Winter '84 -- Krisantha Sri Bhaggiyadatta

Guest poem submitted by Salima Virani:

(Poem #1792) Winter '84 I tell the corner store owner 'pretty cold out there' he says 'ain't what it used to be' 'oh', i say, 'why is that' innocently tensing wondering if coloured immigration has affected the seasons... 'they've been fooling around with the weather', he says. [his wife nods] 'ever since they sent a man to the moon it hasn't been right' oh, i say, breathing out intrigued 'yeah, i know what you mean' -- Krisantha Sri Bhaggiyadatta

[Comments]

I recently came across this poem and what struck me most about it is that
although it's been over twenty years since this poem was written, there are
many new immigrants in Canada that continue to feel some discomfort and
unease with their status as immigrants. I'm not sure if that is because
there continues to be a lot of racism or if it's something else.

I'd like to believe that actual instances of racism are much fewer now than
what may have prevailed two decades ago. I was born and raised in India and
have been in Canada for less than a decade but I've never really experienced
any racism. That said, my parents who recently moved here (about three years
ago) from India, go to great lengths to avoid eye contact/conversations with
anyone that speaks different or, in their view, is "very Canadian". They
feel unequipped to engage in casual conversations with white folks and so
all their interaction with them is typically on a "as needed" basis. And so,
if, as it sometimes happens, they're approached by a friendly neighbour who
knocks on the door to inform them about a missed fedex delivery or something
similar, their first reaction, much like Bhaggiyadatta, is always unease and
anxiety. Mum will wonder if her cooking is emanating unpleasant odours or if
her blaring music (of Nusrat or Bollywood tunes) is causing a nuisance.
When they find that it's something to do with fedex and that the "white"
neighbour is actually quite a harmless and friendly guy - they're pleasantly
surprised and quite relieved.

[Bio]

There is a lot of information about Krisantha Sri Bhaggiyadatta scattered
over the web but I was unable to find a single page that gave me a
comprehensive bio about the author. So, I have taken the liberty to put
together the information I discovered and compile a bio (of sorts) for him.
Any errors and omissions are entirely mine.

Bhaggiyadatta is a Sri Lankan-Canadian and a prolific writer. He has
authored several books and articles that tackle the issues of racism and
marginalization. He's also a playwright and  one of his popular plays is
called "The D.M.O. (Dishwashing Machine Operators)", which refers to the
jobs held by many Sri Lankan immigrants to Toronto. Bhaggiyadatta has
published five books of poetry: Domestic Bliss, The Only Minority is the
Bourgeoisie, Mothers and Generals, 52nd State of Amnesia, & Aay Wha' Kinda
Indian Arr U. His works have also appeared in other publications such as in
Passport Photos by Amitava Kumar.

Salima.

Point of View -- Shel Silverstein

Guest poem submitted by Salima Virani:

(Poem #1462) Point of View Thanksgiving dinner's sad and thankless Christmas dinner's dark and blue When you stop and try to see it From the turkey's point of view. Sunday dinner isn't sunny Easter feasts are just bad luck When you see it from the viewpoint Of a chicken or a duck. Oh how I once loved tuna salad Pork and lobsters, lamb chops too 'Til I stopped and looked at dinner From the dinner's point of view. -- Shel Silverstein

I don't mean to rain on Vijay's parade (see Poem #1461).  In all
honesty, I love good food too!  But I could not resist sending this one
out as a cheeky retort to Vijay's submission.  Trust Shel to give
perspective to the other side.  The poem is humorous but the point he
gets across is deep and somber!  Remember "The little boy and the old
man" also by Shel Silverstein (Poem # 996)?  That's another classic
example of Shel giving the "other" point of view.

Salima.

