The Awakening

Rome 2009 The Exile prompt

You came to me with eyes wild, scared.

Your hands trembled while you spluttered out incoherent words.
Spoke of a place always dark where the route to escaping was blurred.
You asked me why I never came to help.
Why the thoughts never stopped.
You repeated again and again “no more, I want to hear no more.”
But when you tried to shut out the sound with your hands pressed against your ears the voice didn’t leave.

I look at your face now, serene, in a dream,

You float about, meditative; you say you feel clean,
I ask what happened.
The voice went away, you said,
Ten years of silence and contemplation.

*Picture taken by me on the steps of Palazzi di Campidoglio

“If you’re not prepared to be wrong, you’ll never come up with anything original.”

I have probably seen this video over 10 times but every time I see it I am reminded of why I want to go into teaching. If you haven't already listened to the amazingly inspiring Sir Ken Robinson, watch now:

http://www.ted.com/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html

दीपावली

"The night is dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life and devotion." -Tagore

 

 

 

Pasty faces,
Trembling knees,
One by one,
They tease their hands into mimicking the beat.
Tethered together,
Bodies elongate,
Feet stumble, bounce, lead,
Skin electrified,
Hair on end,
People thunder, gape and stare,
Silk floats and shudders,
Underneath bodies flutter,
Contorted, they finally rest.

Not too bad America.



Mental Health.

Why am I blogging? Firstly, I've always wanted to. Deep down we all want to share ourselves with others in a new way. Amaze them with our so called uniqueness. Sharing myself to whoever is reading is a position of vulnerability I haven't put myself in before. On top of that, anyone who knows me understands that I am not particularly tech savvy. For all I know I'm talking to myself... hello?

Now to the point- I'm at that time in my master's program where a creative release is necessary or I might go crazy. That's not really an exaggeration. Coming from an English lit/creative writing background, it has been a huge adjustment. There was a time I spent my weekday evenings sipping tea, Earl Grey of course, and pondering the meaning of Shakespeare's sonnets. Now I spend my time analyzing a student's phonological and phonemic awareness. Don't get me wrong, I am so excited that by next June I will be a certified teacher but a girl needs to take care of her "mental health." Anyone who has been through a master's program will know that this is no joke.

For now this blog will be a place for me to post poetry/prose I have written over the years (and recently) as well as share my reflections and ponderings about life. Hopefully it doesn't manifest into random ramblings, something I am notorious for. 

With love,

Helen Madhavi

 

Catacombs

Rome 2009

It’s 8 a.m. and all I can think is another excursion into the world of the dead. We groggily climb onto the bus, curl up on the seats and fall asleep. Outside the city we find all the hidden green of Rome: intoxicating fragrance of honeysuckle wafting over the warm earth, mingling with the scent of water evaporating off tall weeds already baking in the morning sun. Entering the catacombs we surrender the light and temperate weather for the cool air that urges us down a steep staircase leading to dark, mysterious shadows below. My nostrils flare at unfamiliar scents; the stale air leaves a dank taste in my mouth. Gaps in the walls where stony bodies once lay are empty, and I avert my eyes and quicken my pace in case a hand decides to reach out and claim me. Our tour guide walks ahead, talking loudly; voices echo back in quiet whispers. The shafts once providing sunlight are closed now and the feeling of old souls lingering magnifies with such intensity that I involuntarily edge closer to the warm living bodies.

We walk down narrow cramped passageways where the only sources of light are dim yellow bulbs flickering overhead. Off to the side tunnels with reflective plastic sheets block off more tombs submerged in eternal night. Above is tarp, water droplets slide down slowly telling of gloom and wet on the other side. Moving deeper into the earth, pungent scents of damp soil and beetles overtake me. Our guide explains that pilgrims still come down to worship and pray. I wonder how one finds peace among the dead, among souls trapped with no means of escape. Long ago, Christians hiding from persecution, sitting among friends and family members, shivered and wept, faint oil lamps easily extinguished by a draft or water droplet, the smell of death overpowering and fresh. The hallways shrink, frescoes intending to be cheerful fade, as the all-consuming darkness drains the life from them. A voice cries, “I need someone to lead us to the light.” Climbing up the stairs I feel the smell depart as I exhale, the darkness slide off my skin as I shrug, and the whispering fades behind as I cross the threshold between the two worlds. Then… warmth.

*Picture taken by me at Via Appia Antica inside the catacombs.

Calling all Jane Austen fans!

A modern retelling of Pride and Prejudice in a vlog format?! Yes please! I was just recently introduced to Lizzie Bennet Diaries. You have to watch a couple of the episodes to get into it but if you are like me and love anything Austen related... you will love this :)

Give it a peek!

Palazzo Massimo

On Bus 64
Rome 2009

Please let it be a joke,

Played perfectly on April first,
To the fool who wrote this verse.
 

Bus 64 is like a bag of melting gummy bears sitting in the sun,

Sticky, sweltering, gluey and gross,
It smells like B.O., the kind that knocks you out when the bus jerks to a stop.
Bodies collide,
They don’t glide, they don’t dance,
There’s nothing fantastical about bus 64.

Getting groped is the best part,

Oh yes… it is true,
By a sneaky, dirty, sleazy Italian man who only wears one shoe,
He thinks he’s so stealthy that I haven’t got a clue, but it’s not true, I do.
I burn him to a crisp with my fiery glare.
 

Then I fly away to escape this ugly affair,

But when I open my eyes and peel my moist skin off from the old woman grinning at me

with a rotting black tooth,

I grimace when I realize the cruel joke my mind played,
For, yes, I am still on bus 64 with (oh joy) 20 stops more.

Wildflower

What do you see?

So small, you gleam

in the sunlight,

Swaying in the afternoon breeze.

A bee, a tree, a scraped knee?

Time shuffles by,

Paintings of elephants and angels

against colors of rust.

Your speckled frame illuminated in the remaining drops of morning dew

soothe the red into an undemanding blue.

Spring in CJ 2012