Showing posts with label The Old Country. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Old Country. Show all posts
Sunday, November 24, 2019
Wednesday, November 13, 2019
I do declare
Nu (whose finger is in the picture) and I found this Vivek Velanki exhibit by accident. His grandmother, whose passport is the first exhibit is from Madras (like me!).
I recommended it to the poco students at MSU.
Monday, March 11, 2019
Sunday, March 10, 2019
Thursday, December 20, 2018
In the Old World
I am to reread their wrinkles
search their weeds for memories
even as ancestors' eyes are forced
to close, go masked, invisible.
It will make sense
until you ask about it.
*
They want to open my mind
wrest, twist it wide
then tip it like the overfilled point
of a plate, at the moment when
you're suddenly sated,
free of the desire for it.
*
I mime their scolding for I have no will,
and I am meek. Still they are forgotten
even so, every time--memory by memory
in a language my children will never speak
Aiyo--to think I meant at the start
to hold and shape love
as it pooled its fast and fluid
escape in my heart.
****
search their weeds for memories
even as ancestors' eyes are forced
to close, go masked, invisible.
It will make sense
until you ask about it.
*
They want to open my mind
wrest, twist it wide
then tip it like the overfilled point
of a plate, at the moment when
you're suddenly sated,
free of the desire for it.
*
I mime their scolding for I have no will,
and I am meek. Still they are forgotten
even so, every time--memory by memory
in a language my children will never speak
Aiyo--to think I meant at the start
to hold and shape love
as it pooled its fast and fluid
escape in my heart.
****
Friday, October 26, 2018
In the Machines
The ghosts call me late
most nights, rocking
the cradle of the landline
we never use. I never pick up
but I see their faces vaporize
in my icy breath,
their empty mouths asking
You put away all the leftovers?
Do you know who we are?
I can see their mouths form it,
feel their curses touch my body
I mumble irritably
and try to solve their hungry
riddle, without magic:
pointing them to the fridge
_
most nights, rocking
the cradle of the landline
we never use. I never pick up
but I see their faces vaporize
in my icy breath,
their empty mouths asking
You put away all the leftovers?
Do you know who we are?
I can see their mouths form it,
feel their curses touch my body
I mumble irritably
and try to solve their hungry
riddle, without magic:
pointing them to the fridge
_
Tuesday, October 09, 2018
తెలుగు
yes, of course, this is
merely the lisp of lips,
a slip, not apocalypse--
only the clumsy glamor
of Telugu scripting round
tripping slow, deliberate.
Daughter to my mother
and to mother's mother
whose words were fated
to immigrate too. I am
stuttering, I hear kinship
knocking, coming on in.
_
merely the lisp of lips,
a slip, not apocalypse--
only the clumsy glamor
of Telugu scripting round
tripping slow, deliberate.
Daughter to my mother
and to mother's mother
whose words were fated
to immigrate too. I am
knocking, coming on in.
_
Thursday, August 02, 2018
Thursday, July 26, 2018
Roman Tamil
My teacher, ST, wanted me to memorize this kural I had never heard before.
And I repeatedly kept messing up on the archaic word "aagula" until I used "like Caligula" as a mnemonic. It worked.
_
And I repeatedly kept messing up on the archaic word "aagula" until I used "like Caligula" as a mnemonic. It worked.
_
Sunday, July 15, 2018
Not a Metaphor
I don't forget you
flying
astral, austere
I search until time
is up
over, easy
My prayer speaks
as breath
salient, silent
_________________
Despite a small wheeze, I spent yesterday singling Thyagaraja kritis and slapping talams with tenuously connected new friends (book club to E; E to Tamil classes with S; S a student of R's mom; A a colleague of R; and so on). It was lovely--something I didn't even know I needed. And Nu told me in a silent moment that I sang beautifully.
_
flying
astral, austere
I search until time
is up
over, easy
My prayer speaks
as breath
salient, silent
_________________
Despite a small wheeze, I spent yesterday singling Thyagaraja kritis and slapping talams with tenuously connected new friends (book club to E; E to Tamil classes with S; S a student of R's mom; A a colleague of R; and so on). It was lovely--something I didn't even know I needed. And Nu told me in a silent moment that I sang beautifully.
_
Saturday, July 14, 2018
Babama and Baby NuNu
Recently, I did a meditation that asked me to remember the oldest person (Babama, my great grandmother) and the youngest person (Baby NuNu) I had loved. If they could have a conversation with each other, what would they learn? How would I introduce them? I was in tears then because they would never meet each other as Babama died before my babies were born.
But I was reminded that some things live on. Nu lost her screen privileges this week, and when I was telling Big A about why she had lost them, he reminded me of Babama's principle. Basically, if you enable people to cheat (by leaving valuables around, or being lax about people copying off you, etc.) you are responsible for the crime--not the unfortunates who are compelled by their circumstances to steal, copy, lie etc.
When I trace the timeline of this piece of advice through the generations and geographies it has traveled, it's basically a study of how love connects us.
Now for that difficult conversation with the 10-year-old.
_
But I was reminded that some things live on. Nu lost her screen privileges this week, and when I was telling Big A about why she had lost them, he reminded me of Babama's principle. Basically, if you enable people to cheat (by leaving valuables around, or being lax about people copying off you, etc.) you are responsible for the crime--not the unfortunates who are compelled by their circumstances to steal, copy, lie etc.
When I trace the timeline of this piece of advice through the generations and geographies it has traveled, it's basically a study of how love connects us.
Now for that difficult conversation with the 10-year-old.
_
Friday, March 16, 2018
Tuesday, December 05, 2017
Time to go
Last night, I dreamt that I was looking over grandmother's old house by the sea. I was talking to my aunt and Big A about how it would make sense to get it (buy it?). I think we had decided to go for it until I remembered that the water from the faucets used to stain everything grey and wondered if that still happened and were there loud trains in the backyard?
The night before that, I dreamt of huge temple festival crowds. And among them, I found my mother with her friends. They were in full temple-going mode--vibrant silk saris and gem-studded jewelry and... were taking turns standing on a grate. Mom was so embarrassed to see me, but managed to hug me tight and whisper that I shouldn't tell anyone.
Both dreams were dotted with apocalyptic climate change motifs--rising seas, shimmering heat, crop failures--I blame the eco-criticism-ecofeminism class.
_
The night before that, I dreamt of huge temple festival crowds. And among them, I found my mother with her friends. They were in full temple-going mode--vibrant silk saris and gem-studded jewelry and... were taking turns standing on a grate. Mom was so embarrassed to see me, but managed to hug me tight and whisper that I shouldn't tell anyone.
Both dreams were dotted with apocalyptic climate change motifs--rising seas, shimmering heat, crop failures--I blame the eco-criticism-ecofeminism class.
Is This Land is Your Land?
Environment and Culture in the Anthropocene
ENG 180/WGS 280
_
Thursday, October 05, 2017
Thursday, September 08, 2016
The Ladies Finger
Don't know how I first came across it, but I love this blogzine--irreverent, honest, charming, and pathbreaking. It seems to be written and produced in India, but it's a great read for anyone with transnational feminist sensibilities.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Monday, February 09, 2015
Tuesday, February 03, 2015
Wednesday, January 07, 2015
A Third Coast
On the brine of memory
the ink of veins marks spots
It is a storm of forgetting;
at each sob, she jettisons
Parents as they were, embraces
in sorrow how they now are
sweeps it all into feeling
grabbing and flailing even so
_
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