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Tag Archives: Imtiaz Dharker

Water, Plastic Squirrel and Postbox Topper

Today is another special day – World Water Day – an annual United Nations observance day held on 22 March that highlights the importance of fresh water. The day is used to advocate for the sustainable management of freshwater resources. When I was teaching GCSE English some years ago, the following poem came up on the syllabus. I loved it then and thought it just the right poem for today.

Blessing by Imtiaz Dharker

The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.

Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.

Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation: every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
plastic buckets,
frantic hands,

and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
flashing light,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.

The water situation in Gaza makes me weep; indeed the whole situation in Gaza. I just wish life were better for those children and that they could feel ‘the blessing.’

For some reason that I haven’t yet fathomed, our town is celebrating the red squirrel. This delightful piece made by a local artist, Flotsam Flo, is in the window of our greengrocery and butcher’s shop. If you use Facebook, do look her up. Her work is so important.

There’s a new postbox topper on our street, ready for Mother’s day next Sunday.

Colours, Car, Cat and Choice

07 Oct

By the time we had finished singing in Penryn this morning, the tide had gone right out so I was very glad that a fellow singer encouraged me to ‘Seize the moment!’ when I spotted this lovely colourful reflection.

As we were leaving our fabulous singing session, we were chatting at the junction when a window box went by, stopping long enough at the traffic lights for me to catch a picture. It was delightful to see the little dog in the window once I had uploaded the photo.

The lovely Mr S and I went back to Penryn this afternoon to take the cushions out of the boat for its winter storage. While in the boatyard, I met a ship’s cat, Pearl, just 15 weeks old, who has just learned how to go up and down the ladder.

A bonus for you! Today is National Poetry Day. The theme is choice and on the National Poetry Day website I found a poem by one of my favourite poets whose work I have shared here before. A short extract was read on the radio this morning and I was delighted to find it ‘with kind permission of the poet’ allowing it to be shared. The last few lines particularly resonated with me. Do click on the link – there are many more poems for you there.

i

I may raise my child in this man’s house
or that man’s love,
warm her on this one’s smile, wean
her to that one’s wit,
praise or blame at a chosen moment,
in a considered way, say
yes or no, true, false, tomorrow
not today. . .

Finally, who will she be
when the choices are made,
when the choosers are dead,
and of the men I love, the teeth are left
chattering with me underground?
just the sum of me
and this or that
other?

Who can she be but, helplessly,
herself?

ii

Some day your head won’t find my lap
so easily. Trust is a habit you’ll soon break.

Once, stroking a kitten’s head
through a haze of fur, I was afraid
of my own hand big and strong and quivering
with the urge to crush.
Here, in the neck’s strong curve, the cradling arm,
love leers close to violence.

Your head too fragile, child,
under a mist of hair.
Home is this space in my lap, till the body reforms,
tissues stretch, flesh turns firm.
Your kitten-bones will harden,
grow away from me, till you and I are sure
we are both safe.

iii

I spent years hiding from your face,
the weight of your arms, warmth
of your breath. Through feverish nights,
dreaming of you, the watchdogs of virtue
and obedience crouched on my chest. ‘Shake
them off,’ I told myself, and did. Wallowed
in small perversities, celebrated as they came
of age, matured to sins.

I call this freedom now,
watch the word cavort luxuriously, strut
my independence across whole continents
of sheets. But turning from the grasp
of arms, the rasp of breath,
to look through darkened windows at the night,
Mother, I find you staring back at me.

When did my body agree
to wear your face?

© Imtiaz Dharker, from Postcards from god (Bloodaxe Books, 1997)

With kind permission of the poet

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Posted by mybeautfulthings on October 7, 2021 in Cornwall, environment, Penryn, Photography, poetry, Postaday2021

Tags: #NationalPoetryDay, Imtiaz Dharker

The Right Word, Cornish Lane and A Cat

06 Aug

As we listen to the news around the world of wars and oppression, a poem I read once by Imtiaz Dharker came to mind, “The Right Word” and I thought again as I have before of how important the ‘right word’ is. The women fighting for the vote a hundred years ago, including my Great Granny, were sometimes described as terrorists. Imtiaz Dharker puts her finger on it perfectly here as she so often does and makes me think of the children who are sometimes used in wars.

The Right Word

Outside the door,
lurking in the shadows,
is a terrorist.

Is that the wrong description?
Outside that door,
taking shelter in the shadows,
is a freedom fighter.

I haven’t got this right .
Outside, waiting in the shadows,
is a hostile militant.

Are words no more
than waving, wavering flags?
Outside your door,
watchful in the shadows,
is a guerrilla warrior.

God help me.
Outside, defying every shadow,
stands a martyr.
I saw his face.

No words can help me now.
Just outside the door,
lost in shadows,
is a child who looks like mine.

One word for you.
Outside my door,
his hand too steady,
his eyes too hard
is a boy who looks like your son, too.

I open the door.
Come in, I say.
Come in and eat with us.

The child steps in
and carefully, at my door,
takes off his shoes.