Imperfections Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca I am a lover of imperfections Drawn to the rugged arches of My backyard patio And the haphazard petunias In the rough black window boxes. I do not crave The neatly manicured lawn With the perfect robin Pecking at the perfect worm Or the ants in their perfect line formation Trudging diligently to store for the winter. Rather, I love the clashing colors Of randomly planted flowers In zigzag furrows And the splashing robin In the bird bath With the water drops Going in every which direction To form stained glass patterns Against the afternoon sun. I love the fallen mix and match cushions On the concrete patio floor A book or two On the uneven tables A half-drunk teacup With a grain of sugar Fallen for the spider or the ant To carry away. I am a lover of imperfections Of organized chaos Of oxymorons And silly alliterations Of poetic prose And life In all its contradictions Worn lightly And slightly frayed At the seams. Copyright Kavita 2019
Tribute to a Master Poet For Daddy on his Birth Anniversary (December 16) Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca (Inspired by Nissim Ezekiel’s poem ‘For William Carlos Williams.’) I want to write poems like yours But still, I do not want to Knowing I cannot, humility is A sweet pill to swallow. Everything comes through your poetry I hear the crescendos Sudden epiphanies And the cries of your soul Struggling, Searching for the light Defying life To find meaning in it Poetic paradoxes you accepted. I feel the pulse Of your life’s rhythm In every poem, Soft and tender Are Your hands that write, They rock me Like they did The cradle At my birth. Often, when I read your poems out loud To myself Our voices Become one, indistinguishable Blended, In unison we write different lines, I love duets in music, poetry and dance A melody of harmony is born I dreamt of being A back-up singer too For your songs. Dictate to me From your heavenly abode What you would have me say And I will say it Verbatim No complex thought or allusions Please Or I will be lost. If you want to rearrange my words Check with me first Be the gentle Father first And then constructive critic. Remember how many times You said you named me Prophetically You said I would feel A stirring in my bones. That day has come. My bones have shifted position Significantly They are making music. If, according to you, the prophecy Has been fulfilled, Twinkle those eyes Of approval. I will continue to write, With you to thank first And then the muse. I am not able to end the poem Without talking of apples. It may be a common fruit But because you called me The apple of your eye Apples will always be special to me. Copyright Kavita 2019 First published in the Journal of Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi
How Daddy wrote his Poetry Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca The smoke curl from the Menthol Cool cigarette In the glass ashtray Touched the ceiling Creating patterned shadows On the paint- peeled walls. He only took one puff! He had no fear of fire, The knowledge that The cigarette would eventually Extinguish itself Was something he trusted Inherently. As he lay on the dusty bed Triangle-fold handkerchief Over his eyes Carefully removing the Delicately-crafted glasses I always thought would break With even the slightest tap. Then, moving to the crowded desk Hastily wrote a few inspired lines On pieces of paper, blank or lined Whatever could be found. Then again with set rhythm Back to the bed Placing the same crumpled handkerchief Carefully Over the eyes Waited patiently for the remaining Lines to come. He breathed deeply. Or ‘deep breathely’, As he was fond of saying, Perhaps invoking the muse For the rest of the poem To take shape. Then he paced up and down The sparse room Reading the words aloud And invited me in To be both audience and critic. Daddy typed with two fingers On the old clickety typewriter And the manuscript was ready To be delivered to willing eyes. Daddy wrote often Into the early hours of the morning And I had to creep into the room Mouse-like Cockroach quiet, Remove the handkerchief Turn off the light And tell him He must sleep. It’s late, Daddy! I stood outside his room Until I heard the familiar click Of the old wooden latch And I knew he’d get a few hours Of fulfilled slumber. Epilogue Daddy’s recipe for the good life Was to write a poem In every circumstance Joyful or adverse. On a crowded Indian train Or lurching bus. Ignore the stares Of curious fellow travelers Pull out the pen and paper And get to work. And for a mundane example To brew the perfect cup of ‘chai’ One must immerse the tea leaves Into the boiling water And let them brew. Walk away into another room Write a poem Which will then be the brewed thoughts Of a pensive mind. And the perfect cup of ‘chai’ Is born! Do not wait for the muse, Persist, to defy the block. Follow the simple recipe Of a beloved beverage. In my husband’s home now Far from my father’s home, When ‘Chai’ is made With combinations of ginger Cinnamon and cardamom Sugar, milk and whatnot, Father’s poetry wafts in On waves of spice And earthy freshness. Memories are made of this And poetry too! Post- Epilogue Grandfather was a ‘science’ man. When father won A poetry prize in school, Came home rejoicing to share the news, Grandfather said, ‘Poetry, what’s that?’ The child bought a bar of chocolate For four ‘annas’, An ancient, humble Indian coin But a princely sum to the boy Who ate his treat in solitary Silence And tears of wept Hurt Mingled with Hope And secret Determination To pursue the Poetic journey. Copyright Kavita 2019
The Many Things My Father Loved Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca My father loved the sun I think the sun loved him back Unrequited love from the sun Would have been a hard thing for him to bear After all he had no complaints About the hot Bombay sun He wrote poems about it Loved the sun and the city. My father loved the moon Its reflection shone in his eyes He saw no man or rabbit in it Only poetry, lines of poems Floating in the moonlight for him to catch Transport them to his earthly pages Paint them with the artist’s touch. My father loved the stars There was a surge in the twinkle in his eyes Like a gently rising ocean tide When he spoke of the stars, Shooting stars were his favorite His gravestone told of shooting stars Across the sky, and how they were a sight to behold He didn’t want to ‘burn up, but be seen,’ ‘That would make sense to him’, His poem on the gravestone said. My father loved the sea breeze He wanted to be buried in the garden In our home by the sea So he could feel the breeze on him Under the earth, He would be thankful for the coolness. Above all, my father loved us, his children Celebrated us in verse and in rhyme Named me prophetically So I could write about him And the many things he loved It’s my turn now, returning in full circle To declare the things he loved As I too love the many things he loved Because it is he who taught me to love them. Copyright Kavita 2020 Published in the May/ June issue of Muse India
How to light up a poem Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca ‘Poets are troubled minds wandering in search of lighted paths.’ (Original quote mine) Gently petition the moon for some moonbeams, scatter them gently on the path Implore the sun for a ray or two, scatter deliberately along the way Ask the trees for shadows and silhouettes, brush the path with shades of these Strike up a conversation with the trees, soon there will be a dialogue. If there’s a stream, brook or a lake nearby, splash some water to purify the air around the path Surely there are squirrels to add their chatter and birds to drop their feathers, in images of noise and Silence Cherries and apples will add their own particular flavor, you do not have to ask permission The apples will fall when they are ready, like the leaves in Autumn. Flutter and lightly press the wings of the butterflies and the buzz of the bees into the page Catch and hold the colorful darting dragonflies and blooming flowers close to the heart A weed or two is necessary to write reality into the poem, and some darkness for our sorrow. Search with flashlights into the deepest eyes of your soul, bring in your own inner light Don’t hide it under the bushel, or it will fade like the stars in the early morning The solar lights will light up when the sun is bright, sometimes on grey days too And forget not the wind, that wind that fills the sails To steer the ship to shore. If after doing all these things you do not manage to light up the poem Don’t worry, when the light wants to come in, It will knock. Copyright Kavita 2019
How to eat, or not eat, a Poem The Indian Version Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca (A take on ‘How to Eat a Poem by Eve Merriam) While eating a poem Don’t drown it in curry Don’t eat it with spicy pickle Don’t wear white clothes The turmeric might stain the poem and the clothes. Don’t put too much chilli powder Don’t dip the Naan too much Into the curry, the poem might disappear Along with the Naan. Don’t put too much garnish That will destroy the original images Sprinkle a little cilantro For greenery. Instead Eat it with your fingers Eat it in a ‘thali’ Few words and lines at a time In small stainless steel ‘vatis’. Eat it sitting on a ‘chatai’ on the floor Not on the table. You may make slurping sounds Only if you are eating at home, But best of all If you are going to eat a poem Eat it with love That is the most important thing About eating food or Poetry. Copyright Kavita 2019 Thali is a stainless-steel Indian plate on which food is served. Vatis are small bowls for serving rice, lentils or vegetables A chatai is an Indian mat.
