5 POEMS BY KAVITA EZEKIEL MENDONCA, INCLUDING "THE NIGHT OF THE SNAKE" & "HOW DADDY WROTE HIS POETRY"

In the last blogpost I had introduced Sudeshna Mukherjee who wrote in experimental Indian English like Ezekiel and it seems fitting that the next post is by Ezekiel's daughter Kavita  (an aptly given name) who is carrying on the tradition in splendid style with two poems that are a fitting tribute to his legacy  and three of her own fine poems you can read and enjoy at your leisure here - Dr Koshy AV

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca was born and raised in a Jewish family in Mumbai.  She was educated at the Queen Mary School, Mumbai, received her BA in English and French, an MA from the University of Bombay in English and American Literature, and a Master’s in Education from Oxford Brookes University, England.  She has taught English, French and Spanish in various colleges and schools in India and overseas, in a teaching career spanning over four decades. Before immigrating to Canada she taught High School for sixteen years in the English Department (Creative Writing, Poetry and Advanced Placement English, among other courses) in an American International School nestled in the foothills of the Himalaya Mountains. She also held the position of Career Counselor at the school after her sabbatical in Oxford.   Her first book, Family Sunday and Other Poems was published in 1989, with a second edition in 1990. She has read her poems for the All India Radio in Mumbai, and her poem ‘Family Sunday’ was featured in an Anthology of Women’s Writing. She writes Poetry and Short Fiction.  Kavita is the daughter of the late poet, Nissim Ezekiel.

How Daddy wrote his Poetry

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

The smoke curl from the Menthol Cool cigarette

In the glass ashtray

Touched the ceiling

Creating patterned shadows

On the paint- peeled walls.

He only took one puff!

He had no fear of fire,

The knowledge that

The cigarette would eventually

Extinguish itself

Was something he trusted

Inherently.

As he lay on the dusty bed

Triangle-fold handkerchief

Over his eyes

Carefully removing the

Delicately-crafted glasses

I always thought would break

With even the slightest tap.

Then, moving to the crowded desk

Hastily wrote a few inspired lines

On pieces of paper, blank or lined

Whatever could be found.

Then again with set rhythm

Back to the bed

Placing the same crumpled handkerchief

Carefully

Over the eyes

Waited patiently for the remaining

Lines to come.

He breathed deeply.

Or deep breathely,

As he was fond of saying,

Perhaps invoking the muse

For the rest of the poem

To take shape.

Then he paced up and down

The sparse room

Reading the words aloud

And invited me in

To be both audience and critic.

Daddy typed with two fingers

On the old clickety typewriter

And the manuscript was ready

To be delivered to willing eyes.

Daddy wrote often

Into the early hours of the morning

And I had to creep into the room

Mouse-like

Cockroach quiet,

Remove the handkerchief

Turn off the light

And tell him

He must sleep.

It’s late, Daddy!

I stood outside his room

Until I heard the familiar click

Of the old wooden latch

And I knew he’d get a few hours

Of fulfilled slumber.

Epilogue

Daddy’s recipe for the good life

Was to write a poem

In every circumstance

Joyful or adverse.

On a crowded Indian train

Or lurching bus.

Ignore the stares

Of curious fellow travelers

Pull out the pen and paper

And get to work.

And for a mundane example

To brew the perfect cup of ‘chai’

One must immerse the tea leaves

Into the boiling water

And let them brew.

Walk away into another room

Write a poem

Which will then be the brewed thoughts

Of a pensive mind.

And the perfect cup of ‘chai’

Is born!

Do not wait for the muse,

Persist, to defy the block.

Follow the simple recipe

Of a beloved beverage.

In my husband’s home now

Far from my father’s home,

When ‘Chai’ is made

With combinations of ginger

Cinnamon and cardamom

Sugar, milk and whatnot,

Father’s poetry wafts in

On waves of spice

And earthy freshness.

Memories are made of this

And poetry too!

Post- Epilogue

Grandfather was a ‘science’ man.

When father won

A poetry prize in school,

Came home rejoicing to share the news,

Grandfather said,

‘Poetry, what’s that?’

The child bought a bar of chocolate

For four ‘annas’,

An ancient, humble Indian coin

But a princely sum to the boy

Who ate his treat in solitary Silence

And tears of wept Hurt

Mingled with Hope

And secret Determination

To pursue the

Poetic journey.

Copyright Kavita 2019

Night of the Snake

By Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

Tandem poem to Nissim Ezekiel’s poem ‘Night of the Scorpion’

Written In tender memory of my beloved father

And for my son, Siddharth, so he would know what transpired that night.

I remember the night

My son was almost bitten

By a snake

It will remain a mystery what

Prompted him to

Crawl camouflaged

Onto the stone wall

Outside our home

Across the gleaming lake -

That dark, dark night.

Perhaps it was the rain, or

Simply the darkness of the hour.

It did not move or

Rear its head to

Hiss or spit

Poisonous venom

At the sleeping child,

Wet from his soaking clothes.

Yet it rested like a still-life painting

Etched in curves of slithery colors,

An artist’s rendering of beauty and evil

Simultaneously.

My other companion

Began to dance madly

A Rumpelstiltskin of fear,

While I

Frantic to appease the curled one,

Begged her to remain still

And simply to utter a silent prayer

To whatever God she believed in.

Unaware, the child’s father

Watched a movie with the school children

In the hall above,

Unsuspecting of the drama unfolding below.

As the key turned in the lock

And the house door silently opened

Giving safe entry to mother and child,

My companion having fled to safer terrain

Leaving the snake at repose, immovable.

No neighbors to help or witness the spectacle.

Then the need to return upstairs

And narrate the incident to the child’s father

Forced me to creep outside again

With beating heart and stealthy pace,

The sleeping child, now dry,

Oblivious to the imminent danger

From the curled serpent on the stone wall.

He had gone from whence he came

Into the dark recesses of his own mind,

Curled on someone else’s door perhaps,

Or waiting silently for an unsuspecting prey-moment

No creature or human understanding could comprehend.

Thank goodness for Divine intervention

That spared the life of my precious child,

His father and I said later,

As we wrapped the bundle tighter,

Afraid it might still be watching us,

From somewhere.

Note: Tandem poetry is a genre I have created for poetry I write alongside my father’s Poetry. The subjects may be similar since they are inspired by him, but the content of the poems are mine.

Copyright Kavita 2019

How to light up a poem

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

‘Poets are troubled minds wandering in search of lighted paths.’ (Original quote mine)

Gently petition the moon for some moonbeams, scatter them gently on the path

Implore the sun for a ray or two, scatter deliberately along the way

Ask the trees for shadows and silhouettes, brush the path with shades of these

Strike up a conversation with the trees, soon there will be a dialogue.

If there’s a stream, brook or a lake nearby, splash some water to purify the air around the path

Surely there are squirrels to add their chatter and birds to drop their feathers, in images of noise and Silence

Cherries and apples will add their own particular flavor, you do not have to ask permission

The apples will fall when they are ready, like the leaves in Autumn.

Flutter and lightly press the wings of the butterflies and the buzz of the bees into the page

Catch and hold the colorful darting dragonflies and blooming flowers close to the heart

A weed or two is necessary to write reality into the poem, and some darkness for our sorrow.

Search with flashlights into the deepest eyes of your soul, bring in your own inner light

Don’t hide it under the bushel, or it will fade like the stars in the early morning

The solar lights will light up when the sun is bright, sometimes on grey days too

And forget not the wind, that wind that fills the sails

To steer the ship to shore.

If after doing all these things you do not manage to light up the poem

Don’t worry, when the light wants to come in,

It will knock.

Copyright Kavita 2019

The Poetry of Homes

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

The floodgates have opened,

The dam has burst,

The words pour out

Like raging water, un-muddied and clear,

Carrying everything in its path,

My particular past, present and future,

A potpourri of objects from my childhood homes and beyond.

They remain etched in black and white and color,

Almost mystical mandalas, swirling in my brain.

The silver Menorah in a corner of the bookshelf,

The painting of the two elephants,

My father poetically named after his daughters,

And the red curtain, artistically lit by the lamp,

An unexpected flame to the future husband,

And a tribute to father’s love of aesthetics.

The lone cockroach hiding in the curtain folds,

And the tossed slipper missing its mark,

For the killing of creepy crawlies from the garden.

The sound of the scurrying mice,

And the mice whiskers twitching in fear,

From a hole in the bedroom wall.

The ancient grinding stone in the kitchen,

The smell of fish cooked on the slow fire for hours

Till crisp and tender like chicken.

The twenty-four black volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica,

With an article on The Titanic found under T,

The two-volume History of Art jackets, with their missing contents,

The borrower revealed to mother in a dream, and duly returned!

And the sea, the sea, a constant backdrop

To the ebb and flow of human emotions.

The other backdrop, the garden,

With friends on chairs,

And children on stone steps, doing homework.

Then the other kitchen

With the Jewish recipe for mince patties of golden crispy covered exterior,

And the coconut fibers which shone the brass pots to catch one’s reflection.

The cooing pigeons in the high rafters,

The tears of the child when an egg fell and broke,

With no promise of the baby pigeon in sight,

And the endless dust swept up in vain by the broom

Of loving hands.

The sound of water in the taps for two hours at dawn,

And the philosophical discussion of grandparents,

To the background of the old telephone, ringing, ringing.

The drums and guitars of cousins, echoing,

To the house below.

And the monsoon roof, open to the night sky,

Frightening the child with hidden monsters,

Real or imagined.

Then the mountains, pine martens and flying squirrels,

The occasional blood-chilling roar of the panther,

Echoing in the silent valley.

The winding road, conquered in lurching taxis.

A baby born to an unsuspecting couple,

The Mission Hospital blessed with the Himalayan birth.

