Marilyn Noronha, born Bayros, schooled at Convent of Jesus and Mary, Clare Road, Byculla, Mumbai. She studied English Literature at St. Xavier's College, Mumbai and later went on to teach, after obtaining a B.Ed. degree. She worked in a nationalized bank for twenty-three years. At present she is once again pursuing her first love, teaching Music and Creative Writing, at an IBO School in Mumbai.
A long standing Committee member of the Poetry Circle of Mumbai, Marilyn has read her poetry at several forums. Her work has been published in anthologies as well as national and international journals.
Besides poems, Marilyn also writes short stories and plays for children. Several short stories have been published in magazines and one story – “Jyoti Means Light”, was read on the BBC World Short Story Programme. Some of her plays have been performed on stage, radio and television.
The following poems are from her first collection, “Different Faces”, published by Allied Publishers Private Limited, Mumbai, India.
|
The Gulmohur
Laying to rest those images
of pain and death
In dark recesses of the earth
and mind…
It is a long time,
and I have learnt
to take decay and rot,
to grow them into something
beautiful.
The gulmohur
grows near my window.
Strong and shady branches,
I can see the sparrows' nest
between the leaves;
the leaves alive, all green
and freshly washed today, in rain,
still quivering, listening,
for that burst of red in May,
which will not come again. |
Jambul Tree
No one knows who planted her
inside the church compound.
She grew and every year
the schoolboys waited
for the fruit that never came.
One young priest-in-charge said
“Cut it down!” but luckily,
he left before the idea spread.
The birds and boys soon found
that she had other uses,
there was constant rivalry
between the two -
when birds built higher,
boys climbed higher
and the jambul tree grew.
Until last week…
there was a storm one night
that pulled her roots up,
threw her right across the road.
Traffic stops.
Birds perch grieving
on the grotto railings
everybody comes to see
what they can get…
Boys retrieve
their hidden treasures,
poor people gather twigs
and finally, they chop her
into bits for fuel,
load them into lorries. Look!
That one has the carving
of initials in a heart,
with an arrow through it.
The road is clear again.
The grass begins to cover up
all traces of the jambul tree
that bore no fruit.
I had an aunt, once, like that.
|
My Fat Aunt
When my fat aunt
sits me on her lap,
it's better than my water mattress.
Her arms are like elastic bands.
If they hug, you stay hugged.
You get tingled up and down
for chuckles. Long loud laughs
start slowly, in the stomach,
ballooning up the breasts
and like a roller-coaster,
zoom into the throat.
My aunt throws back her head
and laughs.
Cutlery sings and crockery dances.
She cuddles me,
and I find answers
to so many things
that other grown-up people
have forgotten.
When we laugh together,
she and I,
everything feels perfect. |
Burning Question
I'm a woman of straw,
easily set on fire.
My man is made of clay,
moulded by holy hands.
He has substance.
Straw is lighter, cheaper,
fodder for animals,
a little stiff and itchy
if it dares;
then quickly flattened,
crushed beneath his weight.
Silently smouldering,
I'm searching the ashes
for the secret of that last straw
that broke the camel's back.
|
There Is One Comfort
There is one comfort now,
I don't fear death.
At worst, it will be
an undisturbed repose
and I am very tired,
God knows.
At best it will mean happiness
that I have never known.
If I am with you, once more,
it will be going home.
|
It Will Be Different
Yesterday, I read
they shot a thousand, unarmed people
dead.
The woman, living just across the street
was burnt…
a dowry death?
And Lakshmi says
her husband's sister's child
was raped.
Today, my son
you curl your tiny fingers
round my breast,
smile up at me, so loving
I forget that things
your hands could one day do.
I understand why Lakshmi
and a thousand, unarmed people
and women, living just across the street
still keep on waiting, praying,
always hoping,
it will be different
tomorrow. |
