Sunday, June 24, 2007

For My Father

When I hear a song
That you would’ve loved

Something tears up inside;
At your listening, silenced

And if the release date precedes your death
I wonder if you had heard
In a casual
Or a secret
Or a forgotten hearing

Which you misplaced from getting home
Like your other gift songs

But when I see a copyright and published date
That is after December 1995
It is a funny feeling indeed

A song unborn at the time of your going
And yet a song that simply demands,
In fact is, your listening

And I wonder how this song can be
Without the hearing that brought
Bengali songs to life for us

Be that as it may,
The moot point remains:

That more than in the celebrations
More than in the festivities and
The birthdays and
The weddings and the
Structured memories

It's in these songs
Unheard by you
That you come alive

In all my rooms

Thursday, June 21, 2007

My Husband Writes to Me


You have, my dear, an eternity of unrest.....

were the phrases that tumbled for joan of arc
in her “knightsuit” and florence with the

You have, you have, you have, my eternity of unrest,

the victories of margaret thatcher and
the books of germaine greer, the ultra cool
barbs of shobha de and the thatched cliches
of femina columns.

You have an eternity of unrest an eternity my dear an eternity...of unrest,

to support so many
tendencies and fierce
longings and motivations.
How does the yearning for
my man and
my home and
my man and
my child and
my man and
our home and
our child and
my life and his
life and my
life and our
child’s life
and my
merge with my cool-ness, hip-ness, today-ness, why
does it interfere?

You have my dear, an eternity of unrest,

as alanis screams and tracy groans and baez
cries and sheryl chills while sinead smiles.

You have, my dear, (need I repeat, or say more) an eternity, (should I continue?) of unrest!
My husband wrote this, and gifted it to me a few weeks ago. Perhaps that restless space where one feels an unrest and the other expresses it, is the closest one can ever get to restful spaces.
And as Hamlet said as he fell, "the rest is silence".