The doctor’s hands skilled and prayerful.

The groaning ‘pushta’* threatening to take the home with it,

To the abyss below.

The monkeys, brown and grey, with their swishing Sunday noises,

The natural alarm clock to the hope of sleeping in.

And the mountain legs, climbing, climbing,

Up, down, up, down, and into bustling town.

And finally, the Wild Wild West

The end of the line perhaps,

Or is there more?

Line dancing with students, cowboy hats and boots, juicy burgers and sizzling steaks,

The reservoir with a river cruise in season,

The boat horn deep and haunting, heard from the kitchen window,

The cotton-ball snow and the permanently painted grey sky,

With the summer window, short and sweet,

Dotted with robins and landscaped flowers,

Butter chicken, Naan**, Chole Bhature***,

And the ‘curry drowned rice,’

All a salve for homesickness

A recreation of the beloved and the familiar,

And work, work, work,

Rupee, Dollar, Peso, Yen.

Take me home, where the million people roam,

And let me lose myself,

Where I once belonged.

Or keep me here,

Bright eyed and bushy-tailed,

Like the squirrel that eats my tulip bulbs,

And thrives and scampers on the pine trees,

On my front lawn.

So I can make a home,

Anywhere that destiny decrees.

The missing verse is

  For the first home I made with the man I loved

In the gently rolling hills with a mongoose and a lake

And a snake or two curled on the tree

To tip toe past

The kitchen grinder above

Grinding Grinding

Spices and romance into new chapters

A male child delivered to the new union

Travelling down the hills

To the small town hospital below

Amidst the cows with evening bells

And the wooden table with clock

Ticking Tocking fourteen hours

Of pain and subsequent joy.

* Pushta is a retaining wall

** Naan Indian bread baked in a clay oven

*** Chole Bhature – spiced Indian chick peas with fluffy fried Indian bread

Copyright Kavita 2019

Alibaug

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

There are places I'll remember

All my life though some have changed

Some forever not for better

Some have gone and some remain

(All My Life…The Beatles)

It was a village then

A ferry the only means to get across,

I went there often, even defiant of the Indian monsoons.

My uncle owned a grain mill

He was a jovial man with a rich laugh

The grain poured out of the ancient machines

Like his patient and unselfish love for us.

My aunt was kind, like all my other aunts

She raised chickens, and cooked spicy food

Put ten chillies in the curry when I visited

Her usual was twenty,

She was an older sister to my mother.

She knew we liked the food less spicy

Father had lived in England

And we were accustomed to blander fare.

At evenfall we talked in soft voices

The hens were asleep.

Disturbing them meant risking

Breakfast without eggs

Once I watched a cackling egg lay an egg,

In the fields were cows and barking dogs

My cousin wove in and out of them

With me and my screams, on the bicycle,

He teased me because I was afraid.

The ocean lapped at the gates of the cottage

We walked barefoot on the sand

I skipped, he held my hand tightly

So I wouldn’t skip away.

My cousin caught the Puffer fish

That looked like pregnant women,

We must cook before nightfall

The lantern light was the only electricity then

A rat bit my cousin’s toe once

Paraffin was the cure, as I remember it.

But we got there defiant of the rains

It was home and very sweet.

Holding umbrellas over our heads

Willing the rocking boat

To land us safely ashore.

I had heard of Jesus in school

Of how He walked on water

And His command to still the storm,

I remember praying to have that kind of faith

The kind that stills the storm

I cannot swim, though,

I want to walk the earth with grace.

Alibaug is a village no more

My uncle has passed and the grain mill

Has passed on to new owners

I guess technology has replaced

Those ancient machines.

I read of the great developments there

Of hotels, rich residences, and tall buildings

You can get there by car or luxury bus.

I miss Alibaug

The flickering lanterns, sleeping on mats, eating from *thalis

I miss Alibaug

The hushed whispers between cousins

I don’t know when I can return

To the land of my ancestors

The land of the Shanwartelis, the Oil pressers,

I yearn for the unsullied rustic scenes,

The dotted fields of cows and the music of their bells

The hush of the chickens settling down for the night,

And I don’t know where the fish sleep

In the folds of the waves

Or in the folds of my memory.

Copyright Kavita 2019

Note: Alibaug, also spelled Alibag, is a coastal town and municipal council in Raigad district of Maharashtra, India. It is the headquarters of the Raigad district.

Alibaug and its surrounding villages are the historic hinterland of Bene Israeli Jews. There is a synagogue in the "Israel Ali" (Marathi इस्राएल आळी meaning Israel lane) area of the town.^[1] A Bene Israelite named Ali used to live there at that time. He was a rich man and owned many plantations of mangoes and coconuts in his gardens. Hence the locals used to call the place "Alichi Bagh"(Marathi for "Ali's Garden"), or simply "Alibag", and the name stuck.^{[1] Wikipaedia}

*Thalis – stainless steel plates in which meals are served in Indian homes