Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

Insight Out of Sight

Whom have I pleased the most?
Those farthest from me except for those who know me not at all though I have made many such happy too, despite their not knowing me

Whom have I annoyed even hurt the most? Those closest to me. Why would others bother? Yet I may have hurt many I don’t know, them unknowing me personally, me unknowing or knowing only dimly in exactly how my being what I am doing what I do eating what I eat consuming what I consume by my class function for instance or my way of life.

Which is the real me?
Which the unreal?
Is there a real me?
Is there really a me at all, real or unreal?
Or am I just my own perception of a tiny node of the Great Universe?

Who’s to judge? I myself? Or other self appointed judges? Or Church or State? Or this uncertain entity called God or Soul or whatever? And what is to be the consequence of such judging? More of the same, or the opposite?

Whom do I love that I hate so much?
Whom do I hate that I love so much?
And they, me ?

One may pause to reflect
But will it change things?
Can these things qua things actually be changed at all ever by one person?
By one person’s thoughts?
By a thought?
Some think so
Others disagree

For life must go on
Or at least time will pass
The world will go by
Or come to an end
Inexorably

Exactly what is it that we really can control, if not our own thoughts?
Not even emotions
Not even action
Perhaps not even thoughts
For
From where do thoughts arise?

Think about it
Or not
It’s up to you
It’s up to me
Or is it?

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

THUNDERSTORM PREDICTED

I like thunderstorms
I am like thunder itself these days
Or like a thundercloud
Shot through with electric impulses
Split by rod lightning
Dark yet luminous
Dissolving
Into tears of rain
For no other reason
Than the impulse
Of the season
I do not stop to ask
The why’s  and wherefore’s
Of my actions
Or my being
I am what I am
I do what I do
Like a thunderstorm
I gather, I burst
I dissolve
And then
I am
No more.

O yes!
You can see me
But
You cannot be me

I am either I
Or I am a Thunderstorm

I prefer
Thunderstorm

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

FUJI FROM A KITCHEN CALENDAR 

And I looked, and I thought, can it be? Can I consume time like a beetroot, or consommé ? Is the icon imprisonable in a plasticky print repeated and million times and hung in kitchens where sushi is prepared or maachh - bhaat or in fish and chip shops? Do icons like to be worshipped with vinegar in salt sea air food stalls or eaten with ivory chopsticks in family dining rooms? Is life mine to live? Can a volcano live in ice encased cones like a hot chilli ice cream or will love steal into my heart like a mountain reflected in a still lake? Does a living passion die or can music still explode into war bombs fading slowly like fireflies turning into dull green prickly insects in growing day light?

Morning breaks to unfinished haiku and promised novels when the heart crumbles into butter- biscuits in beige milky tea. Gauche geckos dart back into shadowy retreats with mouthfuls of fat mosquitoes replete with four o’clock warm sleeping human blood, while eyes seek familiar scene-hooks to tether the restless souls lurking in the glinting glass windows.

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes and shoots

SUMMER’S PASSING

Passing summer

Leaves it’s aftertaste

Bittersweet 

Summer’s passing

Into the Monsoons

What a relief!

Summer’s passing

I wake up to rain 

Shivering, cold

The Zero Summer 

Imagined, Seen

Passing, Gone

Summer is passing 

Why am I sad? I see

Death is nearer

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

MIRRORED
(Reflections)

The Infinite Sky
Mirrored in the Ocean
That is Life

The Infinite Sky
Mirrored in the Ocean
The Human Heart

The Infinite Sky
Mirrored in the Ocean
All Consciousness

The Infinite Sky
Mirrored in the Ocean
Spiritus Mundi

The Infinite Sky
Mirrored in the Ocean
God Himself

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

THAT FEELING

That feeling of neglect
That awful suspicion
That you are alone
Isolated on this planet
Full of human beings
All busy with their lives
While you alone are purposeless
Weak, undecided, lost
Utterly without use or meaning
That feeling
That you should exist no more
That you should never have come into being
That feeling, perhaps,
Is the saddest feeling in the world
When you feel rejected
Not by a partner or a friend
Or a few associates or loved ones alone
But by the Universe
God loves you?
Go tell that story to a lollipop sucking toddler
Not to a comprehending adult
Or an old cynic
Nobody cares
Nothing really matters
Accept that: then you have a fair chance
Of staying alive
With gritted teeth
Or resigned indifference

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

FB HUNGER

Sank like a stone
In the Facebook Pond
Left no trace
Behind

Hungry thirsty
Twittering Bird
Chirps -
Will no one
Be kind?

