Poetry and Chai

Female pink robin, Yellow Gum, Plenty Gorge.

📷 Sony A1 + Sony 200-600mm f/5.6-6.3 lens

Transformer

It’s alive.
The head, a bucket with teeth,
on a giraffe neck,
not elegant though.
No, long with a hinge joint,
a knee in the middle of its neck,
undeniably ugly,
monstrous, were we not so used to it.

Strong though, and dextrous enough
(nextrous, I think).
It reaches out its tooth-ed head above a branch,
and brings it down, and CRACK!,
the branch crashes to the ground.
The worker ants scurry to retrieve it,
carry it away.

And so, several times more.
It does it’s work easily;
the workers, normally only half-interested,
are excited to be part of it.
Those watching too are drawn in:
the power, the brutal simplicity, stimulate.

I am of two hearts.
I feel for the mango tree, an old friend.
True she’s only losing a few branches
to allow a shed to be built underneath,
but it is violent, it is an assault.

It is an assault on life by non-life,
characteristically human.
We are the beings that use machines:
the greater the convenience,
the greater the violence;
the greater violence, the more convenient.
And finally, in a violent, convenient o**y,
we murder ourselves.

Possibly. The mango tree will recover.
This will remain a pleasant place.
And the machine, heading off to it’s next appointment,
accidently flattens a neighbour’s wall,
an encroachment on the road,
and regains my goodwill.

Image: JCB Dealer Yangon, Myanmar - YOMA JCB Found on Google from yomajcb.com.mm

Transformer

It’s alive.
The head, a bucket with teeth,
on a giraffe neck,
not elegant though.
No, long with a hinge joint,
a knee in the middle of its neck,
undeniably ugly,
monstrous, were we not so used to it.

Strong though, and dextrous enough
(nextrous, I think).
It reaches out its tooth-ed head above a branch,
and brings it down, and CRACK!,
the branch crashes to the ground.
The worker ants scurry to retrieve it,
carry it away.

And so, several times more.
It does it’s work easily;
the workers, normally only half-interested,
are excited to be part of it.
Those watching too are drawn in:
the power, the brutal simplicity, stimulate.

I am of two hearts.
I feel for the mango tree, an old friend.
True she’s only losing a few branches
to allow a shed to be built underneath,
but it is violent, it is an assault.

It is an assault on life by non-life,
characteristically human.
We are the beings that use machines:
the greater the convenience,
the greater the violence;
the greater violence, the more convenient.
And finally, in a violent, convenient o**y,
we murder ourselves.

Possibly. The mango tree will recover.
This will remain a pleasant place.
And the machine, heading off to it’s next appointment,
accidently flattens a neighbour’s wall,
an encroachment on the road,
and regains my goodwill.

by Patrick Redican

i know we have quite a few multilingual poets: you might be interested

If you speak multiple languages, which words get lost in translation? Share your favourite words or terms that just don’t translate

Round Two of the December month!!

Sujata Mastani Chowk

It’s a busy intersection, nondescript,
a typically chaotic Pune tangle,
the unremarkable but interesting business
of ordinary people absorbed in their own lives.

Late afternoon’s a meeting time
for the neighbourhood:
old men full of newspapers and opinions,
middle-aged men full of business,

young guys in gym-toned bodies,
long-on-top, shaved-sides haircuts,
close-clipped beards like young cricket stars,
full of possibilities.

They group by age, form clutches
round the benches, near the Mitra Mandal
among the tight-parked two wheelers,
wherever there’s a space.

Shoppers negotiate them,
as they do the fruit or vegetable carts,
the dogs, the rikshas, the two wheelers,
the cars suddenly blocking the way.

In fact, everyone and everything’s
negotiating everyone and everything else.
The traffic’s non-stop, stop and go:
the intersection’s packed, jam-packed.

But everything.moves. Or doesn’t.
People get where they are going,
or stay where they are staying.
I am, for now, a stayer.

I’m sitting on a bench kitty corner from
the famous ice cream house
busy on a hot May afternoon
as shoppers seek respite from the heat.

I’m waiting for wife; she’s shopping
across the street. Shopping’s not for me
and I’m not wanted anyway.
“When they see you, the price goes up,” she says.

The store beside the one she’s in
is labelled ‘Firangi’ in bright primary colours.
‘Would I be welcome there?’ I wonder.
Afternoon is slipping into evening.

My attention wanders up, towards the tree tops;
always in Pune there are great trees.
Here they cling to narrow footholds
but broaden as they seek the sky.

Through a canopy of almond and ashok,
the sun is sliding easily, a red ball
descending through green leaves,
brown branches, the exhaust-gray air.

