Written by
Belinda Subraman |
I remember India:
palm trees, monkey families,
fresh lime juice in the streets,
the sensual inundation
of sights and smells
and excess in everything.
I was exotic and believable there.
I was walking through dirt
in my sari,
to temples of the deities
following the lead
of my Indian in-laws.
I was scooping up fire with my hands,
glancing at idols that held no meaning for me,
being marked by the ash.
They smiled at the Western woman,
acting religious, knowing
it was my way of showing respect.
It was an adventure for me
but an arm around their culture for them.
To me it was living a dream
I knew I could wake up from.
To them it was the willingness
to be Indian that pleased.
We were holding hands
across a cultural cosmos,
knowing there were no differences
hearts could not soothe.
They accepted me
as I accepted them,
baffled but in love
with our wedded mystery.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
Eyes like stars sparkle and die
and cycle into new stars, new eyes.
The answer is outside our window.
Astronomers look
for the beginning
and find there is no end.
Down to earth
there are frozen lines,
winter trees,
stalled cars in dirty snow,
sorrow over endings.
The real world is through the window,
infinite, ageless.
Though a clear veil
keeps us distant,
the soul of what
we can never prove
keeps us close.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem
that he belongs to the wayward wind,
a restless breed,
a strange and hardy class.
I’ve been with him for two years
and now he is dying.
“Are you in pain, Paul?” I ask.
“I AM pain,” he said.
But he is refusing medication
although his cancer has spread
from his kidneys to his lungs, brain and bones.
Somehow bearing this pain to the grave
is his last act of defiance/bravery/repentance.
My hands are tied.
My job now is to protect his choice
and later as promised
to collect his ashes,
read his poems in my garden
then set him free in the wind
where he belongs.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
As we slide into the 3rd world we have created,
running from hurricanes,
with our SS# indelibly inked on our arms
storms swell and swallow our control.
I am flooded with life review,
the beliefs of my youth.
I reach for my first Bible
which has survived every move.
I am mystified by Revelation’s
hallucinations again.
I would like to clutch an answer close,
bury myself in a father’s love
but that’s not how it goes.
There is only process,
synthesizing experience toward wisdom,
almost getting there,
like hanging on to a tree in a hurricane,
before being swept out to sea.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
At the edge of winter
in crisp early March
a dull thud of numbness
delays joy and sadness
that will make us weep.
In the flow of life
every aspect bears its opposite.
Between extremes
there’s the balance of peace
or peace
in the realization of balance.
With the warm blanket of knowledge
is the freezing cold of truth.
We are greeted with tears
as we come into this world
and tears as we go out.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
past the hippies
past Ravi Shankar
eons before
when the first Asian snake
came alive
stiffened with sound
through some empty shell
some hollow wood
some emptiness
the snake
was not so much charmed
as listening intently
to the accidental flute
to that which he knew
must be female
its empty insides
calling him
with breath music
and he joined in
for awhile
finding a rang of sounds
he’d never heard
then peace
and a new religion
practiced in places
where snakes are holy
and music
is written in his tongue
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
Silence has no zen today.
Ambient freeway noise
from ? mile away,
the occasional Friday nighter
coming home 2:00 a.
m.
Saturday,
the appliances with two-tone hums,
the bumping and grinding
of an old swamp cooler,
a distant train,
forces what has been pushed back
to break through.
My father needs O 2
all the time now.
His innocence
in countering the surgeons’ truth
with his wishes and beliefs
stabs me in the heart
with love
while his every movement
is pain.
He says he is ready
but I feel his fear.
The hum of the universe
is machine noise,
a motor with it’s timing off.
I meditate on this:
silence is a whistle,
a din in the wind,
in the dark.
|
Written by
Belinda Subraman |
I dreamed I was eating
a book.
It was made from 8” by 12” slabs
one inch deep.
It tasted like cheese
but cut like watercress.
as I chewed I understood.
As I looked around
others were reading
the same title
but in the regular way
I couldn’t determine
which was best,
eyes only
or digesting it my way.
Others began to notice me
and stare.
Made me feel *****.
I was in a restaurant though,
a fitting place to eat
and drink
so I ordered bourbon
and I kept on chewing.
I realized
their eyes
would never make them full.
|