Just a Like
Or Two
Will do
Dear Sir/
Madam
Don’t mind

What!
No comments?
And
No response?
The Poet’s in
A Bind

But then
Consoles
Himself / herself
By saying
They’re all
Blind

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

THE HOUSE OF WAITING 

It’s all dust and old newspapers and books and notebooks

Big folio registers and diaries and files

And outdoor clothes gathering dust in heaps

Never disturbed in years now

Boxes made of steel sheets 

In all shapes and sizes full of old issues of magazines

Bedspreads and blankets and quilts no longer in use

It’s not a dead house but a dying one

There are smells lurking in its corners 

Some dank some sunshiney full of motes

In the air caught in beams of light

From the wide old windows

It’s a shabby tired house, much suited

To slow decay, but proliferating in Calendars 

Showing this month this day today

And clocks showing this hour this minute

With a little variation from the bedroom to the kitchen

From the hall to the prayer room

Food is cooked though, mostly fresh

And there is water and tea and curd and fruit

And sherbets. It waits cheerfully enough

For death and the final disintegration

It may look sad but it is not afraid.

There are flowerless flowerpots by the front door.

Few visit but those who do, do not starve

They go with bellies full. 

The House of Waiting is absent-mindedly 

Sprawlingly, lazily, impersonally kind.

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

IDENTITY

Here is Amita typing a poem on her mobile

The calling of the Name
The Sir, the Madam
Your Honour, Your Lordship
Mama, Papa
Darling, Sweetheart
Honey, Sugar
The Likes, the Hearts
Approvals, Acknowledgments
Recognitions, Titles
Your Name on a Poem
A Book, a house
A Plane or Railway ticket

Slowly, Life tricks you into Identity
I, Me, Ego, Self

It’s a very warm afternoon in June in Patna

You get used to it
My body my mind
My personality
You identify with it all

And then the taking away
Of looks loved ones
Those who called you by name
The strength of the body
The rigour of the mind
Disintegrating
Sight Sound Comprehension
Gone

It’s so hot. I’m not perspiring.

And then one day
Death deals the final blow

The Self disintegrates much much faster
Than it took to build itself up
Sometimes at a single stroke
What’s left, then?

You try to say
A Higher Self

The curtains are drawn against the heat; the ceiling fan whirrs

But it’s not true
The Infinite Everlasting Power
Of Creation, Nurturing and Destruction
Is not a Self of any sort
But the end of Self

What a blow to Ego!
What a thorough deconstruction
Of the formal or essential Self!

Weep if you can
If you can, you’re fortunate
Most Fortunate among the Stones
Dead Stones that cannot weep

I need Mangoes. I must buy Mangoes.
And a Watermelon

Let me begin, here and now
To unravel myself
By detaching at least the most detachable parts of self
To start with

When it comes to the core
It will be more difficult, perhaps,
But who knows?
Let the de-selfing begin

“What did your face look like before your parents were born?”

What is left of existence when there is no identity?

It’s the essence of what we wish to know

Here is Amita posting her poem on the Internet

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

POLONIA PRUFROCK PONTIFICATES
(On Dens and Groupies )

“ I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.”

*****

And good riddance, too, frankly
For they can set up quite a cacophony

No, I am not a Den Mother, nor was meant to be

I am just an Independent-Minded Woman
Used to doing pretty much as I please
Prudent enough to negotiate the World
But keeping movement to the bare minimum
I’m barely able to learn to be Human
In the sense that others suffer from this disease
I walk about my realm with my lips curled
And an expression just this side of being glum
Far from that of Jack Horner who pulled out a plum

At least most of the time, yes much of the time
Now tell me Madam, Sir, is that a crime?

How can I try to be something I am not?
How can I not try ways to stem the rot?
I’m not the kind to hatch intrigue or plot.

I totally revolt against anything the wee-est bit twee

No, I am no Den Mother, and I totally refuse to be

I simply do what I have to do
Though I might let slip a hint or two
But woe to those who’d use me as a tool
I’m not here, for you, to be of use
For myself, not you, I’m meticulous
Why, Groupies, to my hints, are you obtuse?
Do you not know you look ridiculous?
Do you really take me for a Fool?