The sun though’s unaware;
it sets as graciously as in an untouched Eden,
upon us who have the time to watch,
in Sujata Mastani chowk,

Poem by Patrick Redican
Photos by Suryakant Redican

Lets meetup
Lets take out some time

Lets share
Lets sit around

Meeting and Greeting
People gathering., learning, exploring and contributing ..for a better society to form!!

Words and thoughts
Opinions and Prose,

Exchanged over a cup of chai!

we did this in the winter of 2018

Kaleidoscope - Chandrakant and patrick Redican - Part 1 | Akashvani Pune Kaleidoscope - Weekly English Program is aired on every Wednesday 8:15 PM. Channel Frequency: - Medium Wave 792 KHz Pune - A Station of All India Radio In th...

With Independence Day almost upon us, here is a poem by Mr. Patrick Redican about freedom, hope, and counting blessings.

Title - August 15, 2018, Jejuri

In Jejuri August 15th is all about the children.
They get up early, bathe, put on their best-pressed-fresh uniforms
and hurry in the dawn light to school to raise the flag,
then join the other schools for the prabhat pheri through the town.

They pass the massive Nandi at the temple steps,
but few pay any heed to the God above.
It doesn’t matter; He gets attention
on his own days, and they are many.

Today the god is freedom, and though so many years
of wear and tear, so much experience
of our own shortfall might be expected
to have reduced the shine, we feel exhilarated.

For the children it’s being seen, proud in shining uniforms
For us proud watchers it’s all about prosperity
our children educated, on their way to something more
fulfilling our potential.

This is little changed from 1947.
We still look to a bright future, looking indeed at our future
as, at the palkhi maidan we give plaques and raise cheers
to those that topped the 10th and 12th exams
and honour those who’ve done the village proud:
teachers, social workers, artists.
My elder son is honoured
for his contribution to ‘English literature in Maharashtra’,
a smallish field but still, something to be proud of.

There are no tiresome speeches. The politicians must be off
for more important functions with more important people.
There is a lot of cheering, the kids are off for their half holiday,
the adults greet each other, happy, proud
of what we’ve seen and felt on this one morning anyway.

It’s not assumed, it’s not some plastic mask,
we do all feel that we have come some way,
that India through all its troubles grows,
and not in spite of us, well not completely.

Of course the road down to the maidan,
is an extended hopscotch square of muddy ruts and potholes;
of course we’ve made a mess of education
the children we so treasure, are badly served
by these same schools we celebrate today.

The politicians have no vision, the citizens seek profit first and last.
Whatever we can point to as accomplishments:
the dam, MIDC, this maidan, the concrete renovation of the town,
are nothing to the many chances missed:
We could be so much better than we are.

But that’s for other days:
Today’s a day for counting up our blessings,
the first among them, children.
The first among them, freedom,
that we may yet make more of, that we may yet
use selflessly to make our children proud.

The rain that paused while flag was raised and anthem sung,
and pledge was heard, and maybe took new root,
comes on as we go home.
Its green below the grey; above the clouds,
the saffron sun shines still; and in between
Hope yet holds our innocence.

August!

That's the theme for this weeks contest. Write a poem with the title 'August.'

Prizes include:
A small memento, a free seat at Poetry and Chai to present your poem, interact with other poets, drink tea and eat The Book Establishment’s famous cake.

Plus the incomparable satisfaction of writing a good poem.

Entries accepted until midnight, August 12.

Language: English, Hindi, or Marathi.

Send your entries in the ‘comments’ section of this post

Poems will be judged by a) popularity (likes) and b) a panel of Poetry and Chai judges. So there will be at least two winners each week.

ENTER NOW

Congratulations Medha Purkar your poem won the 'Annual Monsoon Poetry contest' run by Poetry and Chai!

As promised you have won a small memento and a free seat at Poetry and Chai to present your poem, interact with other poets, drink tea and eat The Book Establishment’s famous cake! (Please get in touch with Patrick Redican about the details)

For our fellow poets and followers here is the beautiful poem she wrote:

त्या चातका सम आतुर मीही
भेगाळले तन , मन तप्त ते

अनंत मासे झुरते तरी मी
तुझ्या आठवे मन आक्रंदते

तुझ्या चाहुलीने नादावते मी
तुझ्या गंधस्मृतीने वेडावते

तुझ्या विरहाने कोमेजते मी
तुझे बरसणे मज सुखावते

तुझे दूत येता खुळावते मी
तुझ्या दर्शने मन आनंदते

तुला भेटल्याने खरी बहरते मी
तुझा स्पर्श होता मी मोहरते

कितीदा नव्याने तुला भेटते मी
पुन्हा भेटण्या परी आसुसते

युगायुगांची तुझी प्रेमिका मी
तुझ्या सोबतीने मी शांतावते

मेधा पुरकर
26 जुलै 2019