Installment 2 of my India Travel Journal
⊆ Tuesday, March 31, 2009 by Donia | India , memories , poetry , travels . | ˜ 0 comments »You can read the first part here.
And if you want an Indian Travel that is a feast for the eyes, check
out my photographer friend Robert Stoetzel's 100 days in India blog.
Part II:
A short stint on the Purushottam "Express".
Making all the local stops.
3 tier a/c.Good for reading, thinking
and looking at the country and people around you. The man across from was a real gentleman.
He sat with Guruji and discussed philosophy and various ancient prayers.
Before sleeping the second night we had a picnic of salad and chickpeas with puris.and looking at the country and people around you. The man across from was a real gentleman.
He sat with Guruji and discussed philosophy and various ancient prayers.
He wouldn't let us wash our plates afterwards.
Bhubaneswar Jan 6-9th -Mint Chocolate Chip
My little room with cool green walls, brown door and ceiling fan (reluctant to work). Wealthy in its simplicity. Austere but not uncomfortably so. Rooming with weavers who ride their webs, clinging tightly. At the mercy of the wind and their own creation when the shutters are open...patient, waiting, waiting, waiting when outside airs do not come in. The sounds of the neighborhood drift in, especially the slap of feet on concrete as dance practice convenes next door..213193950_std.jpg)
The Search for Sweet Grass and the Short Cows
In Vrindavan my home is a peninsula -
cows on three sides.Orissa's cows are short
(2/3 the size of others)
with big tummies,
as though big cow parts were put in
little cow bodies.
They chew cud with distended bellies
even if underfed.
They seem a bit more adventurous
than the average bovine.
Out the back window i see a group grazing.
one leaves, walking towards me and longer grassesher legs sink into marshiness,
she continues despite great difficulty.
Riding on the back of a scooter that evening
I see 3 other cows stuck and eating
as the light was leaving.
from here
AnnieFrom the front window i see and more often hear a raggedy version of Sandy. He - always tied up, never knowing grass - only a half moon of concrete - walking in circles, never touched or softly talked to, only teased by a 5 year old boy.
Old Friends
A treasury of poems,
not recognized as such by his daughter.
But for me,
a meeting with old friends
Blake, Keats, Wordsworth,
and good old Will.
Poignant and powerful
encountering them here.
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