle” Corneille is a singer/songwriter/poet/activist whose writing reflects social injustices within many communities.  Her most recently published work Out on a Limb is a chapbook compilation of a variety of poetry and song.

It was an open evening and I was also asked to read. My old friend and colleague from Uganda, recently arrived in Dhaka, Peter Bøgh Jensen was the only person to brave the open mike.

 

Kumari Puja

A poem to share the amazing experience of Durga Puja and Kumari Puja in Dhaka this week. An experience never to be forgotten and I am happy to take the blessings that come my way.

Kumari Puja

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Before bright idols of ten-armed Goddess Durga
surrounded by her colorful offspring we wait hot hours
breathing fragrant smoke, anticipation building
in bold ringing brass, metallic drum beats.
Symbolic sweetmeats paraded by white dressed apprentices,
pressed to fasting lips of orange-robed monks,
every motion absorbed by oiled, saried,
neck-stretching crowds jostling for a view,

 

a second of silence, a thousand intakes of breath,
hollow call of air exhaled through conch shells –
whispers rise from a multitude of joyful lips,
trembling wind of excitement stirs forests of devotees–
she is carried on-stage,
bells and drums and ululating rise to a roar
as our Divine Mother is seated on her marigold throne.

 

Calm as a flower, dimpled hand opens in hennaed blessing,
first hint of a crooked smile fades to serene eyes
and we receive tranquil blessings from Kumari, living goddess,
for a day.

 

Ramakrishna Mission, Dhaka, 2015

Forty-nine

This end of birthday-week poem, inspired by the arrival of a new fresh year to fill with adventures.

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Forty-nine

 

At forty-nine I look around,

see countless-footprints molded ground

that led me to this place

in time.  Observe, these footprints

aren’t all mine.

 

I recognize a varied hoard

that walked awhile or jumped aboard

one stop or maybe two

along my way,  they left a mark

that came to stay.

 

Dhaka 2016

 

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Time

Inspired by gratitude for the warm birthday greetings on my 49th birthday.

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Time

 

Sometimes a river,

 a current, an ache,

 wave of wide ocean,

 dark rippling lake.

 

Sometimes unending,

often forgot,

unties in a moment

the Gordian knot.

 

Oftentimes fearful

sword held overhead,

defines every moment

in fear of the dead.

 

Sometimes a love song

 soft on spring breeze,

blown to bright autumn,

rustling through leaves.

 

 

Dhaka 2015

 

 

Guava market

This week’s poem, inspired by recent visits to Barisal and the wonderful experience of visiting the orchards and floating fruit markets there.

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Guava market

 

I went to buy guavas, fresh and fragrant

from hands of those who plucked their orchard trees,

I watched grey twisted branches yield their offering,

felt humid sunlight sieved by guava leaves.

 

We sail all night from rain drenched Dhaka city,

dark water bore us South to Bengal bay,

we flowed to flooded lands of cyclone regions

where hand-raised soil keeps roots out of harm’s way.

 

I watched the pickers pick gold-ripening guavas,

boats filled with seasons scented fresh delight,

follow them to busy floating markets,

with weathered traders, smell and taste at last.

 

Barisal 2015