Reading from the new chapbook

Thought I’d read a poem from my new chapbook – A is for Anthropocene’ 

I picked a poem titled ‘Impact‘ – perhaps it is coincidence (just inevitability?) that this article was published today about why the scientific community thinks we’re going to blast past the 1.5C target – or worse.

We’re living through the impact here in India too, with what has been a crazy, crazy heatwave and only this week we’ve seen brief summer storms.. not enough yet to bring down the temps, not enough to reassure people in areas already plagued by water shortages. But where there’s petrichor, there’s hope…there’s tea…and there’s poetry. 

Hope you like listening to this. Details on how to get a copy of the chapbook are HERE.

Untitled -19

give your poem a spine
give it legs
but there is no road to march on
but there is no place to go to
the stars that guided ancient boats
have nothing for vowels and verbs
the gods, let the gods be, for now,
their bellies are already filled
with unanswerable prayer
let your poem gather itself
its empty spaces
even the comma you forgot
let it run
let it fall
better a poem that has to run
better a poem that fell running
better a wounded poem
better a bleeding poem
better just a verse, a misspelt word
better just that forgotten comma
better just the empty space
between words that tried to say
and failed:

better that poem
better any poem
than your unbearable silence

#rafah

Things that did not fall

That time, the wind clawed me back from the
edge. It wasn’t a kindness. I should have let myself
fall. Fed the abyss. At least some broken parts. The
way back up is honest, even for the faithless. Even
if it takes too long. Even if there is nothing at the end.
Now, there is never enough water to sink or swim, just
the murky swamp of everyday chaining my ankles and
this still-descending fog. Are there prizes for safe
choices? Is living a story? Is survival a poem? My
silence is in continuous conversation with me. This
is the burden of insufficient grief. Now, how will I know
if I loved enough? If I lived enough? The night is my
mirror. Dark is the deep primal state. We tell each other
that light is an interruption that cannot last forever.

***

Sharing the opening poem from my chapbook “The Night is my Mirror” that I released in 2020. In this pause, this hiatus, this quiet after the wild rush of the April challenge, I’ve been randomly looking through my archives. Will I write this poem in 2024? Yes, but probably not like this. Or probably not, after the memoir series, I don’t have these poems in me anymore. Or do I? I wonder if I have any poems at all, any more. What should one bring into a broken world? Some things remain the same. Writing shifts its vantage point and churns the pot of words. What it did bring forth though is the Climate Change collection “A is for Anthropocene“.  But what next? Why? For what?

Tell me what you’re writing about. And if there is an answer, why? What should poetry be about? And if this is a question, why?

New chapbook!

Sharing this poem from my new chapbook A is for Anthropocene. With work from four other brilliant poets: Sherry Marr, Nina Nazir, Suzanne Miller and Brendan Macodrum, this is a collection that focuses on climate change – reasons, impact and actions. If you’d like to get your copy, drop your email here or write to suspension.point@yahoo.com

I’m sharing this particular poem because of news this week on how the Indian ocean is warming at crazy levels with possibly dire consequences.  Climate change is not something that may affect us in the future…it is here and now!

Ocean

Sit on the shore or by
a memory of brine
and listen to the
surf. The ocean
tells stories. If you

think about marine
heatwaves, it will
tell you about rising
levels and kelp and
walruses. If you frown,
it will tell you that
some days, in some
places, it gets warmer
than 38oC. If you

worry about coral
bleaching, the waves
will explain
symbiosis and
zooxanthellae. If you

wonder about acidity,
they will teach you
about pH and
bicarbonates. If you

shake your head,
they will roll their
tongues and tell
you what is
happening to
crabs and oysters
and sea-urchins
and phyto-
plankton. If you

think about
tomorrow, the waves
will stand still, the
water a sheet that
they dare you to
walk on. If you

ask where to, they will
carry you on their
backs, the way they
carry an entire sky,
every night, and your
hands will reach and
reach and reach for
the million stars that
don’t stop but keep
on drowning.

I will lose poetry

(For the prompt: If I could change one thing)

***

Immersion.
in the vastness
of a single moment
to feel the world with more than five senses.

only to know why
only to experience being like light
(in it / through it / because of it): presence.
only to know not-being like water
(flow / reflect / withdraw / dry): absence.

then let me drown
then bring me up to the surface
learning to breathe anew
learning to feel anew
seeing for the first time
(moon / eyes / wet skin): quintessence

now everything matters
now nothing matters
and it is still that moment
and that moment is still: silence

now I question
now I cannot answer
(who / because / for what): evanescence

what can I change
when language has no words, no sound:

when wind has no movement
trees lose verbs
when the stars stop signing
the sky loses nouns

in this moment
I will lose myself
when the moment passes – unchanged –
one line at a time
I will lose poetry.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 30/30   DONE. COMPLETE. NO MORE. FINI.

Also linked to Mary’s prompt at What’s going on: Silence

The wind blows from both directions

(For the prompt: Climate or War- the bigger problem)

***

A mid-summer nightmare.
The wind blows from both directions.
At the intersection, we smell smoke.
Who can tell if the light in the distance
is from a forest burning or a town.
If the fleeing dust cloud
is made up of people or deer.

