On 18th November the Dhaka Expat Writers (DEW) held a launch to celebrate the Writer’s Abroad Anthology. The fact that 5 Dhaka writers were included in the Anthology was the inspiration not only for the launch, but also for the formation of DEW
The Members of DEW at the launch
Over 70 people attended the launch
Yours truly reading a poem on Dhaka traffic – posted in the previous blog post.
This week we held the launch of the Writer’s abroad anthology, Far Flung and Foreign. A wonderful event with over 70 people attending to hear 5 writers read their poems or short stories. I read a poem on the joys of Dhaka traffic…
I would have been on time…
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We would have been on time, but a verdict over turned
led to demos in the city and several buses burned.
A human chain was forming along the busy street
And activists in righteous rage thought road rules obsolete.
.
Just by the smartest shopping mall, some uptown lady’s car
had blocked the double highway, to save her walking far.
Half the road was potholed, and the other half was blocked,
the traffic lights weren’t working and so all movement stopped.
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The rumors of a Hartal had spread from BNP
and someone threw a cocktail and thousands stopped to see.
All hope was gone and beggars scratched persistent at our glass,
until a kind policeman allowed us to slip past.
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We thought we’d take a short cut and make up some lost time,
we realized that climbing curbs and U-turns weren’t a crime.
We bumped along with CNGs towards our destination
and zigzagged through the rickshaws with great determination .
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Just then the school gates opened, and students flocked the road,
precisely as dark monsoon clouds released their daily load.
The water rose almost at once, the road was soon submerged,
the bikes and walkers stepped aside and now the traffic surged.
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A garbage truck was merrily unloading in the flood,
the building sites and footpaths became a whirl of mud.
We stopped amid the chaos, with garbage floating past,
peered through the foggy window – and saw your gate at last.
…
I thought I’d be on time, but I hope you understand,
when you’re in Dhaka traffic, things don’t go as you planned.
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After another wonderful trip to Bangladesh’s greatest natural treasure…
Ode to Sundarbans
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The curved claws on your paws
and the snap of your jaws
gives a thrill to time spent in your arms.
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The depth of the green in your tidal routine,
and the bright birds we’ve seen,
give grace to this place and the feeling of space.
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Criss-cross patterns of roots and dark, poisonous fruits,
the grey mud on our boots,
gives the sense and the sound and the feeling of truth.
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In the haunting dawn mist I’m aware what I’ll miss
is the salt of your kiss.
.
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Looking forward to a trip to Sundarbans, to enjoy the quiet and the glimpses of wildlife and birds amongst the mangroves. My favorite is the Jungle Fowl, the ancestor of the modern chicken.
Fowl ancestor
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Jungle fowl calls in strident voice,
demanding sunrise and sunset,
impatiently clicking spurred heels.
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Head held high, voice slicing the sky,
night-dark feathers proudly preened,
gleaming tough metallic tints.
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Boasting of brushes with tigers,
meals of cruel clawed insects,
the salty eyes of long-dead fish.
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Crowing for red revolution,
shouting for pride and jungle-law,
rebellion and rule of the roost.
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But huddled in cages, pale bred to endless appetite for cereals,
panting on fat thighs in sun battered, blood-splattered market places,
his descendants do not hear or heed but stare dead-eyed into nothingness,
boasting only soft white meat and pale efficient feed conversion.
.
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In this city dominated by general strikes and bomb blasts I miss my husband, who is far away dealing with adolescents and tax returns…
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A sensible decision
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We’re fine –
Made a sensible decision,
based on our current situation;
reasonable and logical.
Considering alternatives, weighing pros and cons,
economically and practically,
this is the rational solution.
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However; unfortunately,
we made a fundamental, monumental miscalculation;
in terms of irrational intangibles,
nagging, dragging gut feeling and
illogical sentiment.
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We are 7000 kilometers apart,
when what we really want –
is just to be together.
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This week’s poem is rather disappointed and confused, a bit like politics in Bangladesh this week, where developments swing hot and cold, from despair to hope and back to despair again.
A phone call, in no particular order
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I called earlier…
No, no!
On the red phone.
Oh no, that’s a dead phone!
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Withdraw the hartal!
No, no!
For the sake of the poor!
Oh, your delusions of grandeur!
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The phone rang and rang…
No, no!
Who is claiming to hear?
Grenades damaged my ear!
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You cut cake for the killers!
No, no
You encourage war crimes!
Please – recall, I pray at all times.
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The way we’ve been treated…
No, no!
I call, I invite…
You don’t know wrong from right!
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You blast and blame us!
No, no!
You’re also a politician,
you understand my ambition…
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You’re opening a crack!
No, no!
Not the minus two solution,
no matter what constitution.
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It’s the people who suffer.
No, no!
This is what I dislike!
Will you cancel your strike?
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Let us settle the matter!
No, no!
Can’t do that, won’t do this,
Good bye and God help us…
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This last week the Writer’s Abroad anthology was published, including a short story and poem by yours truly. You can order a copy from Amazon for 300 pages of short stories, fiction and non-fiction as well as poems from 93 contributing expat authors from all over the world.
Surprisingly, no less than five Dhaka ladies were amongst the writers who had pieces selected for inclusion in the Anthology, and here they are celebrating and planing a launch of the Anthology in Dhaka
I’m working on a poetry project about motherhood, and looking back it seems I have been a mother forever, but also that it was just the other day my boys were babies…
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Through the hourglass
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I watch young children in oblivious play
Shouting, stomping, laughing in childhoods self absorbed way
And I want to tell the restlessly watching parents not to fret, not to frown,
It does not matter; you’ve already let your guard down
Now, lasts forever but the next moment is already pushing on
And before you finish the sentence they will have grown
before you know for whom you wait
it’s too late
So fast the moment will be past
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I remember how one can’t imagine the nearness of the next instant
nor this moments dearness ‘til it’s gone
frozen in the moment, gazing at the view, lazing in the sunshine
but in the same slow, sleepy, drawn out moment
we’re hurrying, scurrying up life’s unevenly stepped ladder
While every moment in that moment lasts forever
we slip with sand grains through the hourglass’ center
in a flash as bright at the speed of light
through the curve of distorting glass
You see it pass
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In memory of Sarah Manokore, who would have had her 74th birthday today. With thanks to her daughter Ruth for the inspiration to write this poem, and encouraging me to go down memory lane with this wonderful lady.
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Sarah Manokore
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There are some, who live on,
not as a face, but as a feeling
A sense of being loved, of being cared for
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There are some, who lived through much,
who took on loneliness, suffering
And turned it into strength, enough to share
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There are some who always gave
Who had enough time, energy
To listen and advise, to share wisdom and a smile
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There is one, who lives on,
not as a memory, but as a presence
A quiet guide, a natural mother, a woman of strength
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Sarah; mother, grandmother, teacher, friend
You cannot be gone, forgotten
You are still here, within us
.
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Missing my sons, who are far away at school…
Your own two feet
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You have far too much luggage
all piled messy on a cart…
A bump, and it all slides off
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I long to help you,
my whole being aches…
Nothing to do, for it’s only a dream
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My arms are heavy with sleep.
You must learn to stand…
On your own two feet
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