Li-Young Lee and Displacement

We met online on Sep 12, 11 am, and studied a few poems of Li-Young Lee from his collection, The city in which I love you, and read poems on the theme: Displacement. I'll let some hard-hitting poems from the session do the talking :)


The Note Left Behind
by Riddhima Sen

In a tranquil corner of the cafe,
An empty chair made silence feel loud;
Even amidst the jazz music pouring in from all sides:
The smiling countenances—
The white porcelain cups filled with piping hot coffee
Or mocha
Laced with a lining of Nutella
Drizzled along the brim of the cup
Like pearls of rain clinging onto the window of the bus,
As she glanced outside the blurred window glass
The sight of kids in yellow raincoats jumping in muddy puddles
Ignited a suppressed nerve within her
Something that had been concealed for centuries,
The flashback of the note left behind
On table no. 10 of Dilkash Cafe,
The covered wound on her heart was laid bare again



*

Untitled 

by Nam Perugu


Travelers must be content
If the road is rough
It could be rougher
It may be paved with broken glass
On some other soul's return trip
A hot sun teaches humility
A bent neck, burning
Is still a neck on your shoulders


Leaving home must have been a choice
Between safe shade and sweltering
A traveler is never under duress
Or chased by fat hungry fears
A fool is never dragged out of her home
By powerful hands


I must be content
With water and a mouthful of dust
There are those without water
We speak of them in hushed whispers
For fear of summoning their thirsty eyes
Their covetous eyes on our meager blessings

Travelers must keep their bodies
Well documented, and light
Even as they walk to the Arden
When they reach the Duke's court
They must shed their tired skins
Smiling in relief, content
Carefully not thinking about
The duchy left behind.

*

Ageing

By Varun Dhingra

I watch my grandmother

frozen in her bed at night, 

unsure if she lives or has already died

At 89, I often find her sitting upright, 

in the middle of the night, 

her clothes wet with anxious sweat, 

as she hops on a train in her mind, 

revisits the time she crossed a freshly painted border on a train, 

covered from head to toe, 

petrified her virginity may be lost 

to an unknown man 

driven by unknowable rage.

Her crumpled face, 

the dark corner of a long forsaken house, lost in cobwebs of memories only she remembers

Of all the days full of light and all the days full of darkness her eyes have seen

As light rapidly recedes each day from her gentle eyes.

I have seen those eyes twitchy with excitement 

at the sight of a perfectly round laddoo

At 89, she sometimes resembles a 9 year old 

who has seen an aeroplane for the first time.

She talks of death as a long awaited guest

Fussing over little details 

like the mother of a newly wed daughter returning home for the first time

With a cold, priestly poise, she choses:

Which of her granddaughters will be blessed 

with her faded red wedding dress

That perfect picture with her angelic smile 

Which will live on in her room long after she is gone

The pristine white sari that shall be her last

Smoothening its creases with her creased hands

She has it all precisely planned

A neatly folded farewell note to the family 

carefully tucked beneath her pillow

She goes to sleep each night

with the Lord sitting upright 

on her quivering lips

Praying for His long promised embrace

Each day here, a decade for her

Each day with her, an hour of solace confined in her grace for me