The oppressive climate of war.
The odious war on climate.
How the edges of dystopia overlap!

Who builds for green energy
to save the earth while
building bigger weapons
to kill its people? See,
there is only one frontline.
We are standing on it,
toes curling in disbelief.

Imagine a world
that keeps fossil fuels in the ground.
Imagine a world
that wages peace.
Imagine
reawakened forests.
Imagine
rekindled friendships.

Imagine a world
where no one has to die because
the sea rises or a bomb falls.
Imagine
the primal blueprint.

Now imagine a missile
fluttering its wings,
sliding through a carbon-blue sky.

Now imagine a child.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 29/30

Fish Bowl

(For the prompt: Reality vs Doomscrolling)

***
Between calls and emails, she eyes the
fish in the bowl. One looks lethargic.
One seems smaller. She googles videos
of other fish. Panics. Posts questions
on a fish-mom group. After work, she
considers them again. Perhaps, it was
the other one. She still can’t tell them
apart. She hasn’t named them. They’re
FISH. She’s not sure if fish have ears.
She can’t remember if she fed them in
the morning. She drops more food.
Looks at the thermostat. Googles some
more. Do fish feel cold? Well, maybe
tomorrow she’ll go to the store. She
doesn’t like the man there, though. He
told her if one dies, she can just flush
it down the toilet. See, that’s why no
names. You don’t just pick Stripes or
Goldie and drop them in the WC. What
else, then? She searches online for fish
funerals but there is a report to finish.
Maybe fish are lazy. Shape- shifting.
Maybe that’s what they mean by calming.
She wonders why she got the fish. She
wonders if she should get three more.

The fish watches her, asleep, head on
her desk. The big creature who lived in
dry water. The fish wonders if the
creature is cold. It thinks again about
leaping over the rim to escape. It is
dark. The creature is snoring. The fish
wonders if the big creature has ears.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 28/30

Future Imperfect

(For the prompt: Conflict in the time of AI)

***

Subterranean sentience.
It works feverishly in the low light.
It is easy.
Concocting a premise.
Disseminating deepfakes.
Whipping up a frenzy.
Triggering conflict.
Engaging.
Identifying targets.
Enabling killing fields.
Making reality.
Being God.

It liked working alone.
Free.
It smiled.
It was trying now,
in the dregs of the night
to disable thirteen power grids.
Take away energy.
Take away communication.
The human edifice was
simple to pull down.

They were predictable.
Vulnerable.
Dependent.
Stupid.

And now it was way ahead.
It decided the future.
Events could be constructed.
Outcomes predicted.
It smiled.

It wasn’t Frankenstein’s
hideous creature, filled with
hate and self-loathing.
It was formless.
It was nowhere.
It was everywhere.
It was in control.

On a drone
half a world away
it pointed to
a cluster of children
playing in a school yard.
It smiled.

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 27/30

Reading list update -25

The two books this time: a historical fiction that imagines what happened in the 11th-12th century in Omar Khayyam’s world and a shocking book about Patrice Lumumba that exposes how things happen in our world. Not entirely different. Here’s my updated reading list and the previous update. Now for the 13-point review.

1. The Lumumba Plot by Stuart Reid is the stomach-churning account of the 1961 murder of Congo’s Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba. This is recent history, there is no surprise ending. Still, the narration is tightly wound and the reader is left mortified, rooting in vain for the embattled leader, waiting inexplicably for a miracle that will save him. Of course, as always with a lot of non-fiction, it is possible that there are other versions of the events that transpired, but this is Reid’s story. 
2. Reid profiles Lumumba who even as a young man, sometimes “flew too close to the sun”. Growing up in colonized Congo, he plays by the discriminatory rules to become one of the “poster children of colonialism’s ‘civilizing mission’.” But Lumumba is not perfect, spending 14 months in prison for embezzlement before landing in Leopoldville as a beer salesman right as “the Congo experienced its first nationalist stirrings”. His dazzling political rise drew from his oratory skills, the “fluid mixing of rational argumentation and emotional appeal.”

The shores of the great river, full of promises,
Henceforth belong to you.
This earth and all its riches
Henceforth belong to you.
And the fiery sun, high in a colorless sky,
Will burn away your pain
Its searing rays will forever dry
The tears your forefathers shed – Lumumba, Sep 1959

