A very personal poem, that I’m not quite sure if I really want to post – it still needs a lot of polishing and is the sort of poem that you can work on for weeks, but on the other hand it is only really relevant right now.. so here goes!

Forty-eight

It’s my birthday, and you ask if I am 29 again.
Without hesitation I say, No, that was a different me.
Right now, I can only be 48, because if not,
then what year would I give up?

Could I forget those hazy early years,
distant fading, almost forgotten times,
that grew my Nordic pedigree,
my ache for long, light evenings?

Could I cast aside sibling filled childhood,
a place in the flock, my rivalry roots,
the desire to whistle,
the instinct for play.

Would I be who I am without an adventurous
father, a brave trusting mother,
a one way ticket to war-raging Rhodesia,
that loss of security that sucked out all fear?

I would not be an African farm girl at heart
if I’d not roamed dusty bush and milked cows,
driven to school in a mud-spattered truck,
watched dancers with snakes, made caves in rough hay.

Would I express myself as I do if I had not lived
a year of new language,
dreams changing tone, new words taking root,
reality’s shades shifting colour and tune.

Deny wild years of youth – blindfolded dive in the abyss,
drank ‘til we dropped, scaled dormitory walls
and laughed tears down our cheeks
at the Nuns pious prayers.

Or the years when I studied and traveled and toured,
with backpacks and boredom,
endless choices and options,
that first breathless freedom to fail.

Should I give up sweet years when I first met my match
significant moments, paths twisting together,
terror and peace of the choice that we made
together to bring children into this world?

Or what of sleepless years of babies?
Would I be me if I was not the mother of sons,
if I had not kicked so many balls at so many goals,
and built so many Lego towns?

Should I cancel uneventful years that we passed
alone in a village, a rowboat at sea,
in company with nomads, in sight of extinction,
just us in a warp of red wind and time?

Deny years in terraced hills, or those by the beach,
picnics on boulders, long walks with the moon?
Clear skies of Kampala – could I give up those seasons;
the school bus, the garden, the cat and the dog.

Or chaotic years among crowds in the delta,
the mysteries of Ministries, intensity crystallized?
Now finally I start to understand,
should I give up my knowledge, that learning I’ve gained?

Can’t be done, shan’t be done –
somewhat scuffed, slightly wrinkled,
I’ve made it to forty-eight
without a day to spare, and I’m happy I’m here.

Dhaka 2014

Impressions of Bangkok.

Loving Bangkok

Traffic, Skytrain, highways, bikes; practical women with motorbike restaurants serving breakfast soups for commuters, each fragrant bowl handled with a polite bow.

Heat, downpours, steaming morning; old men huddled around checker boards on hard park benches, while the world jogs panting past in neon sports gear and high tech trainers.

Bridges, buses, markets, malls; whistlers on riverboats, coming and goings, stumbling on board from swaying jetties, shoppers and school girls, tourists and workers.

Oil, boil, soy, noodles: red curry paste, seafood and river shrimp in coconut milk, lime leaves and lemongrass, chili, cashew nuts, rice and iced tea.

Temples, gold, jewels, mirrors: calm moment kneeling in golden glow, peaceful glance from half closed eyes, rustle of orange robes, quiet hearted oriental city.

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Bangkok 2014

This week’s poem, late due to technical and practical glitches is a philosophical musing on an approaching birthday.

Time is now

Another birthday approaches,
month is here, day grows near,
and I’ll grow intimate with a new,
more senior year.

Niece expects a baby soon,
my sister will be a grandmother,
posts pictures of beautiful bulges,
and knitting rediscovered.

My mother, a great-grandmother.
The aging must take care of the older;
twice removed from childhood
but reminded of the joys, the noise.

I am mother to men, not boys,
they, part of worlds without me
as guide, addressing authorities
without me as translator.

Passing time reveals many things
that don’t matter much,
and some that do, which are
surprisingly few.

Bangkok 2014

A poem in praise of the lovely Gulshan parks where I walk everyday, and all the other parks where I have walked and found peace and pleasure in nature.

Park Harvest

Absorb a buzz of solitude
from dizzy drone of feeding bees,
breathe abundant spawn of happiness
from exhale of balmy breeze,
source a stream of sweet simplicity
in bird song amongst bright leaves,
picking fruit of calming common sense
in fresh foliage of the trees.

Dhaka 2014

With monsoon season officially ending but heavy rain continuing in the catchment areas floods are still spreading across Bangladesh.

Flood

Seeps, creeps, whispers, across a wide green land,
spread of countless fingers,
murmurs in the dark.
Searching, finding, filling
low-lying spaces

fit for fish.
Sliding, pushing, pulling,
searching
for the sea.

Unstoppable, un-crossable – evening blanket wide as dusk.
Rippling into holes and ditches,
stealing quick and quiet,
creeping still as night.
Swelling pools,
swamping gaps,
rustling through the standing crops,
sweeping over delta lands,
bobbing ducks,
lifting boats,
searching for the sea.

Dhaka 2014

If you want something to remain undone,

ask someone with nothing better to do,

to do it.

Dhaka 2014

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A poem dedicated to all those women who  know and enjoy the pleasures of a women’s- only networking night out.

Ladies night

Dear sister-ship of ladies,
oh, doers of great deeds
an evening in this company
is what I greatly need.

A chance to talk of policies,
of plans and budget flaws,
of office wars,
of household chores
and maybe, as the night goes on
we’ll plan some weekend tours.

This world is full of challenges
with men who push and shout,
who seek the best man for the job,
not that they mean to keep us out.

We might not be invited
to the old-boys back-slap club
the late night pub,
their network hub,
but don’t lose faith, just smile and wave
and keep on handing sisters up.

Each day you have to watch your step
the ladder’s steep, the ceiling’s glass,
there’s no upgrade to business class,
just cling on to your boarding pass.

And here in female company
we can let our spirits glow,
our ankles show,
our laughter flow
and rest assured, we’re marching on
to change the status quo.

Dhaka 2014

Freedom

Life is a journey –
each stage a step on the way;
if you feel shackles loosen –
fall away,
you know
you’re on the right path.

Dhaka 2014

A memory from adolescence prompted by the rediscovery of an old favorite musician.

Realization

We should have questioned more,
been braver,
more perceptive.
Our rebellions were small
and mostly selfish.

We could have been less gullible,
fought against
sugar-coated lies;
prejudices
that made us the lucky ones,

But at least,
in our choice of music,
we showed we had good instincts.

Dhaka 2014

Today my first born turns 18 and I share an old poem of simple advice written some time ago.

What I would share

You cannot always be generous,
sometimes there are things that you are not ready to share,
things you must for a time hold on to.
There are times when you feel the insecurity of scarcity
and cannot believe in abundance.
You cannot always be generous,
but please,
don’t be mean.

You cannot always be genuine,
sometimes you do not know yourself, your mind,
you fear the light is too bright for your true colors,
the cards too clearly staked against you.
Your courage lets you down,
you cannot always be genuine,
but please,
don’t be false.

You cannot always be kind,
sometimes you feel repelled, repulsed,
sometimes you have to turn away, turn your back and walk.
Sometimes your soul is small and scared,
you haven’t any strength to spare.
You cannot always be kind,
but please,
don’t be cruel.

Dhaka 2013