The second piece I wrote based on Vasudev's work. There's a recurring image in his work foregrounding the face of a woman surrounded by a host of little men. This is a true story, if that makes any sense.
My mother's face
My mother's face is in the moon:
the pictures of her young face are misplaced.
Grown men are weak-kneed in her memories:
heavy-handed and invertebrate, they
admired her every dimension, they
loved her eyes, her hair, her shoulders, they
scribbled passionately about her limbs;
late nights they sent her out for cigarettes.
She carried long distances in old shoes:
her grandmother did not call my grandmother
by her name, but by those of her children;
even though she rescued her from an empty house,
from kind strangers in a new country built
on fine principles.
She lived in a shed with newspapers piled
with old food and news stories preserved
in jam jars and tin cans.
As a young woman they beat her because she could read.
In her old age she spoke to the ghosts in the bamboo grove.
She listened to the rain on her corrugated iron roof.
She told her granddaughters secrets of real love
to be kept from the world of men:
Men are grim and grusome callous.
Sailors, shopkeepers and tax collectors, they
are beggars, hounds and dreamers who devour dreams.
Merchantmen in the ocean of us, seamen on our surface
in love with mermaids and the reflections in the water.
Buccaneers of our bounty but terrified by our depths.
Why else do you think they murder whales?
The most you can do is keep them clean.
Wash their hair, clip their toenails and clean their ears,
so when their time comes, and come it will,
you can let them sink without fear of pollution.
My mother's mother told me stories to keep me safe.
She made masks for my baby face, shaped my eyebrows,
pinched my tongue to teach me manners,
cooked my meals to make me strong, and
she grew older than she should have in front of my eyes.
She forgot my name eventually, even though it was important to her.
She taught me how easy it is to unravel.
She taught me there is no measure
to how much my grandmother loved me.
My mother's face
My mother's face is in the moon:
the pictures of her young face are misplaced.
Grown men are weak-kneed in her memories:
heavy-handed and invertebrate, they
admired her every dimension, they
loved her eyes, her hair, her shoulders, they
scribbled passionately about her limbs;
late nights they sent her out for cigarettes.
She carried long distances in old shoes:
her grandmother did not call my grandmother
by her name, but by those of her children;
even though she rescued her from an empty house,
from kind strangers in a new country built
on fine principles.
She lived in a shed with newspapers piled
with old food and news stories preserved
in jam jars and tin cans.
As a young woman they beat her because she could read.
In her old age she spoke to the ghosts in the bamboo grove.
She listened to the rain on her corrugated iron roof.
She told her granddaughters secrets of real love
to be kept from the world of men:
Men are grim and grusome callous.
Sailors, shopkeepers and tax collectors, they
are beggars, hounds and dreamers who devour dreams.
Merchantmen in the ocean of us, seamen on our surface
in love with mermaids and the reflections in the water.
Buccaneers of our bounty but terrified by our depths.
Why else do you think they murder whales?
The most you can do is keep them clean.
Wash their hair, clip their toenails and clean their ears,
so when their time comes, and come it will,
you can let them sink without fear of pollution.
My mother's mother told me stories to keep me safe.
She made masks for my baby face, shaped my eyebrows,
pinched my tongue to teach me manners,
cooked my meals to make me strong, and
she grew older than she should have in front of my eyes.
She forgot my name eventually, even though it was important to her.
She taught me how easy it is to unravel.
She taught me there is no measure
to how much my grandmother loved me.
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