There was small snow sprinkling also

There was small snow sprinkling also
  
There was small snow sprinkling also
that evening you arrived 
and fixed your eyes, questioning,
on us who waited, over-joyed
to greet you, baby girl
then, as now, a source of wonder 
newly-minted.

And as you grew from there to here
milestones reached and passed
we watched you do your Betty thing, unique
your own path followed,
sure of self, untroubled, fierce
hurdles overcome
(go round, go under, over, onward see you go)
and often funny, sometimes mad, not bad
but set upon the step to think
and everywhere beloved
as through your life you stride and jump and dance
unsubtle, never-overlooked
big voice, big heart
dearest Betty, our delight.

January 18th 2016, for Betty Spaghetti, with love xxx
 

All in a hot and dusty day

All in a hot and dusty day

So, starting with goats,

two kids in the nursery, branches strewn on slatted floor

a pair of pigs, a nasty noise, loud squealing at the  trough,

(yesterday’s rice and curry waste will surely flavour pork!)

Pretty brown cows, chew chewing,

cheep cheep chicks, jostling for corn.

Then alas for four, saddle-sore, the sweat and wobble/ weave

to Kavanur, right there where Ambedkhar stands arm raised

a hero for the poor, outcast,

to meet the elderly, sixteen women, just one man

sat in a circle smiles ready (they’re spirited this crew!)

Christmas gift of saris, (one dhoti), Elamma’s storybook tale

(god help you in this culture when the family’s unkind)

then on to the next

(pause for a moment , a funeral’s ahead, fire crackers flowers and drums)

where more elders await, two likely lads grown old

but bursting to sing,  with drumming and dance;

requesting a motor so their water will flow.

Meanwhile of course our puncture is fixed

(no sir, no, there will not be any problem)

a pause down the road to watch jaggery made

simple skills of manufacture

mending, planting, growing

practical people all

help ever at hand.

Home for an hour of horizontal, beneath the whirring fan

Just before the fall of dusk and gathering of crows.

Off again in the comfort of car

to farmers in a club, each with a cow

big-eyed beauties, Jersey-cross

will stretch the family’s means

a life beyond  subsistence.

Finally it’s teenage lads, Abdul Kallam Boys’ Club

enthused of course by sport

cricket, kabbadi, volley ball

but we’ll try to sell them school

hang in there for a better life

India’s greatest hope

(as for my dad in Scotland a century ago

education’s magic key)

And so to bed, exhausted

pictures turning in my head

kaleidoscope

of women bent over paddy fields

steam on a sugar vat

drums for a funeral

bright smiles and vanacum!

a turquoise roller on a wire

goats and chicks and soft brown cows

four of us on cycles, toiling, midday sun

hot day, long day, busy,

good day done.

January 17th 2016, RUHSA, for Pam with love

 

Indian nights

Indian nights

Indian nights are deep and dark
a January moon, thin-pared, and silver on its back
with stars too far and veiled
smoke and dust swirled thick into a blanket, deadening;
but ceaseless noise from dawn till dusk
crows in rows (so rooks perhaps?) 
roosting, then again, a further meeting, loud conference
all join in cacophony, just past midnight.
Meanwhile trains, hoot of horn, multiple toot and tune
rattle and roll, rattle and roll, rushing to crescendo
clickety-clack, over the track, and passing
Chennai to Bangalore.

So just before the sunrise, loudspeaker music comes
high-pitched and tinny to our ears, unlovely;
usually a cock or two
though dawn's announcement hardly necessary 
this black and clamourous never-ending 
noisome night. 

January 15th 2016, RUHSA

Tears togetther shed

Tears together shed

Years ago, thirty-eight, a friend reached down into my grief

and lit a path, one candle

better than darkness cursed

to shine and show, small seed sown

how though the world is wide and far

and language strange, culture and custom odd and surely wrong

so many gods, marriages arranged

a price upon the young bride’s head

still we have seen and known, through friendships grown

hands linked, small phrases learned and shared

stretched to bridge divides

arms in sorrow flung for comfort, tears together shed

and so, this much we know

that difference and distance, wide and far

nothing signify at all.

Put it simply, sing it loud

we are human, undivided, altogether

we are one. 

January 8th 2016, RUHSA campus, for Carolyn with love and I.M Thomas George Whittingham, 30/ 10/ 77- 07/ 01/ 78. 

 

Cos every little thing, gonna be all right

Cos every little thing, gonna be all right

Don't worry, on that joyful bounce of reggae beat
I hear him sing
about a thing
cos every little thing, yes every little thing
gonna be all right
the upward lilt, the chipsy stride
and yes I know it's just a tale
told to a child, for soothing fears and fright
middle of the night 
your mother's here and dad
this place this home
grandfather built, laid brick on brick
take note, that's not with straw nor stick
we're solid, safe against the wolf

And yes I too have nonsense told
to comfort in the dark
declared that monsters don't exist, not fact but purely fiction.
Let's grasp the lie, the fairy tale
where good will always triumph
and join the dance with chipsy stride 
turn up the music, make it loud
cos every little thing
yes every little thing
gonna be all right.

24th November 2015, Hounoux

Hallelujah!

As through the window's dusty panes the sun
the sky, the landscape shines
so in my early morning bed
here's Cohen singing in my head
his sad but glad, in rising fall
a dirge for love that's going wrong
a poem that he's set to song
resolving in the lovely Hallelujah

Hallelujah in the alto part
a cry to make us lift our hearts
encapsulating in one word
what goes from eye to heart to mouth
the deepest periwinkle blue
the vines in lines a blood-red square
patchworked with yellow, ochre, sage
with blue-green cypress stood in queues
without a thought for artist's view
sentinels as windbreaks sown
but now to stunning beauty grown

and all become as farmers toiled
to work the land to hand it down
with guidance now from bureaucrats
this year the sunflowers, next more wheat
in spring it all will zing bright chrome
with rape crop everywhere for oil


so through the window's dusty glass
there's heritage, the patrimoine
and agriculture, science and nous
technology and politics
and early morning in my bed
here's Cohen singing in my head
it goes from eye to heart to mouth
the sad the glad a paean of praise
repeated and resolved in
Hallelujah.

November 7th 2016, Hounoux.

Well worth the limping

Well worth the limping

We set off walking, rucksack picnic packed
south to the garden botanical, indirectly
round the up and down, the in and out of hidden coves and cliffs
secret sunny places, October bathers and boaters
me with my knee, the left one, shouting at steps
several thousand at a guess
in earth and rock and brick
but on we strode and limped, with stops for views
through parasol pines, the blue of sea and sky
gnarled and knotty branches twisting sideways
until the garden, ah at last, and gorgeous from first glance
paper flowers, bougainvillea,in all the hottest shades
orange, purple, crimson, pink
rampaging up and over, twining in curls
my favorite light blue, sky blue, plumbago, still profuse
Spain being warmer by degrees
and tree upon tree, cork oaks, araucaria, cyprus,  mimosa
(acacia, four varieties at least) with palest yellow fluff
of flower, yet  visible, palms in a grove
giant cacti clumped in family groups
acres and acres on the cliff edge, clinging
spread and grown in ninety years of loving cultivation
the long ago vision of an English woman and her
Russian, settled in Catalonia.
Shrubs and trees and flowers, botanical reference and legacy 
pepper, musk and sweetness, scent and birdsong bursts
and for us, well worth the limping
Thursday picnic in Paradise.

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugel, for Jude