It's raining in love -- Richard Brautigan

Guest poem submitted by Salima Virani:

(Poem #1456) It's raining in love I don't know what it is, but I distrust myself when I start to like a girl a lot. It makes me nervous. I don't say the right things or perhaps I start to examine, evaluate, compute what I am saying. If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?" and she says, "I don't know," I start thinking: Does she really like me? In other words I get a little creepy. A friend of mine once said, "It's twenty times better to be friends with someone than it is to be in love with them." I think he's right and besides, it's raining somewhere, programming flowers and keeping snails happy. That's all taken care of. BUT if a girl likes me a lot and starts getting real nervous and suddenly begins asking me funny questions and looks sad if I give the wrong answers and she says things like, "Do you think it's going to rain?" and I say, "It beats me," and she says, "Oh," and looks a little sad at the clear blue California sky, I think: Thank God, it's you, baby, this time instead of me. -- Richard Brautigan

[Comments]

I've been working in the same office building for about six years now.
And every year, for the last six years, I've seen them recycle the same
decorations for Halloween, Christmas and Valentine's Day.  Even the
stores have the same clichéd banners and the same old gifts that surface
year after year.  Surely there's more to Valentine's Day than roses,
lingerie and chocolates. For there is so much more to the emotion of
love than the butterflies and the weak knees.  I like this poem because
it is so much more real.  A lot of us start out like that in love -
unsure of what to expect, what to say and feeling vulnerable.  I
particularly like how Brautigan suggests that even when we know what
bothers us in a relationship - we often end up doing those very same
things ourselves! And the last line, "I think: Thank God, it's you,
baby, this time instead of me." is a smug, cynical and yet humorous way
to end it.  The situation will not be resolved by him... he's just happy
that the anguish is someone else's and not his.

Brautigan reminds me a lot of Phil Larkin.  Most of Brautigan's poems,
like Larkin's, are a combination of honesty, humour and cynicism.  He
keeps it real!

[Bio]

Brautigan was born in 1935 in Tacoma, Washington. In October of 1984,
his body was discovered at his home; he had shot himself in the head
some four or five weeks earlier.

Although Brautigan, whose work largely defies classification, is not
properly considered a Beat writer, he shared the Beats' aversion to
middle class values, commercialism, and conformity.

Brautigan's success as a poet was marginal. He published several slim
volumes, all with small presses, but none of these received much
recognition. It wasn't until the publication of Trout Fishing in America
(1967), which many consider his best novel, that Brautigan caught the
public's attention and was transformed into a cult hero. By 1970, Trout
Fishing in America had become the namesake of a commune, a free school,
and an underground newspaper.

Richard Brautigan's poetry collections include June 30th, June 30th
(Delacorte, 1978), Loading Mercy with a Pitchfork (1975), Rommel Drives
on Deep Into Egypt (1970), The San Francisco Weather Report (1969), and
Please Plant This Book (eight poems printed on separate seed packet
envelopes, 1968). His novels include The Tokyo-Montana Express (1980),
Willard and his Bowling Trophies (1975), In Watermelon Sugar (1967), and
A Confederate General from Big Sur (1964). Brautigan's last novel was
recently discovered and published posthumously, under the title An
Unfortunate Woman (Rebel Inc., 2000).

Salima.

[thomas adds]

In a similar vein, check out Carol Ann Duffy's "Valentine", Poem #865 on
the Minstrels.

the trash can -- Charles Bukowski

Winding up the computer poetry theme, here's a poem suggested by
Salima Virani

(Poem #1421) the trash can this is great, I just wrote two poems I didn't like. there is a trash can on this computer. I just moved the poems over and dropped them into the trash can. they're gone forever, no paper, no sound, no fury, no placenta and then just a clean screen awaits you. it's always better to reject yourself before the editors do. especially on a rainy night like this with bad music on the radio. and now-- I know what you're thinking: maybe he should have trashed this misbegotten one also. ha, ha, ha, ha. -- Charles Bukowski

        (From Betting on the Muse - Poems and Stories
         Black Sparrow Press, 1996.)

I know we've just had a poem by Bukowski, but I was specifically on the
lookout for something on the role of computers in the creative process, and
when Salima sent me today's wonderful little piece, I knew I had to run it.
The light, perfectly balanced verse captures very well, the fluidity, almost
I could say the liberation, that the computer affords the wordsmith -
nothing is permanent unless you want it to be[1], erasing a word, a line, an
entire poem is no harder than a click of a button.

Words on paper have a definite inertia to them - the crossed out lines track
their way indelibly across the sheet, a visible and increasingly messy
record of a work's revision history. Contrast the aesthetic freedom of

                          no
         paper, no sound, no
         fury, no placenta
         and then
         just a clean screen
         awaits you.

