Four Decades And A Poem

by Lencio Rodrigues

  how will you kill the monster?

  How?

  Grandma’s Attic

  A ladder crossed the attic,

  tearing cobwebs draping the ceiling

  everything matured and multiplied here

  ~ the dust, mice and more…

  there was never an inch

  to step up to dust and drive these away!

  Amidst antiques and vinegar jars

  would be our hiding place ~

  a dark heaven with fairy tale-like

  pots and pans,

  enormous enough to contain us all,

  clinking and clanging,

  scaring poor mice away

  while our clothes brushed the dust away.

  We’ve broken many a “cherished” gifts

  that no more adorned the halls and their walls…

  Cucumber Thieves

  Seedlings buried in the fruitful mud

  the smell of wet soil and first rain,

  cucumbers, gourds of sorts and beans,

  farmers toiling to earn their fruit.

  Sometimes the rain starved the earth,

  but the farmers strove, shedding tears and sweat

  and watched their crop grow,

  for, at the end of the yield was joy

  and addicts, killing time with salt and pepper.

  Markets looked like a salad bowl, pale green,

  a peculiar taste, relished once a year

  when rain fell and the season of cucumbers

  made us little thieves and tell some lies…

  Sugar

  “Bitterness becomes you”,

  the china cup smirks

  as I place my lips on hers

  imagining sweetness.

  I can still feel through the grains

  dancing in my cup of old ivory Ceylon tea,

  now turned to oolong green;

  ~ the comfort of sugar

  :the energy it gave,

  :the energy taken away.

  Yesteryears’ taste tickles my tongue

  as the stirring spoon fights

  to balance my insulin.

  Our Fishermen

  The neighborhood smelt like a fish country,

  the cocks woke the wives

  and they shoved wood in the stone fireplace,

  packed midday meals

  and set their men mid sea.

  Then they groomed, put a flower in their hair

  and began their day.

  There’s nothing left on these shores anymore

  except for bits and pieces of nets

  and floats caught amidst bayhops.

  The boats seemed to have been washed away

  in the storm of modernization,

  The space where surplus fish dried

  is turned into a parking lot,

  - not for you and I, but for taxis

  bringing tourists to shacks and inns.

  Cocks oversleep too, everyone’s relaxed:

  their sons sail the high seas.

  Wives, still fish vendors

  buy from regulated government agencies

  when there’s need for more buck.

  Missing

  The doorbell rings.

  Red trickles along with drops of rain

  on her skin,

  mother is setting the table for dinner

  as father pulls his shorts beneath the towel,

  her babies are shivering from the wetness,

  it’s obvious from their fragile frames,

  mother rushes for the towel and clothes,

  and I would not know if she wiped

  the water or the tears.

  No talk is made.

  We’ve gone through this before

  except maybe there’s rain tonight.

  My clothes are oversized for her kids,

  father would have to have his dinner in the bedroom tonight

  and let her and her children be comforted,

  while I listened to the narrative, one more time…

  There’s fear… (no fright though)

  of her husband banging the door

  and dragging her and the children through the rain,

  or simply of a squabble among the men,

  but it’s past the hour beyond revival,

  dead drunk to even

  realize they’re missing.

  Tamarind Seeds and Sweet Potatoes

  Withered joys and faded childhood,

  memories drain through nostalgic muslin

  and liquefy in a squalid world.

  I am dying

  to breathe the sanctity of fresh air,

  capturing hopeless moments

  I won’t see in our children’s joy.

  What would they know about the

  flavors and aromas of nature,

  of life, of fulfillment?

  Those we relished

  with mere roasted tamarind seeds

  maracas-ing in our pockets,

  garnered for games of our own.

  Elders masticated them between their grinders,

  recounting mysterious tales

  while weaving jasmine garlands

  in the terracotta verandahs,

  as the sweetness of dried leaves roasting sweet potatoes

  ruled the air.

  This history will not repeat for sure,

  although the jasmine will blossom,

  and the leaves of the trees…

  Well, where else will they go,

  except being simply burned?

  Iced Candies

  Craving for 10p iced candy,

  Feeling like kings with coppers in tight fists,

  We drained all flavors until

  their fascinating colors painted our tongues,

  Leaving fruitless ice on the bamboo stick

  in our tiny hands.