My Road Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca I’ll dare to walk on The Road Not Taken Perhaps it’s the one others have forsaken. This is the road that may lead nowhere I’ll still walk on without a care But if I should arrive at last I will have all my dreams surpassed. If I get lost I’ll cry for help Still glad to have remained true to self. And crunch the leaves under my foot Those that haven’t yet turned to soot. And if perchance help does not come I’ll march to the beat of a different drum Copyright Kavita 2019
Light of the Sabbath Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca Sacred Fridays of the Sabbath lamps, An aunt’s faithful hands squeeze grapes She allows me to squeeze just a few. Purple juice-stained hands in purple glass, Steady purple flame rising to Him who listens, Meaning of *The Shema revealed. Hebrew, English and Marathi prayers flood the room. God is a linguist, understands all languages, He doesn’t need a translator. The Sabbath done, she rubbed my hair with coconut oil, Sleeping with news-papered pillow till morning, Washing out the oil till hair lights shone By her same hands of faith that lit the lamps, Cooked red mutton curry, coconut rice On her room-corner kerosene stove, Saturday evening, the sun gone to bed. Those hands that move mountains Stirred the curry, fluffed the rice. ‘Faith may move mountains.’ The Lord said, ‘Let there be light,’ The Sabbath light, the light of a hundred and fifty Psalms, Her faithful reading on Saturdays. Each Friday evening we squeezed The purple Grapes of Faith, And each Saturday she read All one hundred and fifty Psalms, Head covered with the saree scarf Her Godly body swaying slightly Lips moving in whispering prayerful devotion. * The Shema - Jewish prayer: Hear O’ Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. Copyright Kavita 2020 First published in the Harbinger Asylum, Fall 2020 Issue
Haibun of the Able Seaman It is incredible what a man will do when he wants to return to his home in India, from a foreign land, especially when his companions for three years had been Philosophy Poetry and Poverty, his lodging an ‘attic with mice for friends’, that’s how he described it to me. Perhaps that was a metaphor; his way of explaining cheap accommodation. I am inclined, as always, to believe him. What irony to learn that this same man would win an award for being a deck hand! It’s a true story I never tire of reading about… certificate of ‘Able Seaman’ awarded to him, my poet father. A father with a slender fame, delicate glasses that would blow into the waves of the ocean, at the hint of the faintest breeze, and the thin wrists that made him always want to wear a long- sleeved shirt, to cover them. By the longest stretch of my imagination, I can’t picture him scrubbing the decks of the cargo ship, carrying coal to Indochina. His companion, who was supposed to travel with him would later change his mind, so he had to travel alone. He braved the elements with that same determination that kept him abroad for four long years. Despite the ‘three P’s’, his constant companions, (the philosophy and poetry, he didn’t mind) the call of home becoming stronger than ever, he must find a way to return. Perhaps the sea had a poetry of its own, made its own music, in the sounds of the wind on the waters. His ocean journey would land him in his beloved city, Bombay, to carve words into posterity. Call of the homeland Poems in wind, waves, water The human spirit (First published in SETU, Jan 2021)
Family Sunday Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca From Family Sunday And other poems First published by Peacock Publishers, Bombay, in January 1989, Second edition: October 1990 Unsummoned, we assemble And slowly go To the same place At the same time As though destiny decrees it. We sit on the same stones Provided by the beach, Sea and sky Reflected in our eyes. We make the same remarks In praise of what we see, Only the lovers Excluded from the scene Respectably. To eat something Is part of the ceremony, So we eat. To leave when it is dark Is part of the ceremony, So we leave When it is dark. We call it a Family Reunion My father makes his Sunday joke About Eliot’s play My mother laughs, alone. They both agree that this is the way to spend a happy Sunday evening. We children Are supposed to be content And not want a change.
