24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
and proverb too,
its walls unblemished
by strikes that snuff
the brightest stars.
Pick one,
toss it to the grieving.
Study their faces
for gratitude.
Now picture this:
You cradle your
breathless child,
kiss his face,
surrender her to
men in masks
and gowns.
Imagine the
sound of an
empty glass,
that metaphor
unfurled to
comfort you.
The first boyfriend I lived with
had a CD single
of “Love Will Tear Us Apart Again.”
For two years, he and I had a pattern.
He wrote at his computer, a bag of grapes nearby.
I came home and made our dinner salads,
and, later, wrote through the night.
We never talked about marriage.
We talked about names we would give to children
we never had.
The other day,
I saw a picture he posted of his son,
named for Dashiell Hammett.
My new boyfriend and I agreed on no kids.
He’s a Journey fan.
I love him despite this.
Summertime, and the rain’s still coming down.
We were kids and this was our summer vacation.
We were supposed to be outside goofing off,
having some fun, but the rain came down for days.
We made a plan to head to the park beside the lake,
and go for a swim rain or shine.
We made peanut butter and honey sandwiches,
and crammed them, with our towels and
swim suits, into brown paper bags, and
started out. It poured all the way there.
By the time we hit the parking lot, our bags
were soaked through, our lunches wrapped
in towels, also soaked. We were bickering.
We dared each other to put on our suits.
We put our suits on.
We dared each other to run to the shore.
We ran to the shore.
We dared each other to step into the lake.
We stepped into the lake.
We were so easy.
We were startled
to find the water warm.
Summertime!
I was excited about my first stage
performance. I looked pretty in the
pink dress. My mother got me matching
pink, heart-shaped ear rings. I touched
them often, feeling their softness,
and unable to contain my excitement
I was a princess in the play, and I felt
like one that day. With butterflies in
my stomach, I stepped onto the stage
I stammered a bit, and then said my lines
with flourish. I heard the claps and then
the praise backstage on how well I did my part
My head was in the clouds and I came hopping
and skipping to meet my mother. The bubble
lasted till I came home and took out the dress
My mother came to remove my ear rings and what
did she see! There was only one ear ring and the
other ear was empty. I frantically searched
everywhere the next day, and shed many a tears.
But the ear ring remained lost. One is carefully
stuck in my scrap book, the other one gone forever
(c) Vijaya Gowrisankar
My husband must be king!
And therein, I, his queen
Shall rule with an iron fist
When he is gone.
When his codfish belly,
Bloated of ale and hemlock
Festers with worms in the peat,
I shall rule all.
And none shall know the blood
On these, my royal hands
When the house of Lady Macbeth
Wears robe and crown.
The blood, red, like paint it is,
Though I wash from the deepest well.
This soap! This blistering soap!
I’ll have her head!
The maid who gave this blistering soap!
Not soap, but lies of lyes it is!
Lies of lyes! And these hands!
Most royal hands
Still stained with their blood, and now his,
My most unbeloved husband.
Yet stab him I did not
With knife nor sword.
Dirty hands stained evermore?
Then queenly gloves I’ll keep.
What? These stained, tattered rags
Are not my gloves.
Off with her head, I demand of no one there.
I am alone. No sound in the castle lurks.
Is that my husband there
Moaning shadow?
Poem 2
Disappointment
Dampness clings to my soul
As grey and black misty skies swirl
And disappointment
Yet another unwanted gift
Taunts
Wrapped in a bows of velvet red
That touch, that feel
Indeed disappointment taunts
Like love turned to dust
Aodh, Fionnuala, Fiachra and Conn, the children of the king, are turned into swans by their evil stepmother Aoife and are doomed to live as such for 900 years. They have not lost their children’s voices, however, and are able to sing beautiful songs. They follow pealing bells (a sign that this spell may be coming to an end) to the house of a holy man called Caomhog who cares for them for the last few years of their fate. Captured by the King of Connacht, they’re rescued by a tolling bell and mist from the lake and return to the childish forms they’d had some 900 years before. Unnerved by this sudden change, the King of Connacht flees and the children begin to age rapidly. Caomhog christens the children quickly before their human bodies pass away so that their legend and their names will live on forever.
Last moments: the children of Lir
For just a moment, their childish voices filled the darkening space
before the years unravelled and the centuries took their toll;
in those last seconds, those who heard them knew
their timeless hearts had opened to each other,
for their voices echoed bright and strong and clear
and they knew each other once again.
Then, as sunshine passes, leaving only the briefest memory of light,
their voices faltered, faded to the shadows and were gone.
Life is unfair was what I mentioned in my prayer
The scar that I had left would remind me of a despair
Just the other day I cried myself to sleep
A testimony about a miracle is the story that lives in me
I didn’t have clue of direction until I followed in his direction
Now I’m blessed highly favored
All I want to say to you is God is Awesome
He already gave everyone his love so that’s enough for everyone to accept him
I had this dream as a kid.
It stemmed from practically growing up in a theater,
Watching my dad, grandma, and other various family members up on stage, with the lights shining on them and the audience cheering.
I couldn’t help imagining myself up there too.
I present my lines or sing Everything flawlessly, enough to make those watching cry, laugh, or both.
The costuming and staging always seems so entertaining and extravagant.
I’d help them rehearse lines and block out their movements,
All the while wanting to do it myself.
I even tried out for bit Parts as a kid, being turned down for every single opportunity.
I knew that was part of the deal, so that didn’t deter me.
What finally did show me how misplaced my dream of stagecraft was,
When my Studdard hit, and then my stage-fright trampled me with full force, flattening me into the dirt below its feet.
I could barely talk to one person at a time without tripping and stumbling over my words,
Let alone perform memorize lines in front of crowds fixated on my every movement and tone.
When all that happened, I let my dream of being an actor run away as fast as its little legs would carry it.
I’m sure it’s scuttled off into some far-off dark corner now.
Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly introspective, all imagine trying to chase after it again.
Those moods never last long.