  Such were the days,

  Where friends fought without bringing heartaches

  and same recipes differed in taste.

  Still feeling like a king, now in my own freedom

  with money in my pockets,

  fists, too small to hold the change,

  I wait cravingly for the candy man

  as life sucks out colors with a tongue of fate.

  ~*~

  clouds begin to bleed

  as arrows pierce the sky

  mountains hide the sun

  ~*~

  Pauline

  Old, ever since I was born

  she saw her hundred and three years

  skin wrinkling in simplicity

  as I ran before her gate to school, late.

  Hands trembling

  like those of a temple priest

  ringing a hand-bell at Pooja, invoking the Gods…

  Her hands, too feeble

  labored on things needing great strength.

  At mid morning her fire cooked rice congee

  awaiting us on holidays

  and gave us energy to keep the rest of our day going,

  eaten from an earthen bowl:

  Appetite built with slice of pickled mango and her love.

  She passed this life

  without growing older or weaker

  but happy, naïve about a complex world.

  Summer Scent

  of 70’s

  Cheerily crushed watermelons

  chilled our heels

  as they left marks in the Sangolda sand.

  We passed women wr
apped in torn clothes

  nurturing vegetable gardens

  fragrant with various blossoms,

  their men, like Adam at creation

  marinated in dirt and sweat.

  drawing water from the wells: clean and pure.

  Air, filled with smoky scents

  and trees with luscious fruits,

  the sweetness, flowing through our nostrils;

  thrown down with stones

  on the warm ground.

  Eating this fruit, fresh, broken: Ah! an inimitable taste,

  as the jasmine breeze

  blew and dried the beads

  from our brow.

  Learning from

  the best

  The gate would squeak

  around sundown like bells of angelus

  enlightening me you’re home,

  with a quarter in your pocket

  and a Coke for me.

  No one bothered to meddle

  with your life,

  just as you left each one to their own.

  The beef you cooked with extra salt

  still lingers on my tongue…

  that was the accompaniment to go

  with your drink on Sundays.

  Your mother would warm water

  for bath in a large black copper pot

  and remind you it is getting cold

  but then, it was also getting darker

  and you would have no time for me.

  I see your face

  in some of the men whose faces

  are engorged with drunkenness,

  and yet seem not so drunk.

  Like you, they too

  don’t trouble anyone, but me…

  I feel, they too will die silently, someday,

  without anyone knowing

  they have been drinking…

  You’ve always told me not to drink,

  then why did you?

  Rosewater and a Fairytale

  A bedpan and urine stained sheets,

  lay on the terracotta floor,

  Balm and incense subduing the odor.

  Her foster daughter in fourteen rooms: cleaning

  Victorian furniture, picture frames on high walls

  of those lying in their graves,

  A wall clock showing 6.43 p.m. at 10.15 a.m.

  Coral vines grown wild conquering the garden,

  Cracking crockery,

  Wood apple trees and penalized bats

  hanging on the nets

  and windows looking over the river

  where dead bodies flowed,

  Doctor’s prescriptions, pension slips,

  and thick power glasses on the bed-side table,

  Cookie tin with pills, rusted from the base,

  lay on the dresser,

  There too, a bottle of rosewater, Eau de cologne

  and a Bible with dog-eared pages.

  An empty rocking chair

  lying in an unvisited corner,

  often used by visitors’ bored children.

  The stone on which her servants used to grind.

  The verandah: twenty steps from the rusted gate below,

  was all that she left behind.

  The Prince Lost his Crown

  We built castles together

  against the mango trunk

  and pitied them as leaves pelted raindrops,

  freezing,

  grasshoppers and dragonflies, our prisoners.

  He looked better than a prince,

  although he and other kids in the neighborhood

  dragged me on a chariot

  with their childish cacophonic clamor.

  He had started growing his beard,

  his hair, grown below his shoulders,

  heading to ruin his life…

  I didn’t know then

  why we were drifting apart…

  He fathered children

  that were not his own,

  bailed out countless times…

  I visited my grandmother’s house

  that stands quiet,

  the chariot, devoured by termites

  and the mango tree, cut down

  by the landlord.

