Winner of the Dorothy Dunbar Rosebowl – First Prize for Poetry at the Scottish Association of Writers, for Mukti – The Release
Here is the poem for you once again, please share your comment
Mukti – The Release
You burst through the clouds, high on life,
My dashing daddy and your beautiful wife.
A cheer goes up from the gathered crowds,
‘Welcome,’ they cry, ‘now shrug off your shrouds.’
Beaming with joy, you show her around,
this peaceful Haven you both have found.
Family and friends long gone from earth,
come up to you, almost skipping with mirth.
‘Is it always like this?’ Ma asks, holding on to your hand.
You’d arrived two months ago, to survey the land.
‘Yes,’ you reply, ‘but I missed you so.’
She whispers back and says, ‘I know,
but it was too soon, look how sad she is.’
You gaze down together and saw me writing this.
‘She’ll be fine you know, she’s ours and strong,
And she’s found a tribe to which to belong.
Her words will always cleanse her sorrow.’
You are right, my loves, come tomorrow,
I’ll heal, I’ll dance, I will be fine.
So, rest easy now, Mukti will be mine!
The Joy of Human Interaction
This is not an article, and it has not been researched. Unless indulgent introspection were a research tool. This, however, is a realisation that will resonate with all of you. A realisation of what exactly we have missed over the last few years.
Like most of you, I thought I had been fine during lockdown. Complacent for the most part in not needing much, and happy in my beautiful home, meeting friends on zoom and other social media outlets. Watching TV, eating well, healing from personal bereavements, reaffirming family values…. the list is endless. The list of what I thought had been the benefits of lockdown.
That changed this weekend when I was struck with what we already know. The reason why we have unanimously opted for physical meetings, facing and working with each other, rather than in tiny windows on pixelized screens.
It is our joy in human interaction. I know it sounds simple and rather obvious. The simplicity of this realisation hit me with a sharp blow last night, changing my very perception, altering my complacency in inner peace. I thought I was a self-sufficient island; I so obviously am not.
Choddo Prodeep (Fourteen Lamps)
‘Tis the season of ghosts and ghouls
and things that go bump at night.
Its also Diwali as the weather cools,
the Festival of hope and light
The night before this day of lights,
in West Bengal we pray to ghosts.
An annual homage, as per their rights,
we invite them home and be their hosts.
‘Are you homesick?’ she asks, every time I call.
‘No, I’m not,’ I say, not homesick at all.
This here is my home since our baby was small
Her life measured in inches on my bright kitchen wall.
‘There’s really not much to miss,’ I say
Apart from you, Ma, who live so far away.
We have the telephone though, we talk everyday
And it’s here in Glasgow I choose to stay.
Where folk are friendly and full of cheer
Needing fish ‘n chips with lots of beer.
The only thing I don’t like here
Is the dratted rain all ‘round the year.