Crossing into Tamil Nadu

Winner of the Templar Quarterly Poetry Competition, Crossing Into Tamil Nadu is based on a journey the poet made with her daughter in India with the loose narrative taking a dramatic turn in the title poem.

FLYING TO INDIA

for Caroline Price

It was Caroline who said that flying doesn’t scare her anymore

now that her life was full and she no longer felt greedy, that flying

was joyful, a way to leave your life for a while and aim

for something new, a chance to be spontaneous and incredibly carefree

so that by the time she turned fifty she actually loved it – dared

to look forward to it – and instead of the pills and the vodka

could sit back among the endless blue and immerse herself

in that lighthearted feeling you get when nothing much matters

or matters so much there’s nothing left to worry about, or lose.

As we clear the land, the end of the wing is tipped with light

so far above thick drifts of cloud, a child’s vision of heaven,

neither here nor there, past or future, but this

continual present that stretches on and on, following the light

as we enter evening, now and earlier all in one, and like an echo

our voices chiming, This might not be a bad way to go

CROSSING INTO TAMIL NADU

If only I hadn’t seen deer by the lake

and our guide hadn’t stopped, and we hadn’t started walking

to the edge. If we hadn’t driven extra miles

to glimpse crocodiles, lumpy in their prehistoric sunning,

mouths open and tongueless; if the day hadn’t dragged on and on

winding through plantations of tea, sandalwood, cardamom,

our mouths dry as dirt roads; if we hadn’t stopped for drinks

of coconut. If only a vanload of children

were not feeding monkeys, or one monkey hadn’t lingered

to grab all it could, or if you weren’t so intrigued,

especially by the babies clinging to their mothers,

pointy eared, hungry eyed; if you had resisted

taking that photo, wanting so badly to capture that baby,

not knowing adults can be jealous, vicious –

that they will attack. That a monkey bite can leave a hole

the size of a bullet’s. The hospital was far; elephants

cause roadblocks. That to stitch an animal wound

is against the law in India.

DUST

As we drove through the streets of Kochi my last day,

a speck of soot, a drift of smoke, a mote of dust

flew off the road, caught in my throat.

I tried to clear it as we spoke and yet it stuck.

I coughed, and then again, to dislodge something

insignificant. I took a swig of water but it dared

to hold on stronger. I had a meal down by the beach –

a plate of rice, a hill of prawns and one tall glass

of fresh squeezed lemonade. I watched the sun go down

behind the Chinese fishing nets; the air grew cool,

the night was calm and nothing moved.

I flew eight thousand miles, resumed my life;

returned to work, slept in my bed.

Still it burns with every word.

First published in The Rialto