  I was hoping I would meet my childhood mate,

  and sure enough, he appears before me,

  leaving me dazed.

  It’s over two dozen years

  and he hasn’t grown to be the king I thought he would.

  Jano’s Ballad

  Oh how the mountains weep!

  Like they did when they were plundered,

  Birds flew for shelter in nearby valleys

  and from Jano, the folk’s fierce shepherd.

  With a loin cloth around his waist

  and head wrapped in a turban,

  He swept through the quiet village

  for unfamiliar air that seemed so urban.

  Selling chevon, fouls and eggs to villagers

  For a paltry sum of unsettled money,

  Sometimes he’d venture into the forest

  treating villagers to best quality honey.

  Goats and poultry was his livelihood

  A roof of reeds spread over his head,

  Nature being a friend, he grew vegetables,

  seasons’ fruits allowed his legs to spread.

  His family dormant, his wife unknown,

  The sons, they drank and one drove a truck,

  The other built a brick house with concrete roof,

  youngest went to foreign land to make a fast buck.

  The truck driver was killed in a crash,

  so did the one that lived in a brick home,

  The foreigner returned with nothing to his name,

  With borrowed money he would drink and roam.

  Jano lived long enough to see his sons’ miseries,

  He grew tall and thin and then one day he lay still.

  I remembered him as an ogre ‘til I grew and knew all,

  I remember him as a good man and always will.

  Early Lessons

  In giving,

  We do not remain deprived,

  But privileged pilgrims to profusion.

  In giving,

  We do not lose much from our treasuries

  Or become destitute

  But grow richer in spirit

  And wonderful in the eyes of the receiver.

  In giving,

  We never die poor.

  The Big House

  Whatever happened to the majestic house

  you nine brothers once lived?

  The beams seem to crumble and so are your vows

  of living in harmony, ancestors aggrieved.

  Walls have grown between your wives

  and on your farmland instead of trees,

  Open roof like a sieve, site for beehives,

  Each of you on a trail of competition and tease.

  Amidst your walls, stand your own homes,

  your own kitchens, your own dreams,

  While ants build where you slept, their domes,

  and crows caw on your front steps and beams.

  The birds waiting to be fed by your sons,

  just like when you were little boys.

  You have been dying, crumbling one by one,

  out of breathe, out of your powerful voice.

  Termites, rats, owls and snakes

  have made your mansion their place,

  Unless your self-centered sons awake,

  li
ttle that’s left will be wiped without trace.

  Face in the Ashes

  When one of them passed away at 87,

  a burden leaving his family

  The other sat all alone, very quietly

  around smoky smoldering embers

  stirring slowly, until the very end,

  as if searching for his lost friend.

  Who could understand his pain

  and hold him close to console?

  Who could see what he saw

  in his comrade’s remains?

  Sighs of a Virgin ~ Shakespearean Sonnet

  She walks with eyes staring into the moon,

  Heart and soul locked with faded emotion,

  Whirling sadly in her own life’s typhoon,

  Crushed in stillness, scared to make a motion.

  She waits like the shore for water to come,

  Soak her arid life with sweet ecstasy

  before her sensuality grows numb,

  Does all she can to look hip and sassy.

  She yearns for a touch to stir her passion,

  A man to fill her pleasures and her nights

  but they only watch her with compassion,

  Time kills her dream and begins a new fight.

  She stares at the moon, wrinkles in her eyes

  Gazing through sighs as her hope subsides.

  Variety

  Of The

  Eighties

  Secrets

  Secret No. I

  The world collided,

  lives shattered, yet life moved on,

  you lived on without guilt or shame

  driving your fault

  into the face of death with me,

  …all because of me,

  a premonition,

  furious from the news she gave you.

  I am your only seed, you never let grow, never nurtured…

  I am your angel,

  moments have passed, moments forgiven

  I see how each day you cry

  yearning for a fruit you can never bear…

  Secret No. II

  I sold my soul to shame and wiped you out for eternity

  plunging into a louder shame

  and torments that live forever.

  Tortured by these secrets, these mistakes, these blames…

  You are my only child,

  never seen, never touched, never felt, never hugged, never sung to,