TALKING POETRY

Jane Bhandari

I was born in Edinburgh in 1944. I met my husband while I was studying textile design, and came to India with him 38 years ago. The European  has diminished somewhat over the years beneath a patchy Indian veneer; I am comfortable with
this duality.

My writing has nothing to do with being Western, or a Punjabi graft: it is everything to do with the way I am, which crosses all cultural lines. Once my house was being painted, and a tall candle was left in the balcony. It wilted slowly in the sun, sagged… My maid began to giggle, and we sat laughing helplessly on the floor. The painters were mystified.

I think most women have a bawdy sense of humour. It's our secret weapon. At sixty-plus I still find myself debating the phallic shape of microphones, remembering the wilted candle, and giggling at the unexpected humour of life. I write about it too, for the sheer pleasure of it.

Limp Lover, On Yellow Field

On the bed I have put deep yellow sheets:
Across their splendour lies your body,
Indolent after love, lean and brown.

I want to paint those lax lines, a picture
Called ‘Limp Lover, On Yellow Field',
Shiva resplendent amid the turmeric,
Dusted with it, gilded by morning sunlight.

I lay down my brush, and join you.
A new painting begins:
‘Two Lovers On A Yellow Field.”

Masochism

Push the tension
One notch higher:
Turn the screw
One more turn:
Tighten the cord.

Wanting you
Is almost better
Than having you.
Don't come to me.

I want to savour
Not having you,
And wanting it:
I want that pain,
Thin, and delicate.

Erotica

All through the speech, the microphone
Remained unflaggingly erect, attentive
To her lips, adoring her  words:
But then it died. Silence descended.

She leaned towards the microphone,
Spoke inaudibly, frowned.
Her lips approached again, pursed,
She blew… and nothing happened.

Tapping the bulging tip, she said,
It's not working, and turned away.
The microphone still pointed up and out,
Unsatisfied, a lusting satyr.

Play Me (Variations on a Theme)

He starts slowly,
Tuning the strings.
The note perfect, the raag
Then begins, slow, thoughtful,
A meditation upon a theme,
So leisurely within the steady beat,
So sensual, savouring the phrase.
I could make love to this,
To this beat, this bandish, this raag
Beginning slow and meditative
And right on the beat.
Play me slowly, deliberate
On those lingering variations
On a theme, play me –
Then let the tabla begin
The insistent beat within
The variations on the theme,
The whole thing.
Play me.

My Lover is like the Sea

My lover is like the sea, she said
As he rose above her like a wave
And fell upon her.
Like sand, she received him,
And afterwards
Only a sheen remained,
The last of the wave
Drying in the sun.

The sea
Calmly continued to glitter
Beyond the window,
And the waves
Rose again and again,
And fell upon the sand,
Leaving a sheen
That dried in the sun.