It’s not without learning that I have grown old
Life taught me many things as the years rolled

So should anyone think they have found a ripe peach
Or that I’ll go for a spin around the beach
Just give yourself one tight slap each

From me , you’ll get nothing that is the wee-est bit twee

*******

Yet I must say this frankly without shame
Emotional Blackmail can’t be let to sail
Although at times it can afford some glee
Let it not encrypt in cell memory
And ruin your character

Coming to personalities, hold your tongue
And think again and again ere you act
It takes no time for refined to turn vulgar
Carefully sort your friends tested and tried
And from the dross separate the true steel
Remember many come just for entertainment
With great luck you may find one true comrade
Beware
Of factions that none gains from being in
Be wary of one, more so of two, and most of three
Beware you do not lose your own true voice
Beware the pressure does not cloud your judgement
Beware when favours you begin to buy
Beware of sacchrine sweetness, greetings gaudy
And deadly as Den Mom is also Don Man
Sitting and waiting at the writing station
It can not look more impressive than that

In short: this is my message, you may heed
Or not, depending on your choice and need:

Neither Den Mother nor a Groupie be
For Den oft loses both itself and band
And jealousy soon destroys the coterie
If your own resolve cannot uphold you
You can’t stand on what others do or say
Depend not on another, Mom or Man
I hope my words will help to set you free!

“ And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character “

******

Isn’t it time someone cleared the air?
It’s suffocating
Pray you undo this button, and so on?

Wherever the female phenomenon is referred to , please add the male version also,
And vice versa

“She then: "Does this refer to me?"
 "Oh no, it is I who am inane."

"You, madam, are the eternal humorist,
The eternal enemy of the absolute,
Giving our vagrant moods the slightest twist!
With your aid indifferent and imperious
At a stroke our mad poetics to confute—"
 And—"Are we then so serious?"

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

THAT IS THE WONDER

How does one Heart bear 🍁so much love, so much fear? 🍁That is the Wonder! 🍁🍁
How can the Beloved be, 🍃so far, and yet so near? 🍁That is the Wonder!

How can any one land be, 🍂violent yet full of beauty?🍂
What we hate is what is dear! 🍁That is the Wonder!🍁🍁

Mists and cloud 🍂the mountains shroud 🍂hanging so heavily
Then sun shines and all is clear! 🍁That is the Wonder!🍁🍁

Saffron blooms, Fruit trees blossom, 🍂On Earth’s old bosom🍂
Nature proclaims Spring is here! 🍁That is the Wonder🍁🍁

Curtains of pollution fall 🍂you can see the Pir Panjal🍂
Air’s now transparent and sheer! 🍁That is the Wonder!🍁🍁

Hope rises Joy wakes 🍂even after Heart Breaks 🍂
‘ Anjum ‘ shines in Heaven’s sphere! 🍁That is the Wonder!🍁🍁

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

Lace and Mango Pickle

I walk about 
With my vulnerability
Barely covered in tentative dresses
The tremble of thick and soft but firm pink lips
Inviting remark upon its contrast
With the somewhat exaggerated horn rims
Of my all but cosmetic glasses

Perhaps you would hand me a glass of still water
At room temperature, and a cherry or a plum
I have reluctantly said no to lavender
But a pale, very pale, saffron may just about disturb the universe
To the very tiny extent that I want it to shift
To make room for my voice of sweet reasonableness
And endearing whimsy
Before it gets comfortable again
Pleased with me for making it ever so comfortably uncomfortable
That it will invite me again and again
To beautiful silky places
With delicately delicious food
And scented listeners
I must to Bruges next
For the lace
Where I shall ever so outrageously
Mention Mango pickle
In turmeric and mustard oil
Redolent of asofeotida

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

PEARL ON WARM SKIN 

Come to the Master

Or wander, waste, wither 

Flick of the wrist

Twist of the tongue

Quicksilver

A brushstroke here

A dab there

It’s done

You labour

Like Ovid‘s mountain

And birth a mouse

You strain

From hardbound brain

Six lines a year

The rest

Is tosh

If someone binds it in gold

Dust doesn’t become a Rose

Though my rose turns to dust tomorrow

Today it’s a wildflower bouquet

With jonquil fragrance

And wild rose

Neither coldness nor burning envy

Sharing is different

Skin warm

Pearl on warm skin

Warm

Ephemeral, all

Soon breaks

Time’s string 

Pearls scattered

Lives wasted

 

 

Great Expectations -- Thomas Nast

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

HURT

Did the hurt hurt you

As you hurt others?

Is that the reason

For the coldness

On the edge?

But you always were

Angel, Devil

Ice, Fire

Divine , Evil

As are we all 

Love

Life’s a brief candle

We all die

In the end 

But perhaps

Your knived

Died sooner

That is something

That is much

That’s your story 

Judged

Judge not

For thou shalt be

Living hell

Blue sea and daffodil hills

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

COLD CORE

From where

Does that hard cold core come

Which defines you?