Saying Twilight in Two Languages Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca The darkness always knows it is winter It possesses intuition and wisdom It enters my home earlier and earlier Silently Shortening the days, balancing on the edge of night. I miss my mother, though not just in winter, She turned on the lights At the first hint of twilight, She called it ‘TeenieSanza’. This T is soft, not hard as in English It’s a *Marathi word, our first language along with English. Try saying it, ‘Teeniesanza’ Put your tongue against your front teeth It will automatically soften the T. Twilight is the soft light The separation of day from night Spoken with a hard T, And ‘Teeniesanza’ is the soft T It also means Twilight. The light is the same though Just uses a different language To call it by its name. I’m trying to teach my daughter To say ‘Teeniesanza’ Marathi is not her first language She can say twilight comfortably With the hard T She obliges me by practising. Either way, still, it will be twilight when it’s time For the light to change. * Marathi is the language spoken in the state of Maharashtra (India) and of the Bene Israel Jews of Bombay, the community to which I belong. Copyright Kavita 2020 First Published in 'Life and Legends'
Homesick Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca The pandemic has changed nothing It’s the norm to work from home. The day begins in classic fashion. I hear pleasantries from His south-of-the-border colleagues, on a conference call. Headphones are uncomfortable I can’t move my desk to another space in the house It’s heavy with poetry and photographs, so I can’t help over-hearing. “Are you ok?” “Yes’’, he says,” couldn’t be better!’’ We’ve learnt to say that Even if we feel terrible, That’s how they do it here. He continues… “The trees are laden with mangoes Jackfruit hang perilously low Threatening to drag the branch down. The air is redolent with cardamom and pepper, Cashews dangle voluptuously in red, green and yellow, Surely it was the forbidden fruit of lore And not the staid apple. What more could I ask for?” They laugh Knowing that here, only icicles dangle from trees and eaves troughs. He must be homesick Or he’s having an identity crisis No Garden of Eden here. He masks his longings for the fruit of a distant, bygone home With a bittersweet attempt at humour. We are Indo-Canadians, The Canadian part has still to kick in, It’s been twenty-two years. We cannot drop the hyphen We are proudly Indo-Canadians. Copyright Kavita 2020
Alibaug Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca There are places I'll remember All my life though some have changed Some forever not for better Some have gone and some remain (All My Life…The Beatles) It was a village then A ferry the only means to get across, I went there often, even defiant of the Indian monsoons. My uncle owned a grain mill He was a jovial man with a rich laugh The grain poured out of the ancient machines Like his patient and unselfish love for us. My aunt was kind, like all my other aunts She raised chickens, and cooked spicy food Put ten chillies in the curry when I visited Her usual was twenty, She was an older sister to my mother. She knew we liked the food less spicy Father had lived in England And we were accustomed to blander fare. At evenfall we talked in soft voices The hens were asleep. Disturbing them meant risking Breakfast without eggs Once I watched a cackling egg lay an egg, In the fields were cows and barking dogs My cousin wove in and out of them With me and my screams, on the bicycle, He teased me because I was afraid. The ocean lapped at the gates of the cottage We walked barefoot on the sand I skipped, he held my hand tightly So I wouldn’t skip away. My cousin caught the Puffer fish That looked like pregnant women, We must cook before nightfall The lantern light was the only electricity then A rat bit my cousin’s toe once Paraffin was the cure, as I remember it. But we got there defiant of the rains It was home and very sweet. Holding umbrellas over our heads Willing the rocking boat To land us safely ashore. I had heard of Jesus in school Of how He walked on water And His command to still the storm, I remember praying to have that kind of faith The kind that stills the storm I cannot swim, though, I want to walk the earth with grace. Alibaug is a village no more My uncle has passed and the grain mill Has passed on to new owners I guess technology has replaced Those ancient machines. I read of the great developments there Of hotels, rich residences, and tall buildings You can get there by car or luxury bus. I miss Alibaug The flickering lanterns, sleeping on mats, eating from *thalis I miss Alibaug The hushed whispers between cousins I don’t know when I can return To the land of my ancestors The land of the Shanwartelis, the Oil pressers, I yearn for the unsullied rustic scenes, The dotted fields of cows and the music of their bells The hush of the chickens settling down for the night, And I don’t know where the fish sleep In the folds of the waves Or in the folds of my memory. Copyright Kavita 2019 Note: Alibaug, also spelled Alibag, is a coastal town and municipal council in Raigad district of Maharashtra, India. It is the headquarters of the Raigad district. Alibaug and its surrounding villages are the historic hinterland of Bene Israeli Jews. There is a synagogue in the "Israel Ali" (Marathi इस्राएल आळी meaning Israel lane) area of the town.[1] A Bene Israelite named Ali used to live there at that time. He was a rich man and owned many plantations of mangoes and coconuts in his gardens. Hence the locals used to call the place "Alichi Bagh"(Marathi for "Ali's Garden"), or simply "Alibag", and the name stuck.[1] Wikipaedia *Thalis – stainless steel plates in which meals are served in Indian homes
India reborn in my Soul
‘Let me find my song where I belong’ (From Poster poems by Nissim Ezekiel)
I have forgotten why I came
My vision blurred by snow and mist
Perhaps.
