On winter mornings
it is still dark
when you get up.
I lie a little longer
watching light creep
into the room,
across the bed,
up the white wall
until it touches
the ceiling.
You bring my tea
your black coffee.
We read a while,
news of our
woeful world –
of fires of floods
of fugitives
of births and deaths
of betrayals
beheadings.
Bewildered,
I come back
into this room
now brimful
with sunshine,
in which
I am sitting –
blessed
beyond
understanding.
Every part of my garden is a lyric
Under the shade of tall trees
Thorny cactus form the edges
The dark soil hides the relic
Crooked cracks lodge an army of bees
Its constant renewal and healing balm are worthy than wages
Little bird sings
Welcome to my world
Autumn leaves fall
Roll on a colorful carpet
The wind isn’t cold
It is Fall
The insects drum a trump
Little bird sings
Listen to the bruised barks and chopped trunks
Denounce it in melancholic melody
Dust and stones have replaced the green
Uprooted from its natural banks
Who could play a rhapsody?
The change can be seen.
Little bird sings
Hypnotic Winter call in a rusty voice
In Spring, I blossom
No more garments, my eyes cry
Frosted lawn offer a haunted peace
Destruction and devastation rise from the bosom
Beautiful Summers are now sting dry
Little bird sings.
When the wind hits my skin,
it reminds me I’m alive.
When I exhale
and inhale,
I feel my heart
push against my chest.
During the day, I hear –
cars hooting,
laughter,
children screaming,
the sound of footsteps hitting the ground,
the voice of a man growling in complaint,
and a woman laughing at the top of her lungs,
only to convince another that she is okay,
and her family affairs are in order.
With the smell of a cooking pot blending,
with a disturbing unfamiliar smell,
I find myself trying to figure out
what this other strange smell could be.
All this is none of my business,
but the wind still blows it my way.
Slowly they drive away; the mother’s heart goes with them
The pallbearers, father, husband, brother, uncle
Pain cutting into their faces as they take up their positions
The mother reaches out to stop them
The pallbearers, father, husband, brother, uncle
A firm hand moves to restrain her
The mother reaches out to stop them
A woman crosses over to hem her in
A firm hand moves to restrain her
Murmured words of sympathy
A woman crosses over to hem her in
She hears the sound of closing doors
Murmured words of sympathy
She recognises fear in other mothers’ eyes
She hears the sound of closing doors
With no experience of death, some smile shyly
She recognises fear in other mothers’ eyes
Pain cutting into their faces as they take up their positions
With no experience of death, some smile shyly
Slowly they drive away; the mother’s heart leaves with them.
Photo Credit: courtesy Unsplash Sandy Millar
Usually he shaved in the shower. This time
he used the Maca root shave cream bought some
years back at the Body Shop in Djakarta. He ran his hand
over his chin which felt smooth, luxurious, clean.
He still had some Jaguar in a simple but stylish green
bottle with its silver stopper. The scent was immediate
and so distinct. Not sweet but intensely fragrant.
He had been eking out this lotion for years
since receiving it from his mother on one of her flights
from Europe to the Mother City. It was exactly the kind of gift
she would select – expensive, high quality and somewhat arcane.
He had never seen another bottle of Jaguar anywhere.
It was special, in itself and as a unique, one-off memory.
He would never again receive that Jaguar lotion from his mother,
as he would never again live this moment
or any other. There was no point in trying to replace
the precious bottle − the new one might prove to be
a subtle ‘improvement’ or more profitable facsimile,
but almost certainly the replacement would dilute his memory.
Nor was there any point in saving the dregs.
He splashed on some more,
and quietly saluted his mother.