And the poem itself definitely reflects that freedom, the lines pouring
forth with careless abandon until they reach a hilariously antipoetic
conclusion that made me laugh out loud. A fitting ending to the theme, I
think. Ha, ha, ha. Ha.

martin

[1] or sometimes, tragically, even if you do - see Poem #1420 :)

The Lawyers Know Too Much -- Carl Sandburg

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani

(Poem #1393) The Lawyers Know Too Much The lawyers, Bob, know too much. They are chums of the books of old John Marshall. They know it all, what a dead hand wrote, A stiff dead hand and its knuckles crumbling, The bones of the fingers a thin white ash. The lawyers know a dead man's thought too well. In the heels of the higgling lawyers, Bob, Too many slippery ifs and buts and howevers, Too much hereinbefore provided whereas, Too many doors to go in and out of. When the lawyers are through What is there left, Bob? Can a mouse nibble at it And find enough to fasten a tooth in? Why is there always a secret singing When a lawyer cashes in? Why does a hearse horse snicker Hauling a lawyer away? The work of a bricklayer goes to the blue. The knack of a mason outlasts a moon. The hands of a plasterer hold a room together. The land of a farmer wishes him back again. Singers of songs and dreamers of plays Build a house no wind blows over. The lawyers--tell me why a hearse horse snickers hauling a lawyer's bones. -- Carl Sandburg

[Comments]

After reading the last submission to Minstrels about lawyers, I could not
resist making a case in defence ;)

I'm always wary of the reaction I will get from people when I tell them that
I am a lawyer. I've gotten used to the contempt and the look of disdain that
come my way. I think I've also heard almost every lawyer joke that's out
there (and there's far too many) [I'm reminded of the lawyer who said "well,
then, the next time you're arrested, go hire a comedian!" - martin].  I've
browsed through many sites looking for poetry that (even if it does not glorify

lawyers) is (at least) not condescending towards them. I haven't had much
success.

This poem, much like a lawyer joke, highlights some of the stereotypes which
give lawyers the reputation they have. The use of archaic legalese jargon,
for instance. Attributes that lawyers are Insensitive, Cold, Callous and
Unfeeling. Perhaps, that's often the only way we can maintain objectivity
and be competent? Lawyers do know how to show compassion and love.  We also
know how to laugh and feel.  And shocking as it might sound, lawyers also
appreciate poetry. But, that is when they're not being lawyers.  However, a
competent lawyer is one that can put aside personal prejudices and feelings
(even when they are in conflict with the client)and maintain objectivity.

No one explains this dichotomy to lawyer's personality better than Mulan
Ashwin, a fellow lawyer and lover of poetry (I found this poem by him on the
web):

I am not a poet.
I am a lawyer.
Subtlety and sensitivity
are prerequisites for poets,
not so for lawyers.

I would be too scared to be
a poet; they feel too much.
Lawyers should not feel too much;
they are trained not to.

Can one train to be a poet?
To feel too much?

- Mulan Ashwin

[BIO]

Not much needs to be said about Carl Sandburg.  The EB biography of Sandburg
can be had at Poem #163

Cheers,

Salima

Tricks with Mirrors -- Margaret Atwood

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani , in response to
the suggested theme - poems by writers better known for their prose.

(Poem #1363) Tricks with Mirrors i It's no coincidence this is a used furniture warehouse. I enter with you and become a mirror. Mirrors are the perfect lovers, that's it, carry me up the stairs by the edges, don't drop me, that would be back luck, throw me on the bed reflecting side up, fall into me, it will be your own mouth you hit, firm and glassy, your own eyes you find you are up against closed closed ii There is more to a mirror than you looking at your full-length body flawless but reversed, there is more than this dead blue oblong eye turned outwards to you. Think about the frame. The frame is carved, it is important, it exists, it does not reflect you, it does not recede and recede, it has limits and reflections of its own. There's a nail in the back to hang it with; there are several nails, think about the nails, pay attention to the nail marks in the wood, they are important too. iii Don't assume it is passive or easy, this clarity with which I give you yourself. Consider what restraint it takes: breath withheld, no anger or joy disturbing the surface of the ice. You are suspended in me beautiful and frozen, I preserve you, in me you are safe. It is not a trick either, it is a craft: mirrors are crafty. iv I wanted to stop this, this life flattened against the wall, mute and devoid of colour, built of pure light, this life of vision only, split and remote, a lucid impasse. I confess: this is not a mirror, it is a door I am trapped behind. I wanted you to see me here, say the releasing word, whatever that may be, open the wall. Instead you stand in front of me combing your hair. v You don't like these metaphors. All right: Perhaps I am not a mirror. Perhaps I am a pool. Think about pools. -- Margaret Atwood

