Mid monsoon
From immobilized traffic, observe the angle of falling rain,
slow spread of green across buildings,
puddles, lakes, trees, algae, potholes, weeds,
mold, moss, leaves.
Dhaka in mid monsoon,
as always –
but more than ever
a battle between growth and decay.
Dhaka 2014
This week’s poem tries to capture my current and slightly ongoing experience of jet lag…
Jet lag
Changing reality for reality,
lonely passenger on hours that pass in the night.
Dull ache of fuzzy-edged sleep,
sand-laced sight.
Pounding heartbeats wake for fight or flight.
Hours too slow, too fast,
internal clockwork creaking to adjust
to faces, places,
out of context dreams,
confusing here with there,
now with then.
Shake out your pillow and your limbs,
step into morning light.
A day or two and we’re fit to fight.
Dhaka, 2014
As my annual summer holiday draws to an end I look back on weeks of family time as warm and intense as the Danish summer sun. This weeks poem dwells on those feelings.
Family
.
Habitual headaches,
recurring responsibilities,
chronic arguments,
sibling rivalries
and childish roles you can’t avoid.
All those complications.
How much easier
to be unbound,
to live without attachment,
yet, as we cheerfully
hug farewell, in tears and laughter,
as sister, mother, daughter,
I know a life without ties
is as sad as a life without freedom.
Nyborg, Denmark 2014
Mit første digt på dansk, inspireret af min kloge mand.
My first ever danish poem – inspired by the wise words of my husband.
At sove
Når man sover
sover man godt.
Hvis man har sovet godt
har man rigtig sovet.
Hvis man har sovet darligt
har man ikke sovet
nok.
Så skal man sove mere,
og sørge for at sove
godt.
Nyborg 2014
.
Sleeping
When you sleep
you sleep well.
If you have slept well
you’ve slept
enough.
If you’ve slept poorly
you haven’t slept
enough.
Then you have to sleep more,
and make sure to sleep
well.
Nyborg 2014
Feeling strong!
.
I am me
I am strong, I am wise,
I am mother to our Child,
I know fear and I feel pain,
I can give and I can gain,
I am woman.
I am strong, I am mild,
I am a girl, I was a child,
I can protect, I can reject,
I am a lioness, I am me,
I am woman.
I raise the children, raise the roof,
drive the market, see the truth,
I have power, I am free,
I can follow, I can lead,
I can do, I can let be,
I am woman.
Amtoft 2014
Thy is where I lived in early childhood and where I spend my summer’s now. This week’s poem is in celebration of this lovely sunny, crisp summer of 2014.
Thy summer
Light is sharper, summer days are endless,
nights are brief and achingly still.
Fjord water chills, blood tickles through your veins,
you’re so alive you vibrate to your bones.
Garden birds tip-toe near to see reflections –
wind is young and plays across the blue –
waves run tireless to internal rhythm –
trees in summer robes, trembling limbs –
Childhood skips past in pastel summer dresses,
fine hair blowing in warm sunny breeze.
Feet remember sharp shells, rounded pebbles,
nostalgic dreams blend memories with now.
Amtoft 2014
Summer holiday is here at last, I’m in Sweden reunited with my loved ones, in a wooden cottage by a lake reflecting endless forest. Life could not be better.
Abundance
I’ve arrived in abundance:
in abundance I’ve slept,
in cool abundance I wake.
There’s abundance of trees in a tender blue breeze,
abundance of light, an absence of night,
distant laughter of geese
overhead where we sleep,
I dream thrills of still lakes
we’ll explore when we wake.
There’s abundance of green in fresh air to deep-breath,
so much silence, so still
that it rings in your ears.
Sun and shadows repeat in a flickering dance, playful ripples that run
races over the blue, so much love
in these arms that abundance comes true.
.
.
Sweden 2014
This week’s poem is dedicated to women, past present and future.
Naomi
This is my promise to you,
believe it – and it comes true:
We can close our eyes and feel our beauty,
our spirit and body at peace, secure,
confident of our worth and our value,
proud in maturity,
safe in self love.
We’ll celebrate our natural image
feel no need to add or subtract.
Let’s eat food we love without shame,
We prepare it, we earn it;
enjoy!
We’ll love breasts and thighs, our hard and soft bits,
we’ll exercise ‘cause it’s good to be strong.
Dance when we wish without counting
the wrinkles, grey hairs that we gain.
Together we’ll smile at old judgments,
make fashion a personal choice.
We’ll allow models and magazines ads
to reflect the real perfections we have.
We’ll share love that is tender, and natural,
passion that’s happy and safe,
our birthright is fun and pure pleasure,
and everyone gains from our choice.
We’ll forget lies that once were sold to us,
Escape dreams of endless bland youth;
We don’t fear what the years take or give us,
We’ll grow older,
and lovely,
instead.
Dhaka 2014
Embrace the unknown,
window not to ignorance
but door to wonder.
Dhaka 2014
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A memory from our life in Tanzania.
.
Nowhere
Passing Nowhere on their safari route, tourists in zebra-striped buses, would not cast a thought on faded farmers weeding red-dust coated crops, in the village where I lived. Yet we lived there, buying fresh goats meat off rusty hooks, to stew and serve with home-grown vegetables.
We were many, and not invisible to each other, although they did not glance our way. Our village homes were shabby, but shaded by great green leaves, we ate sweet red bananas, and chewed juicy sugarcane, spitting out fibrous lumps to dry yellow in the sun.
We had many children – all dirty with seasonal red mud or red dust – playing in noisy hordes, pushing each other up and down potholed paths on odd-wheeled contraptions, laughing and crying in their own system of justice, and keeping out of the path of black and white striped buses.
On the verandas of our road-side shops lived a homeless woman, who scurried and stared and mumbled. Blessings or curses we could not tell, but if you looked into her dark eyes you saw a glimpse of hell. As she had nowhere else to go we fed her, and let her live in our Nowhere.
A zebra with a broken tire, panting, but for once not breathing red dust, stopped near the shops, with pale faces staring out. The homeless woman pressed her face against the cold glass and howled softly while children skipped around the crippled bus, laughing.
When, repaired, it scurried off; we joined the children’s laughter and bought tea and biscuits for the homeless woman, who hurried off with her unexpected treats, while we glowed in the pleasure of having been seen. Even though we lived in Nowhere.
.
Dhaka 2014