*Photo credit: Axel Adelbert
[First Poem Written on the Life Writing Course]
NOBODY
I am Nobody because i do not have a voice
I’m expected to do whatever, without given a choice
Nobody, because I’ve always been the lesser one
If anything goes wrong, it’s cos of something I’ve done
Nobody, because I’m disrespected by all
Invisible, despite being there for anyone when they call
Nobody whenever I’m belittled, sworn or shouted at
Everyone takes me for granted and treats me like a doormat
Nobody, because nothing i do is appreciated or seen
Even though i spend hours ensuring the house is clean
Nobody when outsiders get to have the final say
Especially when I’m victimized, they look or walk away
I am Nobody when being ostracized by those i love dearly
The animosity radiated towards me is felt by me clearly
Nobody because when finally i stand up for what’s right
Their response still has me crying, deep into the night
Nobody because i try so hard just to make them care
But i guess it doesn’t matter, they just pretend I’m not there
I am Nobody because everything i do or say is wrong
Yeah! I must be a Nobody for this to go on for so long
But hey! this Nobody has finally reached the end of her rope
Because this Nobody is tired, and has given up all hope
Therefore, after spending a lifetime as a NOBODY to some
The day when I’ll finally be SOMEONE will come
No matter if what they reminisce about me is all lies
This Nobody will be acknowledged on the day she dies.
[Last Poem Written on the Life Writing Course]
THANK YOU
Watching the wave, as it crashes gently onto the shore
It’s something i never really noticed before
I am so thankful and grateful, that i can finally see
The beauty in everything, that is surrounding me
How is it possible, i never saw any of this before
It seems as if i walked through a magical door
For the past few days i have been in a place
Where only warmth and peace invaded my space
Sitting amongst people who i never met before
A rich diversity of personalities and yet so much more
On my very first day, i was so timid and weak
Scared half to death, lest they ask me to speak
But as the days passed, my confidence has grown
And it’s all due to the compassion this amazing group has shown
Each one of us has a reason for being here
Although mine at first, wasn’t very clear
I have learnt so much, but most important… I had fun
I am not looking forward to the day we are done
So thank you for this opportunity, and each and everyone
For making this week so special, one of the best … bar none!
©Leonora Lewis
Dedicated to the Life Righting Collective
July 2018
heady syringas a garden in spring
a rhythmic mantra that the train tracks sing
amo amas amat as in a trance
they kiss entwined under a rising moon
she day-dreams of sheiks on the ride to school
romance true love exotic lands monsoons
but then she sees guillotined by the wheels
a headless chicken doing its manic dance
now her journey’s more confined from the train
she still climbs slopes flies kites surfs turquoise waves
sees a lone arum bloom in winter shade
picks ever-lastings hears a scops owl call
memories flash by ecstasy and pain
still-life framed by the windows of a train
My mother takes to her bed
when the news is bad.
Her mother drank gin
at 6pm on the dot,
with the radio off.
My father turns the shower
to cold for one minute
every morning.
His father
stood on his head daily
while breathing deeply.
I would like to combine
headstands with gin
but instead
there are days when I find myself
under the blankets
holding my breath.
A wasteland mourns in silence,
her quiet grieving interrupted only
by the busyness of chirping birds
and the continuous sound of distant traffic.
A sense of loss still haunts her vacant grounds;
she longs for the community
and the vibrancy of its life
she had sustained for so long
A brutal scourging of her landscape has left her violated,
her neighborhoods reduced to dust and rubble
and her land has become a barren waste.
Now weeds, shrubs and bushes flourish,
a blatant exploitation of her vulnerability,
yet their insatiable conquest
for gain and new territory
cannot conceal the evidence of her once famous legacy
The remnants of paving, pot-holed streets and lanes remain
barely visible, their identities long ago discarded,
though lamentably reminiscent
in the familiar names of the far flung township ghettos
Streets once boasted market stalls
displayed with fruit and veg,
freshly caught fish and fragrant flowers
and traders who beckoned all to spend,
transacting more than just the bargained deal
Spontaneous talk and humorous sharing
of the latest local news exploding into laughter
echoes off cracked walls with peeling paint,
and children’s voices, at their play in dimly sunlit alleyways.
Then all became this silence,
a quiet grieving interrupted only by the busyness of chirping birds
and the continuous sound of distant traffic.
Still amidst a frenzied invasion of weeds, shrubs and bushes,
the pain and precious memories linger,
confined to photographs and a generation now passing on;
the snapshots of moments in time
old and fading in worn out albums with its pages torn.
You can’t reach my sister’s door without getting wet.
Scarlet plants along the path collect dew in droplets like blood –
It’s a way of thwarting guests.
Her son’s offer to prune is met with suspicion;
She knows how surgeons tend to overdo.
She limps quite badly, now.
I give her two white towels knit like gauze.
She hangs them next to the shower chair,
And uses them to blot her scars.