IN HAMLET’S NAME
so much sorrow, he says
breaking into light
Ophelia becomes a drenched red leaf in
memory of rivers
flowing into her mouth
moon is a woman
opening into heart of forest
this night
holding anvil and bow,
she lives in Hamlet
a familiar bird’s throaty song ascends valley
afar from home
becoming profound aloofness
in a teacup,
spreading caramel tongue
strange creatures of thought carry her bier
whiff of damp earth in
breath
bird calls, shiuli flowers
elsewhere on stove tops
whistles,
carousel of day
hunched in raincoat
her swollen womb
gestating his seeds
of poetry
sun, smeared in
venom of Hamlet’s name
turns
and twists
so much sorrow, he says
HOW WOMEN BECOME POEMS IN OUR TOWN
tucked away on that road turning seaward
convenience store with grant back rights
sold everything between
comic books on string and betel nut
a whirring wall fan, powered mixer
brimming with mango pulp
on a prejudiced noon of fresh lime soda
we stood in front of candy jars –
doe eyed girl and me
her mother went out with strange men
at night without alibis, town rumoured,
her father lay slow churning in his alcohol vomit
we stood in front of candy jars –
doe eyed girl and me
I (mute) pretended busy counting caramel flavoured
toffee
my shoelaces had come undone
‘Father is a teetotaller’- announces a customer
wide grinned
she blanches, but smiles any way
chasing flies resting on her bare feet
voiceless seldom have choice
men stared in strange ways
in our old town
many years later I learn
the doe eyed girl eloped with a mule driver
her mother- whom I mostly saw stricken,
pale under harsh sun, pool of grief in eyes,
limp brown drape with white flowers
she died abrupt, of a broken heart
women live and die
becoming poems in our coastal town
Congratulations on these poems. I especially admire the second which I found very moving, but both drew me in. (Incidentally I notice you were published, among many journals, in The Wagon Magazine; I was too; sad that it became defunct when it’s dedicated founder died).
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