GALLANT

(for Li’l A)

Vibrant silence
in temple bells,
innocent spaces
breaking laughter,
calm____openings
between words,

Are
sudden
hidden
altars too,
to happiness.
Like you,


the devotion
of abundant
jabber,
the conviction
of fervent
hugs.

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Guardian headline edumacates

So... this is the headline: Best of the Booker pits Rushdie against 40 pretenders.

And I’m thinking, despite my painfully patently obvious Rushdie lurvve, that to call other winners of the Booker--writers of the caliber of Gordimer, Atwood, Ishiguro, Okri, McEwan, etc. etc. “pretenders” is a bit much.* Because in my head, it sounds derogatory--pretension, being pretentious, ergo pretenders. Turns out that of the three meanings to “pretender” one implies no derogation at all. (Although I always thought a pretender to the throne was a claimant with no bona fide right to it.)

Ok.

Also, I’m wondering: Decided by the public? How? Pop-Idol-style voteoffs?

___________________

*Although I’ll happily agree that Yann Martel of the unduly celebrated Life of Pi is is is a pretender.

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WE SPY

(for Baby A)

Moon is swallowed in the sky
Something ends everyday
That we desire to cry,
Spend sad, in delay.

Moon is swallowed in the sky
Plenty can begin today
Like you and I (and I),
Satisfied to say:

Moon is swallowed in the sky
My love, yet survives alive--
And bright while we sigh,
Goodnight, bye-bye.

__________________________

Links:
We Spy

Moon is swallowed in the sky


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LITTLE POET

You twist
words.
Don’t.
They said.

Her eyes edge
sideways
then mutiny.
She likes

the sounds of
words bullied,
teased into
torture,

banged
twisted
Chinese-
bangled.

She likes
Lying--sorry--
lAying them
on the floor

pretzeled
giggling
twining
Twister-ed

and coiling
twirling
them
in lassos,

like garlands
(see that?)
ensnaring
tangles.

Likes screwing
truth, so tight
it parts in
ecstatic rupture

into sighs
further words
that shoot
quake and carom

and she calls,
collects them
all
to balance

like showy beads
showing
her lip,
on tip of tongue.

Blowing
spit bubbles?
Don’t.
They said.

(Perhaps)

_

Jodhaa Akbar

Yes, there’s a movie of that name that’s just been released, but more imp-ly there’s new short fiction by Rushdie in the New Yorker.

The movie trailer is full of beautiful people, sumptuous jewelery,* spectacular scenes and still feels insipid as recycled paper. (And I’m aware that director Gowariker is highly regarded for Lagaan—but apart from a few playful scenes, most of that movie’s chest-thumping didn’t impress either.)

Now Rushdie’s story, on the other hand, brimming with trademark impishness and characteristically diagrammatic characters reminds me of why I used to lurve him so much. Here’s a nibble:

The mud city loved its Emperor, it insisted that it did, insisted without words, for words were made of that forbidden fabric, sound. When the Emperor set forth once more on his campaigns—his never-ending (though always victorious) battles against the armies of Gujarat and Rajasthan, of Kabul and Kashmir—then the prison of silence was unlocked, and trumpets burst out, and cheers, and people were finally able to tell one another everything they had been obliged to keep unsaid for months on end: I love you. My mother is dead. Your soup tastes good. If you do not pay me the money you owe me, I will break your arms at the elbows. My darling, I love you, too. Everything.

________________

* I could really spend all day looking at the jewelery. Also in related news, my birthday’s coming.

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Adventures in breastfeeding (III)

Baby A is strangely big for a breastfed baby. Actually she’s practically falling off the height and weight charts and I guess that makes her big for her age whether bottle or breast fed. But she’s so tiny compared to us and not particularly chubby cheeked (she carries most of her weight in what her pediatrician calls her “meaty thighs” ) that it's easy to forget. So far she’s been exclusively breastfed--exclusively i.e. other than the daily vitamin drops we remember to give her once every fifteen-or-so days and the splashes of bathwater that she slurps up at bath time and the night that Big A and I were fighting so hard that my body seemed to forget that there was a baby I was supposed to be making milk for.

If you can’t tell, I really enjoyed breastfeeding Baby A--she has an awesome latch, is an eager nurser, and got progressively snugglier. Also, I’m proud of how baby and I did a good job. Especially since much of what the lactation consultant suggested at the hospital didn’t seem right to me. Use a Boppy pillow to nurse? No, thank you, we like snuggling. Football hold? Uhh, I want a natural embrace.

So now that she’s four months old and has significant spit-up, the pediatrician would like us to introduce solids. And it’s so strange because I loved, loved, enjoyed, loved breastfeeding her, but I’m so relieved not to be her only source of sustenance any longer.

_

Write Green Right

A six-word memoir contest from Smith Magazine and Treehugger.com:

Got a swell philosophy? Traveled a strange path? Fall off the eco-wagon often? Lay your tiny tale on us…

I like these:

· Future grandchildren, I'm so sorry.

· Take only one napkin not ten

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