Poetry: Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Vaccination Date 

Love,

How long has it been

since we went on a date?

You said you couldn’t remember.

But yesterday,

walking hand in hand

in downtown Calgary

You smiled when I said it felt like a date,

Only our destination The Immunization Clinic

was different, yet felt just as romantic

as walking along Worli Seaface in Bombay

All those years ago,

Destination, Shobha Bhelpuri Restaurant.

I hope you felt the same way

somewhere deep down

In your heart.

 

You did say I looked nice

just before we left

for the vaccination date!

Later, you changed ‘nice’ to ‘lovely’.

I remember how I loved ‘lovely’

The way you said it.

We’re going again for our second shot

Together, hand in hand

On another vaccination date.

Vaccinations can come with unexpected blessings!

*‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven’.

*The quotation is from Milton’s Paradise Lost

 Pandemic Closet Cleaning 

So many voices tell you

How to survive the Pandemic

How to ride the wave

That’s drowning all of us

Sans exception.

Inner voices speaking messages of hope

Cannot be ignored.

’Clean the closet, organize the closet’

Like the chorus line, a repetitive refrain,

I feel I must respond to the call.

Time seems elastic, stretching endlessly

Like a shore line.

 

I open the closet, close it again

The pandemic is synonymous with procrastination

The desire to clean and downsize is numbed.

The chorus chants, ‘Do it now, you have so much time’.

 

But love, do you remember

The white *Salwar Kameez with the gold buttons

With the sheer diaphanous gold colored *chunni

The one that is forty-two years old?

I cannot bring myself to give that one away

No matter how good the intention to clean.

Remember, how we got off the bus, hand in hand,

as it turned the corner.

The sign SALE, caught your eye,

It was an exhibition of Indian outfits

Picking out the white and gold one

You said, ‘This will look good on you.’

 

Words like that in my memory

Fresh as the soft touch of the fabric

From all those years ago

Fusing memory, dream and desire.

*chunni is a long scarf worn by South Asian women.

 

Soup Prayer

Lord,

Daily conversation with you is great

What I really want though

Is to invite you to my home for a meal.

Sweet corn and chicken soup is on the menu,

It’s my son’s favorite

He’s away for work,

Do drop by and surprise us

No appointment needed.

The soup bowls are pretty too

And I promise you good company

As always.

 

Advance booking is also not necessary.

This is not the first time

I have sent you an invitation

Do you recall when I looked heavenward

Wishing you were at the table

In *Duke’s Cuisine in Bombay

Where they served the best

Sweet Corn and Chicken soup?

Come quickly Lord

I know you won’t disappoint me.

*Duke’s Cuisine was a Chinese Restaurant in Bombay that we loved.

 

 

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca was born and raised in a Jewish family in Mumbai. Her first book of poems, 'Family Sunday and other poems', was published in 1989. with a second edition in 1990. Her poem, 'How to light up a poem', has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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Setu, April 2021 :: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire

Setu, May 2021

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Setu

Volume 5; Issue 12; May 2021

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Setu PDF Archives

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Editorial

• Sunil Sharma

Poetry: New Voices

• Garima Behura
• Monobina Nath
• Snehal Khandekar

Conversation Literary

• Lopa Banerjee and Chaitali Sengupta

Aphorism

• Ethan Goffman

Photo Essay

• Piku Chowdhury

Heroes of the Pandemic

• Subhash Chandra

Poetry in Translation

• Mandakini Bhattacherya and Michael R. Burch

Author of the Month

• Nathan Anderson

Short Fiction / Flash / Micro

• James Bates
• Ethan Goffman
• Nilamadhab Kar
• Subhash Chandra
• K.S. Subramanian
• Kanwar Dinesh Singh

Serial novel: Conclusion

• Sunil Sharma: Minotaur: Afterword

Setu Initiative: Setu Series of Virtual Readings

• Prose and Poetry Readings in the Time of Pestilence (Setu's Facebook Page)

Collaborations: Visual and Text Interface

• Gopal Lahiri and Sunil Sharma

Book Review

• Nishi Pulugurtha: Homing Pigeons and sundry stuff by Naina Dey
• Gopal Lahiri: Hymn to Trees and Rise from Your Ashes by Sangeeta Gupta

The Telugu Tableau through Translation: Special Feature

• Atreya Sarma Uppaluri

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Special Edition: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire

Guest Editor: Jaydeep Sarangi

• Guest Editor's Note: Jaydeep Sarangi
• Setu Special Edition: Featured Authors

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सेतु, मई 2021

Setu Home - Past Issues

Guest Editor’s Note: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire

Jaydeep Sarangi

We contemplate our thoughts just beyond the boundary of breaking waves on the shore. An endless symmetry stands before us. The ocean with its crash and calm takes any and all forms in front of us. Yet though it morphs its shape, its nature always remains. Questioning remains an integral part of the technique of introspection, a search within. It has much to do with the fundamental principle called. “I am this / that.” The question appears in different contexts differently and come couched in different words. The route is never linear. But the essence is the quest for self knowledge and journeying through the rhythm of the mind.

Our mind is a mysterious empire with different shades and slopes. It establishes, connects, disconnects, builds, un builds, remakes at will as per its own logic. However, powerful though the mind is, it knows not entirely its geography and stands both awestruck and challenged by its own unfathomed depths. “Where does a thought go when it's forgotten?” asks Freud. It would be a difficult question to answer but as artists, we know that no thought is ever lost and consciously or unconsciously, it enters the creative process and animates it with its potency. This special issue on 'Icebergs in the Mind' invites submissions that illuminate this complex process of creation whereby dream, desire and memory all fuse together to produce writing that illuminates the less-explored margins of our understanding.

“Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire” is the broad theme for this issue of SETU. We were flooded with submissions. All submissions we read and re read. We are sorry, we couldn’t publish all submissions. Unpublished submissions are now free for submission elsewhere. They will rain all those places happily.

Nostalgia and memory constitute a significant part of constructive narrative of the mind. Nostalgia is going back through memory and recollection. Memory is the seat of consolidated subconscious desire to return to an earlier life stage. Desire is associated with a set of complex mental states. It is not definite in scope and trajectory. Surface behavior is a filtered version of raw designs and workings in the levels of the mind. Going deep into the mind is harvesting faith in the dark chamber of unknown links and delinks. At times, authors are engrossed with deep meditations on subjective truths.

Literature and mind go hand in hand. However, the focus in this issue has been to come forward with literature that mirrors the mind itself. How does the mind look at itself and the empires it embraces? How does language configure the moods and tempo of the mind? What are the points of contact and where does the terrain go entirely faraway and unmapped. Our habits often overlook an emotional space we owe. Familiar gestures lead to questions and exclamations. These are questions this issue of SETU asks and to some extent, answers. The doubts remain shredding our mind, graphic. Writers from different backgrounds and geographical locations have enriched this special issue with different placates, genres and techniques.

I thank all esteemed contributors for making this issue a home, all its own. The plate before us is full of interest, lively and exciting. My humble submission to the subcontinent monsoon God for raining heavily. Jhargram wears the spirit of fresh green! Rain wet birds are shouting, “Healing, Healing!”

 Let us embrace its spirit…. 

Jaydeep Sarangi

Setu Guest Editor, May 2021

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Flash Fiction:
Featured Authors

Poems Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca Emilie Collyer Basudhara Roy Jharna Choudhury Bashabi Fraser Azsacra Zarathustra Mandakini Pachauri Jayanthi Manoj G. Akila Sushmindarjeet Kaur Smita Agarwal Stefan Bohdan Mini Babu Zinia Mitra Srijani Dutta Sanghita Sanyal Sigma Sathish Sarah Rauch Tajmim Eti L S Rathore Bitika Paul Gayelene Carbis

Poems Radia Al Rashid Robert Maddox-Harle Nithya Mariam John Jaydeep Sarangi Stories Lakshmi Kannan Ashok Kumar Dash Sangeeta Banerjee Flash Narrative Gayatri Majumdar Articles Akankha Basu Roy and Radhika Biswas Neenu Kumar Memoire Soniya Amritlal Patel Book Review Rob Harle

Setu, May 2021

Poetry: Jaydeep Sarangi

Jaydeep Sarangi

Door of Faith

We listened to a nightingale singing

Crows making noises

We talked about the rivers

Chores of daily domestic works

Washing, cleaning, cooking and mopping.

 

We wrap moods of distances

Delayed wishes arrive

No call is the day, no willingness

Frayed, rusted for daily usage

 

I wait. I Wait. I can only wait

A powerful role

Is of no power through this distance

Probably, my name has no name there

A name like Sankar, Kumar and Saheb.

 

I can’t make you smile

I can’t make you happy

I can’t sleep or drink unless you smile

You have space

I shall never be on your back as

Someone chasing you.

 

I know I can count moment’s onward march

Only by waiting

My delays are unsaid

Breakfasts have no taste

I take as they are to be taken

 

Delayed and delayed

No show to the world

How you are hurt, unnerved.

Whom to share with?

All sharing was with someone

A silent door.

 

May be I was her reason

To be silent. I send

Apologies by the wand of magic

Of faith, gaping sentiments

How we bathed in all these days

Together after a spell of good rain.

 

Here are my soft lines, two mirroring

Ideas in many ways, in form

Not aware of scars

To our buoyant door of faith.

***

 

Jaydeep Sarangi is a widely anthologized bilingual poet with nine collections in English latest being Heart Raining the Light (2020) released in Rome. Sarangi has read his poems in different shores of the globe. His later readings and talks on poetry were at Flinders University, University of Western Australia, University of South Australia, University of Wollongong, Perth Poetry Club (Australia), University of Udine (Italy)and University of Rezeszow (Poland). Sarangi is on the editorial boards of different journals featuring poetry and articles on poetry like Mascara Literary Review, Transnational Literature (Australia), Setu (USA), Geetanjali and Beyond (Scotland) Teesta, WEC(India). He has seven critical books on poetry and edited special issues on poetry for reputed journals in India and abroad. With Prof. Amelia Walker (University of South Australia) he has guest edited a special volume for TEXT(Australia). Sarangi is known as a ‘bard on the banks of Dulung’ for poems and literary sensibilities for/on the river Dulung and its nearby places. Among his recent awards, the Setu Award of Excellence for 2019 (USA), SUFI AWARD for Indian English Literature (2020) and Iconic Principal Award (2021). He is a professor of English and principal at New Alipore College, Kolkata. Website: jaydeepsarangi.in

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Setu, April 2021 :: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire

Poetry: Gayelene Carbis

The Bride Who Became Frightened When She Saw Life Opened

After the painting “The Bride Frightened at Seeing Life Opened” by Frida Kahlo

 

She hasn’t read a book in seven years

he doesn’t like the light on

if she gets in before him he says nothing

she could read all night

but the thing is he’s in bed by nine

every night every night she has

something to do she folds their washing

in three piles on the kitchen bench and once

he’s passing through and it’s on his way

so she asks him to take one pile

the kids’ clothes put them on the bed

that’s all she asks he wouldn’t have to open

a cupboard or a drawer

but he refuses another time

she’s peeling potatoes and stacking dishes

and showing Sonya how to tie a shoelace

in a double-knot she asks him to take the rubbish

out but he says no why should he?

she’s closer to the door and she says

for the first time ever about anybody

I hate you to the window

as if she’s talking to herself or talking

about the weather and she goes back

to peeling the potatoes.

***

 

 

The Day You Left

 

There were dreams last night

                           and you were not in them.

 

I watched your ship as it moved so slowly.

 

And stood on the shore

                           as if I was safe.

 

The moon became only a mention, a speck.

 

The ocean was dark

                           and so still.

 

There was nothing there, just this

                           blank silence.

 

The night was not warm.

 

I pulled my coat tighter.

 

Thought about going home,

                           the key in the lock.

 

Putting the heater on.

 

Saw the house in my head

                           as it waited for me.

 

Our singing group would be half-over

                           by the time I got there.

 

If I went.

 

And then, the absence

                           of the ship.

 

And I thought

                           now I understand.

 

But it felt too late.

 

Your poetry went with you

                           and I don’t mean your books.

 

I arrived just before tea-break.

 

I remember them surrounding me,

                           like a circle, as I stumbled in

                           telling them                                                            

                           he's gone.

 

I really believed that night

                           singing would save me.

 

But what I remember is

                           all the faces turning to see me

 when I stood at the door

                                                   

hesitating, the deep breath I took

                           before I launched into

 

                           the outstretched arms,

 

the bright warm hum                  

                           of the room.

***

THE BAKER’S DAUGHTER

 

I flow downstream, north-mad, beneath

the netherworld of dreams: not air, but sea

and stream and creek: a kind of death wrought

from the kin of love: in theatres world over,

your iambic flourishes cast me astrew: impresario

and scholar, you make literal the shadows:

too mindful, we die to our truer selves, calling father!

But the fathers, all air, walk as ghosts over the grave ground.

***

Gayelene Carbis is an award-winning Melbourne writer of poetry, prose and plays. Her first book of poetry, Anecdotal Evidence (Five Islands Press) was awarded Finalist - International Book Awards, 2019. Gayelene recently won the My Brother Jack Poetry Award, and was a Finalist in Bruce Dawe and Woorilla Poetry Prizes.

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Setu, April 2021 :: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire

Poetry: Nithya Mariam John

Nithya Mariam John

Cursive Memories

 

Sunny leaves,

twisted in the hot air…

 

Poetry is pain,

 

I sighed.

 

A bubble of laughter shoot over my scribbling hand.

My four-year-old child metamorphosed into squeals and peals of laughter!

At my quizzical eyebrows,

she darted the sweetest of her smiles, and said,

“The ‘f’looks like you bending over to kiss me”.

 

An avalanche of memories-

 Strokes.

 Slanting lines. Sleeping lines.

            Slate. Chalk. Scribbling. Shapes. Pencils. Eraser. Cursive Writing.

Sharpener. Ruler. Pens. Red ink. “Illegible”. 250 pages of four-line-books.

“Practice hand!” The art of hand. The master’s moustache twitching slightly. Cane on the

t

            a

                        b

                                    l

                                                e……………………………….

 

……………………………………………………………………….melted all over me,

like a long evening dissolve in the sunset,

and slowly fade into a moony night.

 

My pre-school daughter fell into my arms laughing,

still laughing…

***

 

Nithya Mariam John is a teacher, poet, editor, translator and critic who has published three collections of poems and an anthology. Her works have appeared in Kendra Sahitya Akademi's Journal of Indian Literature, Malayalam Literature Survey, Muse India, Indian Ruminations and Samyuktha Poetry. She was happy to podcast eight episodes titled ‘Torn Pages of a Diary' during the pandemic year 2020. She pens her random thoughts on her blog, Mizhi (nmjs.in). email: nithyamariam@gmail.com

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Setu, April 2021 :: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire

Poetry: Robert Maddox-Harle

Rob Harle

Diary Entry

 (from the memoirs of Sebastian Smith)

 

Today i realised i was still alive

the white-coats took me for a walk,

scents of the earth

early flowers and spring buds smiled,

neatly tended hospital grounds

how much i'd missed - did it matter?

drugged, strapped down, electrocuted

incessant blurred nightmare.

 

today i realised i was still alive.

the future?

memories, fragments of memories

deep-sleep clearing,

bits of someone's life – mine i guess,

was it a year since i was labelled Mad?

birds chirped and danced

darting behind happy hyacinths,

puffy clouds looked down - watching me,

would he falter?

the white-coats chatted at a distance

voices, memories of voices

but: No voices, No voices

Oh wondrous day - calm day.

i was tiring

i sat under a huge velvet fig tree

my body, i still had a body

imagine that, a body that felt.

outside the hospital walls, life was moving

cars in the distance, hummed

imagine that, to drive a car

fast - speeding along.

***

 

Masks

 

This mask you wear today

cultivated

finely honed in light,

hours spent preening the reflection

mirror's lights

and mirror's gaze

to impress,

to bolster sagging confidence

dragged downwards slowly.

 

And yesterday's mask,

washed away

perhaps thrown in a corner

to decay like memories,

like childhood fantasies,

the puppets and the plays

have long since gathered dust.

 

What of tomorrow's mask?

Sleek, fashionable, fresh

projecting deep desires,

cool reflections

of grandiose games

or sighs of insecurity.

 

When your pantomime is played

and the final mask is made

What will be your next disguise?

***

 

 

Chthonian Vaults

 

Androgyny rises swollen and ripe

tempting, it caresses your mind easily

like the taste of melting chocolate,

a transformation of mental images

collected from past encounters

rounded, sensuous, piercing

gradually heat your inner core.

To become yin and yang

without sacrifice or scar,

to survive the boredom of mediocrity

you grow wings like Icarus,

only shrewd, you soar towards Pluto.

A journey of passion and provocation

to the deepest realms of nature's womb

where every move treads a razor's edge,

and blood and semen flow together

as archetypes yield their secrets.

Far from the purity of whiteness,

the glaring brightness of the Sun

you play in chthonian vaults of darkness,

moving forward with profane purpose

transcending synthetic moral pretense

the freedom you desire seems close.

Fly dangerously young hermaphrodite,

explore every chance with craving

swallow life with your voracious tongue

and consummate your destiny

in a ritual of solipsistic rapture.

***

 

Whore and Nun

 

the façade has split

is peeling

as the pupae eats your thoughts

cast from last year’s butterfly

has turned to evil's deeds.

hurtling through the tortured caverns

opening rigid darkened doors

'til exposed and naked

the final passion falls

and the moon casts splintered shadows

on the face of nun and whore.

"I'm not like that you rage,"

a hollow cry

for all to hear is false,

as whore and nun go dancing

down the highway of your psyche.

"Let's try this tango one more time"

where whore discards desire

where nun discards the habit

where both are mortal strangers

'til the lights go out at night.

***

 

 

 

Looking Towards Infinity

 

Draped in confusion I look towards infinity

listening I suffer the inevitability of isolation,

the whiteness of sacred flesh

mocks my feeble efforts

as the tired pages fall back to sleep.

 

Lost in the righteousness of abstraction

I charge mercilessly into the music,

the blackness of unanswered questions

mocks my feeble efforts

as the fools sing the Laws of Karma.

 

Drowned in the discord of smouldering wine

I court the winged messenger of fate,

the emptiness of unattended dreams

mocks my feeble efforts

as my mind drifts slowly away from its hinge.

 

And then a flash of hope ascends

I've foiled the arrows of the Philistines

the clarity of inspiration

mocks my feeble efforts

as I realise the answer lies beyond infinity

in a realm that few minds dare imagine.

***

 

 

Rob Harle is a poet, artist and reviewer. His work is published in journals, anthologies, online, and in books. He is on the editorial board of a number of international art and literary journals including Leonardo. His work concerns the technoMetamorphosis of humanity.

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Setu, April 2021 :: Icebergs in the Mind: Memory, Dream and Desire