Escaping the more than usual chaos of Dhaka, I’m off for a weekend with friends on a beach somewhere… When there is real chaos in Dhaka then everything gets quiet and it is Hatal time. Four days this week the morning streets were empty as people stayed home to keep out of the way of trouble. Quiet streets in Dhaka – that’s a sign of real chaos; total traffic chaos – that’s business as usual.

We also had a quiet evening Sunday, as mentioned in my previous blog, when we had a literary evening at the Nordic Club, including reading of poems and short stories. The following is one of the poems I read:

Telling a story

When you tell a story you’re airing an idea 

Picking out the essence, trying to make it clear

Sharing your translation of the facts and deeds

Searching fertile seedbeds – there to plant your seeds

When life’s inspiration builds up in your heart

When the words start queuing then you make a start

Your interpretation of the how and why

Laying bare the candor that you can’t deny

When you have a message that you can’t make clear

When you want to give a hint or unwrap a fear

Sharing some small wisdom that might help a friend

Finding words to ease a lie gently to its end

Fairy tales aren’t childish, we all need them too

Legends that remind us of what we still might do

Narrating your own history helps to make some sense

Please tell me a story – words without pretense

Last evening some 20 people came for a Literature Evening organized at the Nordic club. Amongst other things I read poems, mainly from the Bangladesh collection. It was a very special evening for me, the first time I have read poems to an open group of people.

Thank you to fellow organizers and to all who attended.

The speed at which things are moving in Bangladesh at the moment it is hard to keep up with events; the sentences from the war crimes tribunal, the reaction of the youth at Shahbag, the reaction of the members of Jamaat, and the range of views, political and religious in between these two. One thing is certain, the youth have woken from their political stupor and Bangladesh will never be the same.

The youth are rising up

The youth are rising up, they’ve had enough at last

They won’t accept this judgment, they won’t ignore the past

They were not there to fight but grew up with the tales

They feel the nation’s pride and know from where it hails

They see behind events the politics of trade,

They see their leaders wane and sense their glory fade

They didn’t feel the pain but they do feel the pride

They hear their language on – the lips of those who died

They want the justice now that so long was denied

in honor of their heroes and all the dreams that died

The youth are rising up, they’ve had enough at last

They won’t accept false judgments; they won’t repeat the past

With  two  sons  growing  up,  and  this  week  far  away  on  high  school  trips,  I  think about  the  things  I  have  learned  along  the  way  and  would  like  to  share  with  them… something  more  than  just  to  ‘keep  warm  and  stay  out  of  trouble’.  Inspired  by  the  words  of  Charles  Dickens,  coming  through  Betsy  Trotwood  to  the  young  adult  David  Copperfield,  this  poem  is  a  thought  on  what  I  hope  they  might  learn  from  life  and  from  me.

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

Spring  has  officially  arrived  in  Dhaka  this  week  and  it  is  warming  up  fast,  so today  I’m  sharing  a poem  called  ‘Spring  in  Dhaka’.

Spring

It’s spring in Dhaka

Mornings are getting lighter

Short, sharp winter has faded

Earmuffs are flung in sludgy gutters

And suits disappear into the dark depths of crowded wardrobes

Early and late the mosquitoes swarm in ecstasy

Hiding in black and sniffing the air for unwashed feet

And sinewy ankles

Weddings are celebrated in apartment blocks bedecked with fairy lights

Whole streets filled with twinkling fireflies

Powered by energy from black breathing generators

Newly roused from their short winter hibernation

Trees await the monsoon,

stripping off dusty, sun-bleached leaves in anticipation

And burned in street sweepers piles, twigs and leaves

add to the texture of the grainy air

The breath of the dragon filters down the narrow streets in the afternoon

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

Building his strength

And mornings are safe and cool

Water levels are low and as the days warm

water bubbles ripen greenly on the surface

fish are concentrating in the city soup,

tiny fish mouths break the scummy surface, gasping for oxygen

days are waiting, waiting fearfully for the heat

every organism is longing, longing thirstily for the rain

After last weeks amazing trip out into the Bay of Bengal, to the Swatch of No Ground, to see dolphins and whales and experience the vast watery space out there, this weeks poem could only be about that amazing experience.

