EVENING

and the evening ibis floats
graceful peaceful
with contented wing-stroke
on a gentle evening wind
heading home to nest to rest
from another day’s foraging

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

A FROSTY CHRISTMAS

(for Master LeRoy Clarke, prince, poet, painter, philosopher, patriarch,
photographs of whose paintings adorned the walls of my room in 1970)

I spent a Frosty Christmas
In my warm December tropics;
Robert, Pinsky, Browning, Burns and others
I read on poetic, philosophic topics.

The uncaged birds they ate my banana
And sang their freedom song;
I swear I heard the sonorous voice of Maya
Say, “Freedom is an onerous illusion.”

That man, like D. H. Lawrence,
Be doomed to condemnation;
The beast among the birds and flowers
(A rose by any other name’s a thorn?)

I surfed the wondrous worldwide web
In search of Walcott, LeRoi and roots;
I got the Jones and the Laureate herb
But found no Clarke except the boots.

The uncaged birds they ate my banana
Then bruised their heads on window glass;
They came in through the open door
But departing could not find the pass.

I spent my Christmas money,
All, on Kipling, Keats and Yeats;
A solace to my lonely, my only
Feasts were served on meditative plates.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

BLACK SISTER

black sister black sister
beautiful black sister
let me savour the sweetness
of your blackness the sensuous
nature of your black soul
let me ride the mental subways
of your chocolate city
home to your heavenly body
and at the end of the day
after bath and banquet table-
lay light a pink candle
to massage the aching night
with your purple passion
in a blue-negligeed bedroom

of my venetian fantasy

black sister black sister
booty-full black sister
make me a bouquet
of your blood-red rose
let me sip and savour all night
the bouquet of your red red wine
drunken me and drown me
in the musky music
of your primal pleasure
and in the tropic
of your midnight heat
let me drink deeply the flavour
of sun-ripe purple fruit
taste your succulent plump berries

bursting with sensual juices

black sister black sister
bountiful black sister
let me touch the swollen buds
of emotional awakening
of nocturnal orchid opening
and when the morning mist rises
like wild amazonian jungles
from pillars of your thick brown thighs
let me climb and explore
your high hillocks
tremblingly groping to the top
among wet clouds of raining love
descending deep canyons and caverns
the deep dark valleys of your soul
until like mysterious waterfalls
or oysters with hidden pearls

your deep dark secrets unfold

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

PHOOLAN DEVI (ELEGY FOR A DRAVIDIAN PRINCESS)

Phoolan Devi, I cry for you,
millions of Dalit maidens too;

oh Bandit Queen, Rebel of the Ravines,
may the scales of justice absolve your sins.

Oh Diva of Durga, Dacoit
leader, you swooped with heart so stout,

swooped on the Thakur, avenging angel,
and sent their upper caste souls straight to hell.

We mourn your loss, young life cut short
by bigotry you fearless fought;

from the Ravines to India’s Parliament
let all her oppressed echo your lament.

You died with pride in New Delhi
in your yard under a neem tree

far from mud huts on banks of Yamuna
River which flows through Gorha Ka Purwa.

Your noble soul from Dalit flesh,
an egret, to Uttar Pradesh

returned on wings of the wind to a hut,
humble home, where your navel string was cut;

the hut from where at tender ten
you were traded by evil men,

by Maiyadin, for the cost of a cow,
to marriage abuse the law allowed.

Even then your daring was great,
you walked out of that old man’s gate,

hundreds of lonely miles, back to your hut –
your mother in shame accepted you not;

with Dravidian pathetic pride,
the one way out was suicide

so she told you to go jump in the well;
you cast out outcast lore – said go to hell.

Instead you graciously cut grass
and gave your buffalo to graze

for the buffalo was your only friend –
although you held congress with many men;

and stubborn as your buffalo,
at Maiyadin insults you threw

till one fateful day in a fit of rage
your cousin resolved to break your courage,

to clip your wing once and for all
by engineering your downfall;

with Police friends the ignominious gnome
got you arrested for breaking his home

and perpetrating sad outrage
the rats on you took advantage –

for one month in a cell of no escape,
subjected to hell of beatings and rape,

victim of their sadistic game,
sated themselves to their own shame

and though on you inflicted twisted thrill
could hardly daunt indomitable will.

Broken rag doll on dirty floor,
their perverse torture did endure;

you whimpered, suffered and silently swore
stony resilience would wax even more,

swore allegiance to resistance
to battle against circumstance;

thence the seed of struggle already sown
burst the earth to surface later full-blown.

July, nineteen seventy-nine
for you was the end of the line,

came the Monsoon with foul raging water
of Babu Gujar, ‘twas the final straw

when again you were subjected
to injustice that blew the lid –

the notoriously feared Dacoit leader
abducted, subjected you to another

sordid episode of beatings
and rape to satisfy cravings,

sick cravings for lust, power and abuse –
three days your body and your soul he bruised

till his worthless life was ended
when his lieutenant shot him dead,

Vikram Mallah shot him dead and captured
your heart, retrieving your life enraptured.

He taught you to love and to sing,
he taught you to shoot and to kill;

to be not just a Bhagi co-leader
but later a fearless freedom fighter.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance

SNAIL PACE

If you stand
in one place
long enough

moving snail
at snail pace
will pass you.

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

PLANTING

there is something sensual
and earthy about planting
clearing scrub and grasses

forking mulching squatting
getting fingers dirty
opening holes

in dark-brown soil
carefully inserting
seeds and plant parts

covering watering
tending back bending
hunched over hoe handle

sweating fertilizing
spraying day after day
ogling healthy green growth

waiting waiting waiting
and in the end plucking
fondling handling ripe fruits

tasting savouring sweet juice
and tangy flavour
of loving labour

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

ADAMANT

Eve
adamant
it was a damn
ant

told her secret
to Adam
miserable little insect
envious of the serpent

its breathtaking scaly beauty and its length
meddling little insect
unwanted little insect
uninvited little insect

busybody little insect
always in the middle
of other people’s business
irritating little insect

always getting into places
causing grimaces on faces
not of pleasure
but of pain and discomfort

the serpent on the other hand
when he stings
discharges so much venom
causes death or delirium

Copyright ©2008 by G. Newton V. Chance

SOMETHING FELL, I KNOW NOT WHAT

Something fell, I know not what,
a feeling came over me;
it floated gently down to earth
like leaves or flowers from a tree.

When poui blossoms pave earth’s floor,
oh what a sight it is to see;
such splendour has not half the awe
as the spell that fell on me.

Nor deciduous cedars, after moulting
and sprouting first fragrant buds of beauty,
has not in new foliage of spring
the aura that surrounds me.

It fell and spread, not with a thud
but with an air of mystery;
radiant as light, soft as a cloud,
like a nimbus over me.

I asked my Muse, my Muse arcane,
grant sweetness to my poetry;
perhaps ‘twas inspiration’s rain
that fell and gently watered me.

Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance