Across Bangladesh the rice seedlings are now transplanted into the paddy fields to provide food to a growing nation for the coming year. I wish them all the best.

Rice seedlings

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Rice seedlings freed

by nimble fingers,

from overcrowded seedbeds,

pale in transplant shock,

bruised, bare roots

set tenderly in dampened soil.

See troops in endless lines,

below; absorbing, seeking, griping,

above; soak green from morning light.

Stand tall; straighten, strengthen.

Water, nourishment and sun,

all this is yours  –  get ready,

grow.

Having made the resolution to make every word of poetry I write count twice, this week’s poem had to be a short one. A bit of micropoetry from my latest field trip which took me for a long trip on the scary highways of Bangladesh.

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Run over cat

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On the highway

a run over cat’s

intestines doodled red on black.

A tattered fur rag

contained all that

and life too.

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Don’t count the minutes that make up your day,

instead,

make them count.

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A lovely day out on a river near Dhaka yesterday. It is long since the last rains and the rivers are not as full of fresh flowing water at they might be, but still, the sun shines and the paddy fields are emerald green.

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Day on the water

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As we float on a boat

Dhaka fades into grey,

and we see what we saw

on a boat floating day.

There are paddies and ducks,

bridges weighed down with trucks,

passing boats, bamboo clumps,

over-ripe rubbish dumps,

brick fields pumping out smoke,

as we float on our boat.

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Not a day without flaws,

that I try to portray,

but it does have its charms

in a its own unique way.

The water’s not blue and the air’s not quite fresh,

but still it’s a piece of our dear Bangladesh.

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Today is the first day of spring in the Bengali calendar, and it’s a lovely day! Here is a slight rewrite of an earlier Spring poem.

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Spring

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It’s spring in Dhaka,

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mornings are getting lighter,

short, sharp winter has faded.

Earmuffs are flung in sludgy gutters

and suits disappear into dark depths of crowded wardrobes.

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Early and late mosquitoes swarm in ecstasy,

hiding in black and sniffing for unwashed feet

and sinewy ankles

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Weddings are celebrated in apartment blocks covered with fairy lights,

whole streets filled with twinkling fireflies,

powered by energy from black breathing generators,

newly roused from their short winter hibernation.

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Trees await the monsoon,

stripping off dusty, sun-bleached leaves in anticipation

and burned in street sweepers piles. Twigs and leaves

add to texture of grainy air.

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Breath of the dragon filters down narrow streets in afternoons,

licking lips in anticipation, but still he sleeps long and late,

building his strength,

and mornings are safe and cool.

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Water levels are low and as days grow warm

water bubbles ripen greenly on lakes dusty surface.

Fish are concentrating in the city soup,

tiny fish mouths break scummy surfaces, gasping for oxygen.

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Days are waiting, waiting fearfully for summer heat,

every organism is longing, longing thirstily for monsoon rain.

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It is later than I thought and darkness fills the alley. Two men are silhouetted against the street light’s glow at far end of the lane. They are huddled in conspiracy; unlit faces glancing up at my approaching footsteps. I must pass uncomfortably close, and as I do a phone rings in a pocket. The light of the answered call falls on dark faces. The voice from the phone is a high, clear child’s voice, I can hear it distinctly. The faces I see lit up are those of a father and grandfather happy to hear news from home.

Inspired by memories of many amazing snorkeling trips in Kenya’s Kisite Marine National park.

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Blue Pearl

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Our sea was overfull that day,

and overflowing filled all earth.

Gold sunlight glanced off waves and swells

then drifted lazy to blue depth,

where fishes flashed it silver back.

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Live coral gardens gleamed and rolled

contented in their beauty,

and tiny fishes hid and peeped

at scary wonders in the deep.

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Warm ocean had no end that day,

horizon wide she swelled and swayed.

Blue rocked and rolled while lullabies

sang soundless in warm air.

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High sky reflected blue, blue sea,

blue sea reflected sky,

and endlessness embraced our world,

a floating blue and lovely pearl.

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The perfect month of January is over, and once again new records were set on this site with 150 visits per day for the month. Thank you for your visits!   Rilla

The weather in Dhaka is cool and lovely, and we savor our jackets and duvets, but meanwhile my loved ones are living through their first Scandinavian winter, and I fear it is something of a grey experience for them.

.

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Dark afternoons

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You’re in gloomy afternoons now, huddled in grey,

where everyone looks the same.

Rain doesn’t stop, rain doesn’t start,

when cold is the only color.

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All identically hurrying now, on ice cobbled paths

towards a mythical spring.

Time doesn’t stop, time doesn’t start,

where grey is the only weather.

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In honour of Scottish poet, Robert Burns birthday. One of his many, lively poems:

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile