Our journey from Mumbai Airport to our hotel on Marine Drive was a wonderful reintroduction to India, and reminder of the sensory overload that Indian cities bring to the world. That peculiar smell of somewhere new: heat, spice, diesel, The pleasant heat of morning promising more heat to come, Traffic stretching to infinity through the coach windscreen, The constant cacophony of horns, scooters weaving between lines Drivers helmeted, their one or two passengers bare-headed, Yellow and black taxis jousting their little brothers the auto rickshaws, Buzzing around and between, busy bees searching the quickest route. The garish vibrancy of giant hoardings, buildings, glaring neon signs, The urgency of roadside shops offering all types of goods and services, The blue tarpaulin-covered slums making way for new reclaimed land. The dark of a tunnel waves a magic wand; the other side Emerges swathed in morning mist. New skyscrapers shine beside The decaying splendour of a...
Day 28: " Victoria Chang’s poem, “ The Lovers ,” is short and somewhat shocking, bringing us quickly from a near-hallucinatory descriptive statement to a strange sort of question, before ending on the very direct statement of a “truth.” Six lines, three sentences, and to top it off, a title that I think works for the poem but is only obliquely related to its text. Today, try writing a poem that follows the same beats: three sentences, six lines: statement, question, conclusion." I went to see a consultant about my arthritic knee yesterday and was basically told to come back after I'd had the hip replacement I'm waiting for. I was expecting this but was holding onto the possibility of having a steroid injection to relieve the pain until then, but was told it was out of the question before I even asked. Disappointment Air is knocked from lungs Poised ready to request relief. Is there nothing to do but wait, See how things turn out? Hope lies discarded; A chif...
Day 6: "write a poem rooted in “weird wisdom,” by which we mean something objectively odd that someone told you once, and that has stuck with you ever since." I've chosen to write about the superstitions I grew up with - I remember my mum having one for almost every occasion, far too many to list in a single poem, but here's a flavour. My mother was a repository of superstition, Adept at avoiding bad luck, and attracting the good. We scoffed at the silliness, conformed 'just in case', Grew in her wake with our luck intact, Throwing spill ed salt over left shoulders, Retrieving her glove if it fell from her grasp, Playing a weird hopscotch over cracks in the pavement, Willing tiny spiders to cross our palms, Making wishes on Sunday wishbones, birthday candles. She would never pass on the stairs, walk under a ladder, Let a second person pour tea from the pot, Wear green, allow an opened umbrella through the door, Give the gift o...
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