Poetry: V. Ramsamooj Gosine

V. Ramsamooj Gosine

Emerging New People

It was a community of new people

The emerging upper class

Of an emerging nation

Who carved out lands

Planted new houses.

And hired help, unskilled

 Who arrived in truck loads

Sitting meekly like wet toads

And built fences and strong iron gates

And it was safe even with alsation dogs

And very few mongrels around

Rejected for being one step lower

Now roaming in search of garbage food

Placed unprotected by the roadside

The helper in English-nurse uniform

 Left the child unattended

Another chore to complete

Who swiftly made her way to the kitchen

And the child four years from birth

Clearly ambitious, so it was said,

Had climbed the strong gates

Up above, just under brooding clouds

Vultures foretelling of a future

Danced a black dance

Before the gate crumbled

Soundlessly, so the maid said

And the alsations sprinted  

Lapped pure blood

The maid still preoccupied in the kitchen

The mongrels outside seeing

Barking, running along the fence

Unable to rescue

Declining Oil Prices

There was a bit of confusion

When the oil price tumbled

Budgets were thrown aside

There was a hurt and a pain

But clearly puzzled

For no one foresaw tomorrow

Somewhere beneath the rocks

A pink flower slid through the cracks

Almost an invisible one

No one saw imagined it existed

But it was there for searching eyes

Eyes though that had ceased searching

Oh little flower, Oh little flower

Who’ll buy you now? the florist said

Our floating money has gone

Dwindled into declining prices

I am not for sale, the flower mused

Has never been

I am nature

I come and go

Appear everywhere

In every form

I am a spirit you don’t see

My beauty intangible

You know not what you have

For you are the blind rich

Caught in the world of purchasing

And the birds flew and saluted the flower

And the water sloped its way to the plains

And the flowering trees lined the river banks

And all waved at the smiling air

But the oil prices kept tumbling

And everyone remained sad.

Fear crippling their unthinking minds

For they know not what they have

A Chronicle of a Price to Pay

The distress call came at dark four

Not meant for Ronald but was shot

A price to pay

Raymond, his twin look alike

Discovered Ronald on the grass

Spread-eagled red flowing

He walked past his mother

Past the brown parcel

Filled with yesterday’s sale

He refused to hand over

Raymond had sold well the commodity

Gotten from toilers of the rough seas

Who dodged coast guards

Who fought pirates

It was their business

And they called the shots

Often too fired annihilating shots

Raymond enriched uncontrollable  

Established his own turf

Pocketed refused to yield to men

Who disapproved demanded descended

‘You get your percentage,’ they had said.

‘We want ours.’

Two weeks ago reported in the press

South American beheaded a disobedient

For establishing his own kingdom

Much to their disgust

  

Still walking past his mother

He could not tell her

No. He couldn’t.

But the exchange was there

And he would soon go too

He saw himself lying in his brother’s place

He not his innocent the intended target

A bitter price to pay

The Door

On hungry days I had been there 

And had not seen the door.

Which had been there I am sure

I had passed through it many times,

In and out stopping to speak to someone

Now firmly locked a commotion outside

No food today. I would have to seek elsewhere.

Indistinctly I saw a baby boy, perhaps three

Robin, I was told later, was his name

Was looking around scared

Forgotten by his caring parents

Discovered missing on reaching home

And so had raced through the midday traffic

Never an easy thing to do

The workers busy tidying up the place

Heard no one call beat the glass windows

Where Robin remained screaming

The word, baby, played on the parents’ minds

For they had gone through many a trying time

The Gods had not favoured their conceiving attempts

And here the successful issue was trapped

Perhaps die from anxiety was their conclusion

But the door was important to all

A symbol of accessing and denying

Always there was a door

That we saw and never understood

Except when our dreams were being shattered

It was sad they told the police what had happened

They were very caring parents, they confessed

And he was their only child, they confessed

They weren’t careless, they confessed

And should not be condemned for this one error

Just this one error, they confessed

A momentary lapse in judgment, they had said in defense

Robin alone had wandered off we were told

Humility

In Brentwood Park West

My neighbours were kind to me

More than delighted 

But that noisy workshop next door

Turned out elegant pieces of furniture

Stacked on a platform for all to see

Many saw nobody bought

Skilful Johnny wouldn’t surrender

I felt badly for him

Bought a rabbit hutch outside my range

His one sale for the week

I hailed him out daily

Exchanging pleasantries

He let me in his life his struggle

And I had said, and didn’t regret it

That he should sell to Windsor Town

 That carried wide-ranging furniture

And was pleased a good deed done

But my good deed surfaced his anger

‘I know what I am doing. I know my work.’

Slowly he ceased responding

Seldom now did I see him

Slowly vans came

Trucked away his work

This pattern continued for weeks

One day he bought a truck

To transport his own furniture

I saw him progress

I felt good for him

His struggle had ended

I continued to wait to hail him

To congratulate him

But our meeting  place remained empty

One day I too ceased looking out

Johnny continued to grow

Now a sign on his doorway welcomed you

I felt so good for him

 And took the courage to walk into his business

‘Oh sir,’ his secretary said. ‘You need an appointment.’

‘I live next door. I know him.’

‘Still you need an appointment.’

I pretended then I wanted something made

Hoping this would do the trick.

‘Sorry, sir. Mr. Johnny takes only big orders.’

Setu, March 2018