Poems From Kolkata and Varanasi
Trip Start
Sep 03, 2005
1
13
20
Trip End
Dec 22, 2005
Varanasi,
India
Friday, November 4, 2005
I grew up into a world two sizes too big.
I struggled to pull it over my head,
But the folds of fabric consumed my fragile frame
So I shivered, naked and cold, inside an empty room.
1,2,3,4,
Sleeping lions on the floor.
5,6,7,8,
I'm sick of the same game.
I coughed my youth away in the cacophony of Calcutta.
A pair of bright eyes met with tears
To form a rainbow:
Arcs of purple, blue and red upon a swollen lid.
1,2,3,4,
The children of the city's poor.
5,6,7,8,
Every day the same.
Now my noose has fraid into the perfect plaits of a school girl.
How I smile to fix the splintered bones of an insect child
(Saved by an eraser and a pot of ink.)
Yet in my giggles hear the groans of all my brothers,
Tiny palms put to work on poverty's playground.
1,2,3,4,
Sleeping lions on the floor.
5,6,7,8,
I'm sick of the same game.
1,2,3,4,
The children of the city's poor.
5,6,7,8,
Every day the same.
I Sat Down Beside The Rover Ganges and Wept.
I sat down beside the River Ganges and wept.
A rainbow born from a single tear
As a white face,
Cupped in the palms of the gentle breeze,
Was lifted West towards the setting sun.
I heard a woman crying,
And a dog pawed a pelvic bone
Beside the child with the broken face.
A tourist missed his step
As he photographed the old man who was bathing.
I felt the beat of a drum,
And footsteps heading to the evening Puja
Where silver lights were glowing.
An audacious cow reached the water's edge
To meet a smiling boatman.
I saw two monkeys fighting,
And a boy ran after a stray kite
Past the couple walking hand-in-hand.
Some men lifted scarves to their faces
As a body was lit on a funeral pyre.
I sat down beside the River Ganges and wept:
Dirty skin cleansed by dirty water.
From a white face,
A spirit swam towards the Soul of India,
Sent in tears which traced the path of the Holy River.