Bay of Bengal

Occasionally you come across a place you’re happy just to know exists

Like this place, far out at sea where in deep, deep green water

Dolphins hunt and play and leap through waves where fish flicker

Knowing this quiet glassy calm is here some days

Some days are storms

Knowing that in gigantic calm

Whales expel moist breath into the still afternoon

These choppy waters

These rocking waves

This playful breeze

Where no light disturbs the stars and moon reflecting in the water of the bay

where nothing interrupts light from the rising sun scattering across waves

I sleep more deeply at night

Breathe more peacefully

Love life more achingly

Knowing this place exists

So much going on this week, so many plans and events and ideas, at home and at work, it is hard to focus on one thing at a time, let alone find the calm to write a poem. So I’m sharing a poem about how my brain behaves on days like this… and hoping the end will come to pass….

In my brain

My brain is full of passages that lead to obscure halls

And rubber bands, elastic, that bounce me off the walls

Loud music plays beside me and whispers behind doors

There’s earthquakes in the distance and trembling in the floors

I argue with the echoes, the hollow drumming beats

And step around on tiptoes on narrow winding streets

Thoughts waver on the cliff edge where voices spark and glow

I see them in the distance and hear them down below

Shouts echo everlasting in caverns vast and wide

I solemn climb the stairways and look for where they hide

On hot days I run panting from room to crowded room

and hear the birds are singing and hear the drums dark boom

I climb the stairs and cross the halls and hear alarms and barks and calls

In endless unmade urgent calls, delays and thought replays

And eyes and ears bring messages like children playing games

And nothing ever changes yet nothing is the same

But when I chose a corner and sweep the floor with grace

And calmly still the voices and drop out of the chase

Amongst the halls and steps and calls – I find a peaceful core

And when I breathe it deeply – it leads to so much more

As January draws towards a close I share a poem written for the annual meeting of ‘The Society for the Appreciation of January’, a group of ladies who meet each year to appreciate the most unappreciated month of all. The poem celebrates the charm and beauty of cold and foggy January mornings in the villages of Bangladesh.

January in the village

Morning fog slows day’s awakening, softening blood red sunrise

Mist dulls speed and noise, and space takes on a shadow world’s disguise

By waking homesteads milking cows breathe steam into grey dawn

Dressed in neatly stitched hessian robes and the dusty smell of hay

Warm milk at the dairy

To celebrate January

Goats in old coats find green leaves and warmth, kids in kid’s hand-me-downs

Torn t-shirts and worn sweaters, pulled over reluctant sharp-horned crowns

Along the path, through mist appear piles of clothes in human form

While dark lingers under mango trees huddling to stay warm

Morning is a sanctuary

To celebrate January

Smoke from morning fires mingles lifting fog with smells of tea

Small flames lick eagerly at cold air and wood from new cut trees

Morning’s yawning children put on red and orange knitted hats

While early risers wrap their heads like gifts waiting to unwrap

All dressed up merry

To celebrate January

Before we go too far down the path of forgetting I would like to share a poem I wrote after first reading about the Delhi gang rape;

Rest in peace

I cannot bare to think of your death and your suffering

I cannot stop thinking about your death and suffering

I cannot bare to think of the perpetrators, I don’t want to believe such people exist

I cannot stop thinking about the perpetrators and how such people come to exist

I have to believe that through your death the world has been woken and changed

I must be part of the world that through your death has been woken and changed

I have been so shaken by the events that I lie awake thinking of you

I sense the world has been so shaken by your death that many lie awake, thinking of you

I will not forget, I will remember you, in memory of you I will keep my eyes open

I will speak out against injustice, in your memory I will do more, care more, speak out more

I see the citizens of Delhi and India and the world shout and demand justice for your suffering

I see young and old, men and women, unite in sympathy and the demand for life and decency for all

I see hope for the change of the system that produced your tormentors

I see a chance for change in the world that grew your murderers

I know the world must change for the better, change for your sisters, change with our children

I cry for your suffering, I beg your forgiveness that the world contains such cruelty

I thank you for your terrible sacrifice,

Rest in peace

Today I start the regular posting of new poems. Hope you like this one inspired by the vast, flat and ever changing landscape of the delta that is Bangladesh …

Delta

At first I didn’t understand that flooding waters covered land

At first I thought an unmapped sea was stretching to eternity

Small boats were sailing, fishers fished,

and nets were thrown and water splashed

Along the road on either side I thought I saw a seas high tide

But monsoon waters ebb away and by that route an autumn day

The seas of water had withdrawn, a transformation undergone

the patched fields stretch horizon wide

with aisles and bunds to subdivide

The fertile soils now promise growth, receding waters made that oath

And as the summer months go by the waving rice spreads sky to sky

The harvest time is drawing near, reward for those who persevere

Long muddy hours farmer’s toil

their bare feet tread the fertile soil

Official maps simplicity can never  match reality