A humming word

Natalie Goldberg is known for her exemplary book, Writing down the Bones . A haiku (short form of poetry born in Japan) and Buddhism practitioner, Natalie’s language is layered with kindness. She travels to Osaka, Japan, to meet with the greats of Haiku: Basho, Shiki, Buson and Issa -   15th-18th century haiku masters whose graves and stories await Natalie.  Along with the four great Haiku masters, Natalie also explores the lesser known woman haiku writer, Chiyo-ni. Here are a few notes from this book, which moved me. I have a vague memory that, years ago, right before I left for Japan for the first time in 1998, I bought a book called Chiyo-ni: Woman Haiku Master, edited by Patricia Donegan and Yoshie Ishibashi . But I dashed off on my travels and never read it. I open it now and see that the two editors signed it and even added an inscription: “For Natalie. In appreciation of a fellow writer.” I turn the page, read further: “Chiyo-ni was born in 1703, seven years after Bas...

Poetry is vulnerability.  Poetry is an ikebana of words.  To me, Poetry has been a horse which I straddled to gallop through life. Sometimes, it was the boat to wade through rough waters. But it has always been a letter to someone on the other side - maybe, a reader; maybe, a friend or maybe, myself.  And to share these experiences with a poets and writers community and receive love and support enriched me from in Milwaukee (US) and continues to enrich me with Lampshade Writers, a writers' and poets' community, started online.  Formed on the fringes of the pandemic in November 2020, Poetry had become our pillow -- sometimes, our refuge. We met, virtually, initially, and shared our feelings in verse -- some wept, some switched the camera off and spoke from their heart, some just attended to listen, some to share a winter evening locked in their houses.  As the lockdown was lifted, our Readings were held in-person and we are only delighted to meet each other as we...

Phuphee drapes her shawl  and sits by the apple orchard  With  a dechee of tehar  samovar  and a cup of mustard oil, she spreads her carpet like a flock of pigeons,  Pecking a handful of rice Surround Phuphee women from her village  When one woman narrates, the other anoints the narrator's hair with mustard oil "it releases the tension"  Phuphee says  these women who toil hard  And traveled a long way on Phuphee's carpet, Listen to each other All day  /inspired by the article by Saba Mahjoor in The Hindu/

 The more I write, the older I get  -A Bengali poem  Pages, sewed together by a thread loose, are stashed in wooden cupboards.  Cursive writing in ink pen,  followed by labyrinthine scribbles with a sketch pen or a 5 rupees ballpoint pen.  These loose pages push themselves to a corner,  when the cupboard opens.  Later, they whisper  about the ballpoint pen's secrets.

Our shame-shame parts had not yet developed So we bathed together My cousin brothers and me Every Sunday, right before Jungle Book  So that we are dressed to watch  Mowgli with his playmates Each of us had a swinging milk tooth And we wanted to get rid of it, oh so badly! The tap and bucket in my grandma’s home Were sturdy –  We hit our teeth to it Till our milk teeth fell off And we laughed, toothless Then we washed ourselves To watch Mowgli in his Chaddi

Mother is mum, mostly She speaks softly, smiles like a smitten cat She doesn’t say ‘I love you’ Some nights, she knits A finger sleeve Some evenings, she bakes Her thirty third attempt Some mornings, she crafts A bookmark She gifts and slips away To bake, knit, and craft some more

  Mountain is a shamiyana — The trees dance to the call of the birds that hum with the lilt of the wind the spectator sun, veiled by the clouds, shies away like a bride when the moon gallops with its band of stars   The sun blushes red the next morning