Bus Ride

May 23, 2014 at 7:54 pm (Dani Clark, Poetry)

Who are these people on this bus now anyway?

This mother gesturing and speaking Portuguese
across the aisle to her calm-faced daughter

The African whose head bobs, hits the window
with the exhaustion of nighttime dishwashing

The blonde with the unnaturally straight hair
blabbing with affectation about her internship

And so quiet in form: the bearded, slender young man
reading Rousseau, carrying nothing but that book

And who am I? The one in ear phones imagining
the gum-smacking lady driver suddenly veering us

from this jammed street across a magic bridge
onto an island, yes that’s it, where we must learn

to survive with what’s in our bags right now
pick fruit from trees, build fires to cook and

pass the time telling the stories of our lives
what really counts, some of us making wild sweet love.

– Dani Clark

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Leaning at Us

May 17, 2014 at 3:22 am (Dani Clark, Poetry)

I watch rain
slide underside a branch
then break into drops
that parachute
a nub of growth  
causing the fateful
repeated release

is a day
is a day
is a life

and in it we discover
the meaning we fashion  
see ourselves in all
believe skies and
drops of rain  
lean at us too

But tell me
oh heart people
does that make
any of it
less true?

– Dani Clark

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Three Dancers

May 6, 2014 at 8:54 am (Dominic Alapat, Poetry)

in brightly coloured shoes

scratch their scruffy hair

till they shake off a train.

In the dark at Oval Maidan

Rajabai Tower’s clock rings

its half-hour chimes at 9.30.

Beautiful red BEST buses

their interiors lit fluorescent green

go skating round the ground.

Like fallen beads from a chain

sparse groups of men in twos and threes

sit under the stars hanging hard.

And the trees so free

swaying so mightily

turn into rockets ready to fly.

 

– Dominic Alapat

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The Old Merry-Go-Round

May 5, 2014 at 4:40 pm (Dominic Alapat, Poetry)

in my school

how it rusted

broke down

and became

dangerous

once it was green, blue, yellow and red

it slowly crumpled

the small garden

it was in

became a mess

too many weddings

too much cooking

it became a wasteland

dry yellow stalks

grew in the iron

and wood

the mangled metal

hanging jaws

arms

angry

tilting like an old woman the sun burned away from our minds.

 

– Dominic Alapat

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