The journey back home is long
And the time changes there
The body clock needs to work harder
To fight the jet lag
And the lagging spirit.
What country is mine?
The unceasing doubting
Of Mind and heart
Denies the reality of the present
The repetitive refrain poses questions.
I was not running from war or violence
No persecution or famine
Only running from myself
And the endless soul-searching
Common to the human condition
To those who think deeply,
The Quiet here is deafening.
The choice is made now
A sometimes unfathomable choice
The land of my birth
To be grasped in dreams
And Street Food shows
On You Tube.
I have forgotten why I came
Walk the quiet streets, or take
The uncrowded bus or train,
Home is not where I am,
The sound of Quiet is different
Here.
There are no sounds
Of noise here
No people on train tops
Or dangling out of the train
No arguments in the bus line.
Quiet, Quiet
All is Quiet
Someone speak to me please
It’s lonely.
When the sound of soft falling snow
Or the snow plough at night
Ploughs furrows in your brain
And fitful sleep is your potion,
I know I’m not a pin
On the familiar map shape
Even my rotis don’t turn out round
They are shaped like the map of India.
Rain snow and mist
Drop to earth in quiet so low
Make some noise please
Speak to me someone please
It’s lonely here.
I have forgotten
Why I came
Reborn my country
A thousand times
Transported back
In cups of chai
And samosas
In this my adopted home,
No geography can
Erase those smells
That taste, those smells are
India alive
In my soul.
Chai Chai
Garam chai
Drink the liquid noisily
Break the mud pot
Clink Clunk Crack!
Churning yearning
Ceaseless Constant
Perhaps nostalgia
Perhaps not
Dialogue with the mind
To stop
Its answer is a stubborn refusal
Giving a name
To yesterday’s ghost
Calling bluff to the phantom
Of times past
Of sunny- orange skies
And whispering sea breezes
The dilemma deepens
Which country is mine?
Some can love two countries
And some many more
I am the divided mind
A broken clay pot
A Humpty Dumpty
A thousand men
Could not put together
Again.
I have forgotten why I came
Or why there is no turning back.
Make a loud noise
Ring the bus bell loudly
Blow the train whistle
Need the rickshaws and the barking of dogs
It’s so quiet here
And everyone is on their phones.
I’m here to stay
Or so I think
At least I can write my Poetry
It’s quiet here
Perhaps the poetry
Can make the noise
A joyful noise for all to hear.
I loved to play with kaleidoscopes as a child
The balloon man sold them on the beach
My vision shifts like the pieces of glass
And I am sometimes home
And sometimes not.
And still
I have forgotten why I came.
Loss Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca Tandem Poem to accompany Poster poem 1 by Nissim Ezekiel (My father talked too loudly…. but just before he died) Dedicated to my father who sadly passed away from Alzheimer’s in 2004 My father could not talk to me Before he died Could not reach me in a distant land Twinned in spirit, separated by geography, I heard he remembered me Said he could never forget me Memory without a memory Not able to remember Not able to forget Trapped in a maze of loss. Two losses The greater loss is mine Thankfully, He could not remember What he had lost.
