Ramola D

 

MY PART IN THE WORLD

I could tell you how the tree stood, empty
.............................of everything against the gray cloud.
How twigs entered the water
..............in reflection, wrapped against each other.
I could tell you how the sky looked, lit in that way by the sharded, milky sun
............................when you stood above it.

Birds cry and cry. They think it is the beginning of spring. The mourning dove makes
..............that deep bell sound
in her throat. Her body is pressed-powder brown
..............and blends with the wood.

Yes, I walked for hours in a dark cavern and came to the edge
..............of a new water.
The surface is clean and carries the sky in it. Carries spring and the empty trees and
..............the crying of the birds.
But nothing else. Not the clear
..............carrying of light to its bottom. Not the glimpse
of another shore.

I walk round and round the lit surface
..........................................which reflects the darkened world.
I put my finger in the water and the water is disrupted
...........................for a moment. The world ripples
and ripples. Then it stills, and the reflection goes on as before.

 

DAYBREAK AT KANYA KUMARI
..............in memory, for Jeanie

Even in dream I am held
by the frail
barricade of worn-out rope.

Day comes in a tremor
of light lifting the weight
of the sea, the black

rocks humming with water.
The cold deserts us,
slipping as we stand

facing the wide
resolute ocean. Fishermen drag
the dark shells

of their boats into
that ripple of wine--
wind

netting
their voices and blowing
weighted about us.

I lay my grown
imperfect hands now lightly
on that time--already loosened

from dark and headed
toward the new stasis--as if
I can stay

that banal ascent to light,
call back the hour from the edge
of completion.

But it is morning.
The women lay the fish--wet and flaking
silver on the sand.

I wake, returned:
the day's transactions,
the mending of the nets.

 

 


Shara Banisadr
Collage, 11" x 17"
see more work by Shara Banisadr

GIFT

All that is wrought and beautiful comes
on its own, without warning. From
somewhere else. A place
we have never seen although
we come
from there ourselves. Each time the wind
loses us. Each time the day
forgets. We rise from each plateau
of denials not knowing
the climate has altered, our arms
are rising. Worked veins and blood,
a filigree of light. Think of it.
We never imagined such rising.
It is certain and complete. We come
without knowing we are whole--wood eaten
to web
, we think, and it fills like water
in a cup; the new day, it swells
into the palm and waits
for our dark to lift
even
as we will ourselves
from sleep.

 

 

AS IF, PART, I COULD HAVE
..............for my mother

....................................(1)

as if, part, I could have
a part in this,

........................the tear's shape, oval, secure,
........................pressed into the dull
........................ebony of seed

on a windowsill, as if I could take
what my eyes see and make

........................seed for the lonely birds
........................of winter, the wild
........................squirrels that live

high in oaks on this Virginia street, that die
in the leaping for acorns

........................under our speeding, spinning wheels,
........................chassis of steel and scrape
........................and weight.

....................................(2)

winter, just the beginnings
of it, cold

........................cracking the colour
........................from leaves and saying lemon,

anguish, red, as the rain
slicks away dust and gives to

........................us the blush and bruise of maple,
........................ecstatic plum.

I spoke
of the distant bleeding, the wounds
of childhood

........................because I thought: distances
........................could be bridged,

that I could say
a single word, and have the world
opened up again, remade

........................in a moment's small desire, all
........................our suffering stilled.

....................................(3)

as if I could, silence, did I think
that silence would come and stall us

........................throw my linear graspings out
........................into a curve

I could no longer control, no longer
will.

........................Tonight the moon is a glaze
........................of porcelain floating

in a perfect center, clay
around it, brown cloud, syrup. Rain
in streaks on a windshield.

....................................(4)

here is silence

........................in bruise, the body mutely turning
........................to different hues

without saying

what forms have brought it here, altered
its true

........................balance. A silence awake
........................in the turning, the turning
........................of sumac to orange.

She, herself, the shape, herself, not alone
of her imaginings

........................but shapes made for her by instinct, response
........................to her surroundings.

....................................(5)

forms on the highway, curled
into balls, or white

........................bellies raised, paws curled
........................into fists.

estrangement, there, where it begins, far
into memory in the child's

........................being turned away, turned
........................toward

her own imaginings, the habit, here, now,
of holding the heart

........................still, very still.

....................................(6)

........................I spoke
........................from the place I believed
........................in: it was light, fragment;

to speak, did I believe, to speak
of the wound was to speak,

........................did I believe, to speak
........................of the healing?

....................................(7)

We become what we become despite
intention. I believed,
always: I would be different;

that I could break
what the world

........................would make me, that I could
........................still the mind's defense

and be what I might have been
without all, all
...............of the world's intervention.

that where I lived or all
I went through--shadow,

........................sunlight, doubt--was, somehow,
........................incidental. Not vital, essential

to my own becoming.

....................................(8)

........................In this country, there are seasons. I follow
........................the blood-red berries of sumac

into their own hardening. Remember that all

........................I had of a beauty entire
........................and within reach

was a city cottonwood, tear's shape
of pod hung brilliantly

........................in sky, the pouffe and scent
........................of jasmine trailing

over a parapet's edge directly
above a street, flame
and speckled yellow

........................of canna lilies by the gate, tongues and ears
........................of it, the monsoon

a swollen cloud in the streets, urgent breath
on hands, eyes, skin.

....................................(9)

........................I wanted to go where the wind went.

....................................(10)

as if, part, I could
have a part in this

........................the way I believed
........................I could, our lives becoming not

precisely what we want or work
toward. Here is surprise, here is the altering

........................of it: the way the bruise
........................turns,

dark in a golden sky, out of the known
pattern, yet even this, a mother's heart,

........................true to its own formations, stilled,
........................and keeping still.

 

Ramola D studied Physics and Business Administration in Madras, India. In 1991, she received an MFA in Creative Writing from George Mason University. A first book of poetry, Invisible Season was published by Washington Writers Publishing House in 1998. Her poetry has appeared in Agni, Prairie Schooner, Green Mountains Review, Phoebe, The Asian Pacific American Journal, Indiana Review and Best American Poetry 1994. Her short fiction has appeared in Small Spiral Notebook, Hyper Age, Literal Latte, and So To Speak. She is currently working on short fiction and a novel set in India, and teaching at The George Washington University.

Published in Volume 5, Number 4, Fall 2004.