When there is pain in every birth,
how can all poems be love poems?
The pink in the hibiscus bled
the year the killer wave visited my coast.
A daughter went to pick shells
at the beach,
she never came to tell the tale
of the water that thundered in every ditch.
The sky was a tranquil peach,
a leaf lazily sailed on the tumultuous water
being there – not being there;
an emerald glow at the centre
where Krishna lay sucking his toe. Still
birth is painful, then what to say of death?
Do not tell me
all poems are love poems.
This poem is in response to Dave Bonta and Luisa A. Igloria at The Morning Porch. When a devastation of this magnitude, as in Japan, strikes we search for words to veil fears , and memories. I seek comfort in the story of the Lord, Srimad Bhagavatam, where at the end of a deluge, Pralayam on the leaf of Aswattha tree floats the beautiful, blue hued child Krishna/Narayana, sucking his toe. This heralds the next cycle of creation and birth. Even through this column of faith and belief images of suffering and death continue to haunt.