This week’s poem inspired by a recent visit to climate change affected areas of coastal Bangladesh, and particularly by the reality facing those families that have lost the land on which they depend for their livelihoods.

Adaptation

With three unmarried daughters and a son

dowry-promising soil washed away by the river –

I wonder what will become of the family by the river.

With three young daughters and a son,

floods having taken most of their property –

I see red eyed recognition of approaching poverty.

With three growing daughters and a son,

rice growing soil washed away by flood –

dry-eyed calculations of crops in square-meters of mud.

With three daughters and a birthright son,

family graves washed out to sea –

with that record gone, what place in history?

Barisal, Bangladesh 2015

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.

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

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

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

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

.

Above all the mess kites fly,

doves dance catching golden

light we miss

in concrete canyons

where we walk.

Gabtoli Dhaka, 2015

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

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

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

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

This week’s poem, a muse on options, taking chances, lost opportunities and the realization that some things you can only learn through experience. Each age has its wisdom.

Chances

Yes my dear, you can be anyone,

you can do anything

under the sun.

But, no, you can’t do everything,

you can’t please everyone,

in the long run.

Watch out, when closing offered doors,

you may not ever find

that key again.

Reflect, when picking easy paths,

those that you disregard

may haunt your dreams.

Grab each moment when it’s there

do not hold back though fear

can paralyze.

Time is always playing tricks,

watching its pendulum

can hypnotize.

Think, when days go floating by,

It’s often easiest

just to ignore.

Watch, as landscape flashes by,

 gap in an untrimmed hedge

might be your door.

Yes my dear, you can be anyone,

you go anywhere

under the sun.

But, no, you can’t go everywhere,

without great wear and tear

in the long run.

Dhaka 2015

.

Inspired by a recent early morning hour spent on the deck of a launch returning to Dhaka from Barisal.

Return to Dhaka

A thousand boats

from big to small

pass in grey dawning

day, all quiet strive

to distant sea, sure and steady,

floating high,

like silent birds that cross our sky,

southwards with the tide.

Dhaka 2015

.

A poem inspired by that strength we all have somewhere inside us.

Resilience

Head down, counting cracks.

Pavement faults,

places to trip and stumble,

spaces to slip and fall.

Looking up, firm

and blue, sky unchanged

as birds stroke into view.

Nothing can bring you down.

Dhaka 2015

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