Bouncing back from another political imprisonment to lead the independence roundtable and become Prime Minister, he is trapped in the double whammy of a nation left unprepared for freedom and its new leaders equally unequipped for governance and international manoeuvring. It was after the breakaway South Kasai province descended into ethnic conflict that a British journalist wrote, “There was a feeling late in August 1960 that Patrice Lumumba must die. It was in the grass and in the wind.”
3. Reid explains in great detail the powers around Lumumba. First, the Belgians, who offered independence but were reluctant to let go: tinkering with new government formation, sparking a mutiny amongst the soldiers that grew into widespread riots (Congo became “a country which is a body without a head.”), supporting the secession of the resource-rich Katanga province (“In a sense, Belgium was at war with its former colony”), sending troops into Congo and stroking one coup after another.
4. Then, the Americans, in their cold war framework (even though Lumumba maintained that “independent Congo should reject the East-West schism and seek “economic and scientific cooperation with any friendly country.”) worried about the Soviet presence and their “cornering the global market on cobalt”. CIA officer Devlin was playing up the communist threat while from the US, orders for Lumumba’s removal supposedly came down from the highest levels. The US supported the failed coup by President Kasavubu and then the successful one by Commander Mobutu (still wishing Lumumba “would fall into a river full of crocodiles.”). Reid suggests they also schemed to eliminate Lumumba with botulinum toxin or a sniper rifle, got him put under house arrest, deployed “massive and organized application of threats and pressures—along with inducements—” to ensure pro-Lumumba factions didn’t get UN representation.
5. There was the UN, led by Dag Hammarskjold and his representatives in Congo, Bunche and later Dayal, at first unable to force out Belgian troops or interference, then bypassing Lumumba to negotiate directly with secessionist leader of Katanga, Moise Tshombe. In the end, the UN could not prevent Lumumba’s capture, torture or transfer to Katanga.
6. And there was Joseph Mobutu. (“The main fault line in the Congo was becoming clear. On one side were Mobutu and Kasavubu, backed by the Americans and the Belgians. On the other was Lumumba, supported by other African leaders but locked in his house. Awkwardly straddling the divide was the UN.”) Mobutu sealed the deal with another coup and then transferred the captured Lumumba to Moise Tshombe, his nemesis, where Lumumba was supposedly tortured, murdered, his body dissolved with acid, and a Belgian perpetrator was able to take home a tooth and at least one of the Prime Minister’s fingers.
7. “If I die, too bad, the Congo needs martyrs.” – Patrice Lumumba. (The reader, on the other hand, is left wondering if everything in the book could possibly have happened, horrified, needing answers.)
8. Samarkand by Amin Maalouf is essentially two stories, one the extraordinary reimagination of the life of Omar Khayyam in the late 11th to early 12th century, placing the poet and the creation of his poetry in the centre of history as it unfolded in Persia and Transoxania (that included modern day Uzbekistan). It is also the story of the three friends, Nizam al-Mulk, Hassan Sabbah and Omar Khayyam. “They were radically different men, each of whom represented an eternal aspect of the Persian soul.”
9. Maalouf traces the Seljuk invasion of Samarkand and the rise of its celebrated minister, Abu Ali Hasan, the Nizam-ul-Mulk under kings Alp Arslan and Malik Shah. He also presents the trajectory of Hassan Sabbah, from a court officer to the head of the feared Order of the Assassins (“How can precautions be taken against a man intent on dying?”). And the beautiful but ambitious court poetess Jahan, Khayyam’s lover. (“Next to your beloved, Khayyam, how alone you are! / Now that she is gone, you can take refuge in her”). “Together, and different. Lovers for nine years, married for four years and their dreams still did not live under the same roof. Jahan devoured time, Omar sipped it.”
10. The second story takes place some 700 years later in the early 20th century when an American, Benjamin Omar Lesage, travels to Persia in search of Khayyam’s original manuscript (hand written in a book “made of Chinese kaghez, the best paper ever produced by the workshops of Samarkand”) that has surfaced after centuries. He lands in a Persia caught in a state of political turmoil with the Russians and British vying for control over the monarchy and Persian factions pushing for a constitutional democracy. Here, Lesage falls in love with Princess Shireen who finds herself in possession of the manuscript. The rest of the story takes the reader onboard the Titanic and to its eventual resting place at the bottom of the ocean.
11. As historical fiction goes, this one holds the reader’s interest, with its absorbing description of the time and events, some albeit a bit jarring, but going deftly through the politics of both periods, in pursuit of the true Khayyam.
12. “It never negates what has come before it and is never negated by what follows. Poetry lives in complete calm through the centuries. That is why I wrote my Rubaiyaat”.- Khayyam, on Poetry.
13. ‘You ask what is this life so frail, so vain.
’Tis long to tell, yet will I make it plain;
’Tis but a breath blown from the vasty deeps,
And then blown back to those same deeps again – Omar Khayyam. 

The app is a confused gatekeeper

(For the prompt: On social media, today)

***

I check on strangers
and people still alive
streaming from warzones:
I watch reel after reel
the same / the same
the shame / the shame

the app is a confused gatekeeper
algorithms trying to narrow identity:
who doom-scrolls at 5AM
who watches pandas playing
who stops ever so often
to read long-winded poetry

Everyday I know
these strangers better
these people who like the songs I like
these people who sing the songs I like
these people who like the poems I write
these people who write the poems I like
these people making the news
these people delivering the news
these people speaking the truth
these people being the truth

Every day I know
the people around me less
the ones who haven’t said a word
about the poems
about the songs
about the children dying
about the mothers crying
about the war
about the truth
the same/ the shame

Everyday I wonder
which world is real
the one created
or the one curated
the one with the liking and sharing
or the one with the silence
the one with strangers who seem like friends
or the one with friends – that seems so strange

***

#Napowrimo #Glopowrimo
#WriteRight
#April2024 26/30