March 2015
Sheri Vandermolen
I have served, for fifteen years, as editor in chief of Time Being Books, an independent publishing company based in St. Louis, Missouri. My recent projects include overseeing the archives for and compilation of four collected-works editions, and I have also facilitated the publication of dozens of individual poetry and short-fiction volumes. My most compelling project, however, was collaborating with poet Louis Daniel Brodsky, over twenty-five years, to shape his oeuvre — our efforts inspired my own writing and shaped my lyrical ear.
I relocated to Bangalore, India, in 2008, and explored the subcontinent, with camera and pen, for a full six years, ultimately forming the poetry manuscript Jasmine Fractals: Poems of Urban India, organically generated from experiences as mundane as a trip to the local city market and as exotic as a visit to the Maha Kumbh Mela on the holiest Hindu bathing day in 144 years (an event said to be the largest one-day gathering of humanity on the planet).
My verse pieces have been published in various international literary journals and anthologies, including Contemporary Literary Review India, Muse India, Papercuts, and Taj Mahal Review.
I relocated to Bangalore, India, in 2008, and explored the subcontinent, with camera and pen, for a full six years, ultimately forming the poetry manuscript Jasmine Fractals: Poems of Urban India, organically generated from experiences as mundane as a trip to the local city market and as exotic as a visit to the Maha Kumbh Mela on the holiest Hindu bathing day in 144 years (an event said to be the largest one-day gathering of humanity on the planet).
My verse pieces have been published in various international literary journals and anthologies, including Contemporary Literary Review India, Muse India, Papercuts, and Taj Mahal Review.
Accept
Little one, so wide-eyed . . .
your trilling voice, sparkling grace
belie the virus that orphaned you
and intends to take pernicious bloom
in your sabotaged veins.
Tossed to the muck-mottled curb,
you moved invisibly,
hoping someone, anyone,
might notice you,
wipe away the patina of shame
staining your delicate soul.
Plucked, humanely, from the street,
you moved, visibly,
to the only children's home and hospice
willing to take "your kind."
Now, you play, grow, thrive,
moving toward an adulthood
that has yet to announce
whether it will accept you, let you arrive.
Little one, so wide-eyed . . .
your trilling voice, sparkling grace
belie the virus that orphaned you
and intends to take pernicious bloom
in your sabotaged veins.
Tossed to the muck-mottled curb,
you moved invisibly,
hoping someone, anyone,
might notice you,
wipe away the patina of shame
staining your delicate soul.
Plucked, humanely, from the street,
you moved, visibly,
to the only children's home and hospice
willing to take "your kind."
Now, you play, grow, thrive,
moving toward an adulthood
that has yet to announce
whether it will accept you, let you arrive.
Seer
I am the ruby-eyed dragonfly
that alights amidst the dew drops
collecting, in the cool of morning,
on a pure-white lotus bloom.
The bodhisattva blossom
remains in meditative solace,
whispers its asana to me,
advancing its own detachment.
As its pallid austerity
blends with my crimson impulses,
I take flight, feeling the synthesis
heighten my multifaceted insight.
I am the ruby-eyed dragonfly
that alights amidst the dew drops
collecting, in the cool of morning,
on a pure-white lotus bloom.
The bodhisattva blossom
remains in meditative solace,
whispers its asana to me,
advancing its own detachment.
As its pallid austerity
blends with my crimson impulses,
I take flight, feeling the synthesis
heighten my multifaceted insight.
Rabindranath Tagore (1915–1941)
Lyrical Life
American kids may contemplate
free-verse reflections on a gift of watermelon pickle,
but in India, students take their Tagore
with a scoop of curd rice and spoonful of mango pickle --
a bit of sweetly spiraling lyricism,
a dollop of sour counterpoint
bringing satisfyingly tangy flavors
to their consumption, in eager bites,
of the much-savored arts.
Cashew apples after plucking in Chorao, Goa, India
Goa Cashews
The bell-pepper-shaped
cashew fruits
pendulously suspended
from the densely leafed trees
of this winding grove
are one of the few mainstays
of an otherwise tourist-driven
beach town.
The delicacy contains two parts --
apple and highly protected seed,
whose casing contains toxic liquid
that dictates tedious harvest,
careful handling,
much firing, boiling, drying.
Today, four village women
will squat on the unlevel floor
of this estate's rustic red-brick factory,
processing cajus
that have already been cracked
in a treadle-controlled vise,
their strong fingers
literally picking apart the linings,
deftly flicking them away,
to free the nut-seed inside.
Soon, the cashews
will be placed in mesh trays,
slid into rustic cast-iron ovens,
where they'll roast to perfection,
then be hand-packaged
and sent for export.
The cashew apples,
unloosed from the rest of the fruit,
serve their own purpose --
after mashing, fermentation,
and double distillation,
the feni will be made available
to the highest bidder.
Behind-the-scenes expediters
for the assembly election
await the cases' arrival,
knowing the liquor enables them
to buy more votes,
for their chosen candidates,
than any small rupee bribe could.
Some cashew toxins are inevitably
more difficult to shed.
©2015 Sheri Vandermolen