Poems

Interval

Looking beyond the window

On being awake that morn

I saw a blossom,

Catalysing on my face

An instant smile.

Felt, as if the new-born too

Greeted me with its joyful jibe

In a reciprocal vibe.

Perhaps, the exchange of

Those infectious smiles

Was pregnant with a shared joy

For having come into being, and

For survival so far

In the state of being.

Indeed, it is the short interval

That permits some straying

To meet the worldly affairs,

In between these two Beings-

What we all call, Life!

Destiny writes beforehand, though,

On the foreheads of us all

Sent here for a sojourn

In the design-divine,

The time and place

To say our own

Respective goodbye

To the doomed-joy of Being-

In compliance with

Those prescient writings-

That nobody could alter,

Nor shall ever

Be able to do so.

– Bimal Saigal

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Caribbean Calypso

As we age, gentle readers, we slowly but

Surely turn the pages of history and recall

Those interesting times, which made a

Difference in our finite lives: Thus, I remember

Sir Garfield Sobers, who towered above the

Rest, Gus Logie, for his quicksilver fielding,

The acrobatic heroics of Jeffrey Dujon

Behind the stumps, the lanky Lance Gibbs,

Who put a lump in my throat, Wes Hall, with

His fiery pace, and Sir Vivian Richards, the

Master blaster, who embarrassed his rivals.

How can I forget Andy Roberts, a father

Figure, with his wily, late outswingers,

And the remarkable opening pair, namely,

Greenidge and Haynes. Ah, it is a

Pleasant trip down this memory lane.

My friends: the game of cricket is played

By all shapes and sizes:

Cricket is like a painting,

Consisting of colors, shades

And hues, and although I sing

The blues, there is also a wan

Smile on my face, for the mighty

West Indies played this game with

Charm and grace, once upon a time,

When they were in their prime.

After all, cricket is a gentleman’s game,

And sledging and cheating reduce this

Sport to shame. These champion islanders

Were a cut above the rest, in that era,

Oh, the West Indians were the best.

I tell you, even though I am from a

Different shore, cricketers will come

And cricketers will go, but that rhythm and

Beat still move my soul like nothing else does anymore.

– Archan Mehta

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Faded memory

Lately my memory is a river

It keeps flowing downstream

Nothing stays with me

The name I gave to my sons

My wife, I no longer remember

The home I built with my naked hand.

The days before are blank as paper

My favorite song and my favorite book

My favorite haircut and look faded away

I try so hard to make the river stand still

But no matter how hard I try

No matter how hard I cry

The river continue to flow downhill.

I try hard to turn it around to flow up

But it flows downhill and never stop

The rush of the water is too much for me

As soon as I try to capture the day it’s gone

I can never retrace my steps, the water leave no trace

I cannot keep up with the pace.

Joy said daddy was really bad today

I sat down and I tried to remember the day

I wonder who I hurt today, what did I do or say

With my condition will my family go or stay

For I cannot remember anything about the day

Imprisoned with no closed door, the river flow

With pain that medication cannot cure.

– Patree Gouldbourne-Haynes

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