[comments]

While I recognise Atwood's distinct style of writing, I have never really
been engaged by any of her books.  However, this poem by Atwood, nabbed my
attention and is one of the finest I've read on the role of a woman.  The
poem is couched in metaphors - and objectifying herself as a mirror, Atwood
points out the many parallels between a mirror and a woman in the shadow of
a man.  I really like the way - it starts by first acknowledging the imposed
subordination and then goes on to remind the reader that "There is more to a
mirror than you looking at" and that one should not "assume it is passive or
easy, this clarity with which I give you yourself.".  What has started as a
sentiment of resignation and vulnerability , climaxes to an appeal for
change and leaves you hoping that it will crystallize into determination and
resolve to actually make the change.

[Bio]
Margaret Eleanor Atwood, poet, novelist, and critic, was born November 18,
1939 in Ottawa.  She was educated at the University of Toronto (E.J. Pratt
Medal, 1961) and Radcliffe College, Harvard University, Mass.

Early influences on Atwood's mythic and archetypal poetry (Double Persephone
1961) were Northrop Frye andJay MacPherson. In 1966 The Circle Game was
awarded the Governor's General Award, establishing Atwood's poetic
reputation. In the 1970's Atwood was an editor for House of Anansi Press and
This Magazine.  Atwood's prolific output has included criticism, Survival: A
Thematic Guide to Canadian Literature (1972), Second Words (1982);  novels,
Lady Oracle (1976), Bodily Harm (1981); short stories, Dancing Girls
(1977),Bluebeard's Egg (1983) and children's books Anna's Pet (1980), among
others. In 1985 Atwood was awarded the Governor General's Award for her
novel The Handmaid's Tale.

Atwood has definitely put Canadian literature on the world map. Shortlisted
three times for the Booker Prize, she finally won it with Blind Assasin.
Atwood continues to live and write in Toronto.
[/bio]

Cheers,
Salima

Ordinance on Arrival -- Naomi Lazard

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani

(Poem #1312) Ordinance on Arrival Welcome to you who have managed to get here. It's been a terrible trip; you should be happy you have survived it. Statistics prove that not many do. You would like a bath, a hot meal, a good night's sleep. Some of you need medical attention. None of this is available. These things have always been in short supply; now they are impossible to obtain. This is not a temporary situation. Our condolences on your disappointment. It is not our responsibility everything you have heard about this place is false. It is not our fault you have been deceived, ruined your health getting here. For reasons beyond our control there is no vehicle out. -- Naomi Lazard

I only recently found out that recent south asian immigrants into Toronto
are called "FOBs" or "Refs" by the first or second generation south asians
who live here.  FOBs means "Fresh off the boats" and Refs means "Refugees".
It does not matter if you came into Canada under the independent category of
skilled labour.  If you have the slightest trace of an Indian accent and,
particularly, if you're struggling as a new immigrant consider yourself a
FOB.

While I am angered by this for various reasons, I find that this poem by
Naomi Lazard which actually alludes specifically to the FOBs (be they from
Vietnam, India or wherever!) really does apply to so many recent immigrants,
the skilled workers - the ones that have not crossed borders and entered
into this country unlawfully (in boats) or pleaded sanctuary as refugees.

When I read this poem, I am reminded of scenes from Bombay, of long lines of
people with their hopeful faces before the US consulate in Breach Candy or
at the visiting Canadian Consulate at Nariman Point.  So many people, from
all over India, who left behind their country with a dream of making it big
in the west.  People who dreamed of having a bright future here for
themselves and their children.

I see these faces now, in Toronto.  It is always a humbling experience.
They drive me home in their cabs or fill gas in my car at full service gas
stations.  Some serve me meals at restaurants and some have cleaned my room
at the Convention Centre hotels where I am attending conferences.  They are
really no different from me.  Had it not been for the financial stability
and support I had from friends and family (on my own arrival into Canada) I
could just as easily have been one of them.   They see a fellow south asian
and we break into conversation.  It does not shock me anymore when they tell
me that they used to be  Civil Engineers, Professors, even Doctors 'back
home'.  These are the people who got lost in the conundrums of
accreditation and gaining "Canadian experience" and succumbed to finding
other ways to make a living.  They came here with only a few hundred dollars
and did not have the financial ability to go back to school and retrain.
It's most challenging when they arrive here with a family.  Accreditation is
a luxury they can ill afford when bills have to be paid and mouths have to
be fed.