Yes I can be cruel

Even deliberately, knowingly,

In calculated words

But that is when I am blazingly angry

When my space is violated

When people act unknowing of their own privilege

Blindly bigoted

Blasè with entitlement

Make commandlike requests

Barge poke probe stare

Are insensitive

Are cruel

I lash out

I do not nurse grudges

I block people

I throw them out

I do not sneer

I fight a clean fight

You can see me fighting

See my weapons

See my cause

On my escutcheon

My heart

On my sleeve

I am not duplicitous

I am not tactful

I don’t mull poison

I don’t brew hatred

I don’t breed gall

Wert thou my enemy, O my dear friend,

What wouldst thou worse?

 

My anger is temporary

Your coldness is permanent 

The waste hurts 

For in the end

We all die

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

PANGOLIN

Good that I have armour

Which is flexible

Perhaps scaly

As a pangolin’s skin

Perhaps shiny

And repulsive

Good that I grew it

Good that I fight

Good that you can’t hurt me

And even if you do

You cannot kill me

Good, good

Anteaters

Eat ants obviously

Little pesky biters

And stingers

Dart Whoosh

Done

 

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

VOICE

Is that my voice?

I am not as honest courageous or skillful

I cut corners

I challenge you though

And you avoid me

Dodging freezing

Waiting

For ice cold poison

And a hopeless void

Why?

We all long

For the light

We all long

For darkness

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

THERE HAS TO BE A REASON

There has to be a reason why this  bug is called a crown

And it is not simply that we are in certain awe of death 

Perhaps it is designed to bring established systems down

A reason why air pathways of the lungs in fluid drown

There has to be a reason why it rides upon our breath

Perhaps it is designed to bring established systems down

Swiftly it moves across the globe through country state and town

Enveloping in its dreaded cloud every syringe and steth

There has to be a reason why this bug is called a crown

I wonder why the scholar says softly with worried frown 

This virus seems to me so like Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth

Perhaps it is designed to bring established systems down

The last thought of the lonely man in white hospital gown 

Dying in smell of spirit and fading in fumes of meth

“There has to be a reason why this  bug is called a crown

Perhaps it is designed to bring established systems down “

 

Note : ‘Corona ‘ in Greek, Latin , Spanish and Italian means ‘ Crown ‘

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

Fifty Two Homes Fifty Two Lanes
( A Morality Tale )

It was the time of pestilence
In the air
And in hearts and souls

There were 52 homes of which in one the son came home and was hidden
In his mother’s veil
Resting after long toil and travel
Who knows in how many others
Similar sons and daughters
Lay sleeping under mothers’ veils
After similar journeys
But there was a hue that marked that home and not the others
Their hues were different

There were 52 lanes with 5200 homes
And 7 places of worship
Where extradited migrants were sheltered
Transport being shut down
With a bare minimum of bed sheets on the cold ground they slept
With a bare minimum of water in one or two bathrooms they washed
With a bare minimum of bread and water they were fed
Who knows how many more such shelters in the town grew
As men became burdens and were discarded and sent away
With little thought of where they would go and how
And how they would earn or eat there
But one of those places of worship had a different hue
Recognisably different from the others

At first there were glances
Some glances met
Then there were whispers
Whispers grew
And soon the whole place
Sussurrated with whispers
Till they became a cry
And then many cries
And someone went and spoke to the headman
And the headman listened to the cries of the people
And they called the police
And the police came

From the House No 52, one young man
From the Place of Worship No 7, eleven people
Were rounded up by the police
And taken away
And some sat stunned
And some were satisfied
And some spoke loudly and righteously
About how they were all saved
By the timely information
By the quisling informers
By the jackbooted soldiers
What became of those who were unsaved
No one knew
Even the few helpless tears
Remained unshed
What duty of man is higher or more pious
Than that of keeping himself and his family
Safe?

The dehumanising of man
Was complete

Perhaps a few lives were saved
Humanity died
Piously and self-righteously
Because Trust died
On both sides
Betrayal
Begot Betrayal

Would Trust
Have begot Trust?
Was Trust possible?

Who knows?
Betrayal
Is the Bitter Reality

If Man will not Save Man
God certainly will not

Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

KNOW THEN THYSELF

This isolation
Will bring out the best in us
And also the worst in us

I look forward
To getting to know myself better

But I shall also
Get to know all of you better

And through you too
I shall again know myself better

For better
Or for worse

For both distance
And closeness
Bring clarity
And perspective

This is only the beginning
Have compassion
So that you can look yourself
In the mirror at the end
And say
I’m human

Though I were to die today
I did not lose
My humanity