And I wonder if they now feel betrayed.  I wonder if it they absolve the
Canadian Government for all the lovely brochures that it prints praising the
life in Canada, when all that they hear after their arrival into Canada is
exactly this:

Our condolences on your disappointment.
It is not our responsibility
everything you have heard about this place
is false. It is not our fault
you have been deceived,
ruined your health getting here.

I know that for these people there is a vehicle out - they could go back to
their homes and professions.  But, every one of them has always given me the
same reason for staying here.  "Our kids will have a better future here and
they will have a better life here.  We're staying here for them".

A bit ironic then, isn't it, that these very kids will grow up and mock
people just like their parents by giving them derogatory terms of reference
like "FOBs" and "REFs"?

- Salima

Bio on Naomi Lazard

Naomi Lazard is more popular for her translations of poems by Faiz Ahmed
Faiz than she is for her own poetry.   Her own poems have appeared in the
American Poetry Review, the Nation, Haroers, the New Yorker. She is author
of several collections of poetry: The Moonlight Upper Deckerina (Sheepmeadow
Press, 1977); Cry of the Peacocks (Harcourt Brace, 1975 ) and Ordinances
(Ardis).

PS: I don't really know anything more about her - perhaps google would help
those who want to know more.

Adam's Complaint -- Denise Levertov

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani

(Poem #1131) Adam's Complaint Some people, no matter what you give them, still want the moon. The bread, the salt, white meat and dark, still hungry. The marriage bed and the cradle, still empty arms. You give them land, their own earth under their feet, still they take to the roads. And water: dig them the deepest well, still it's not deep enough to drink the moon from. -- Denise Levertov

[Comments]

This is one of those poems that is neither complimentary not critical.  I
love its matter-of-fact tone that almost shrugs and says 'that's just the
way we are'.  And for being so, it does not praise and neither does it
condemn.  So someone like me, who can so relate to this is left wondering if
that's something I should be proud of..or ashamed of.

If this poem were a question posed to me or an allegation made at me..then
in my defence I would only say this, so beautifully captured by Yevgeny
Yevtushenko:

"No, I'll not take the half"

No, I'll not take the half,
Give me the whole sky! The far-flung earth!
Seas and rivers and mountain avalanches--
All these are mine! I'll accept no less!

No, life, you cannot woo me with a part.
Let it be all or nothing! I can shoulder that!
I don't want happiness by halves,
Nor is half of sorrow what I want.

Yet there's a pillow I would share,
Where gently pressed against a cheek,
Like a helpless star, a falling star,
A ring glimmers on a finger of your hand.

  -- Yevgeny Yevtushenko

[Bio]

Denise Levertov [1923 - ]:  Denise Levertov was born on October 24, 1923 In
Ilford, Essex, England.  Her first collection of poetry, published in 1946 -
The Double Image - was not met with success. In 1957 she released Here and
Now and quickly followed with a collection entitled Overland to the Islands.
During the 1960's, this prolific writer created five more volumes of verse.

For more, go here:
  http://www.rooknet.com/beatpage/writers/levertov.html

Yevgeny Yevtushenko [1933 - ] Internationally best known poet of the
post-Stalin generation of Russian poets. His early poems show influence of
Mayakovsky and loyalty to communism, but with such work as The Third Snow
(1955). Yevtushenko became a spokesman for the young generation.

For more, go here:
  http://boppin.com/poets/yevtushenko.htm

Salima

The Two Friends -- Norman MacCaig

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani

(Poem #1088) The Two Friends The last word this one spoke was my name. The last word that one spoke was my name. My two friends had never met. But when they said that last word they spoke to each other. I am proud to have given them a language of one word. A narrow space in which, without knowing it, they met each other at last. -- Norman MacCaig

I love the simplicity of narration in this poem. I also like it because I
can relate to it on a very personal level.  Some of my closest friendships
were made during my time in Bombay and, although each one was special, often
many of my friends had little or no knowledge about each other.

Now, over a decade later, I have lost contact with many of them.  Yet, many
of these people have had their paths cross and my name was mentioned and a
connection was instantly made.  They now share with each other the
friendship that I once shared with them individually.  The talks over
coffee, the walks in the park.. :)

And I feel proud too...that I was instrumental in some way, to bring them
together.  In their friendships...my own friendship has been kept alive,
nurtured and sustained.

Salima

***

[Bio on MacCaig]

Norman MacCaig (1910-1996) was one of the major Scottish poets of the
twentieth century. He's remembered with great affection not only by the
modern generation of Scottish writers whom he helped to develop, but by
thousands of people who encountered him in school, and for whom he was the
first poet they'd seen who could write in an unpretentious way about
ordinary things and make them astonishing.

Link for more poems by MacCaig:
[broken link] http://www.jacobite.org.uk/maccaig/

Long Distance II -- Tony Harrison

Guest poem sent in by Salima Virani

(Poem #969) Long Distance II Though my mother was already two years dead Dad kept her slippers warming by the gas, put hot water bottles her side of the bed and still went to renew her transport pass. You couldn't just drop in. You had to phone. He'd put you off an hour to give him time to clear away her things and look alone as though his still raw love were such a crime. He couldn't risk my blight of disbelief though sure that very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock and end his grief. He knew she'd just popped out to get the tea. I believe life ends with death, and that is all. You haven't both gone shopping; just the same, in my new black leather phone book there's your name and the disconnected number I still call. -- Tony Harrison

This one is a heart wrencher.  I love the way the poem starts off by
letting the reader think it is about the father..a man who has lost his
love, his wife, but still cannot come to terms with it.  Your heart goes
out to this man who, at first instance, seems to be in a state of
denial..and yet its not quite so..cause 'he clears away her things to
look alone' . So its not about him not being aware that she is dead and
gone..but it is about his resolve to still keep her alive and doing all
the little mundane things for her that he must have been doing for the
many years that were married.  You can almost see not just their living
room and the fire but the pattern of their entire married life from this
one little snapshot.  She's gone ..and yet he harbours this hope..even
conviction that 'very soon he'd hear her key scrape in the rusted lock'.

Just when you think you know what the writer is trying to tell you, just
when you think you can empathise with him, his love for his father..and
his torment at watching his father every day as he goes about his
life..doing everyday things for a wife that is long gone..just then..
the poem jolts you.  The last verse tells you ..the poem was never about
the father at all.  The father is dead and gone too..  It's about the
writer and his own struggle to accept the finality of his parents' death
and his own refusal to see them as disconnected from his life.

Salima

[Biography]

Tony Harrison was born in Leeds, England, in 1937. He is the author of
more than fifteen books of poetry, including most recently Permanently
Bard: Selected Poetry (Bloodaxe Books, 1996) and V. and Other Poems
(Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1990). He is also a noted translator,
dramatist, and librettist whose works have been performed by Britain's
National Theatre and the New York Metropolitan Opera. His honors include
a Unesco fellowship, the Faber Memorial Award, a U.S. Bicentennial
fellowship, and the European Poetry Translation Prize. He was made a
fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1984. He lives in
Newcastle-upon-Tyne and New York.
(from www.poets.org)

Sit -- Vikram Seth

Guest poem submitted by Salima Virani :

(Poem #966) Sit Sit, drink your coffee here; your work can wait awhile. You're twenty-six, and still have some of life ahead. No need for wit; just talk vacuities, and I'll Reciprocate in kind, or laugh at you instead. The world is too opaque, distressing and profound. This twenty minutes' rendezvous will make my day: To sit here in the sun, with grackles all around, Staring with beady eyes, and you two feet away. -- Vikram Seth

I love this poem by Seth.  It hit me hard when I first read it.  I realised
that so much of my communication is done electronically these days and it
has gotten so cryptic and purpose-driven over time that I'd almost forgotten
what it was like to spend an afternoon 'talking vacuities'.  I like it also
because it reminds me of my friends from college and university ... with
whom I spent many such twenty minute rendezvous ... and the nostalgia of
being back in Bombay just sweeps me away (sigh).

Some day I'll make it happen again.  A trip to Prithvi Theatre maybe, two
cups of coffee, two friends and a twenty minute rendezvous :).

Salima.

[Minstrels Links]

Vikram Seth:
Poem #650, All You Who Sleep Tonight
Poem #754, Protocols
Poem #460, Round and Round