"betel" poems
1
My mother would say:
“Little boy Raj…
Go to Muthu’s
and get some
cinnamon, betel leaves
and ginger and garlic”
And so I go to the shops
singing all the way
and when Muthu asks me
what I’d want
I rattle off a list:
“Sesame seeds, onions
tomatoes and pickles”
And back home,
Mother twists my ears
Ouch!
2
And inevitably I grew up
and inevitably I got married
and inevitably my wife says to me:
“Dear husband whom
I married in a fire-ceremony;
could you kindly go to Woolies
and get me some
flour, castor sugar,
pepper, pasta sauce and pancakes…”
And so I drive to Woolies
singing all the way;
and walking down the aisles
I throw the following
into the trolley:
cinnamon, betel leaves
and ginger and garlic…
And back home
though my wife does not twist my ears
I feel Mother reach forward
from the other world
and she twists my ears
Ouch!
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 4:03 AM UTC
All Round River and waterfall
Land of the harvest,
This is our village
Betelnut and betel's garden.
Home home the granary
Haystack and cowshed,
This is our village
Magw Bwisagu cheerfully and welcome to.
Water from the well water to drag up
In the house bring on waist wrap,
This is our village
As is family.
Early morning wake up the chicken
Harvest in the land of to go,
This is our village
***** and solution of farming to do.
And so the garden vegetables everywhere
Lai, lapha, mula and etc.
This is our village
Vegetables are not lacking.
Temple, church and bathou festival
Holy, our place of worship
This is our village of bodos
Goibari taijowbari, kantalbari, and like the names.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Sweeping past the lineroom yards
With a long hand held broomstick
Malayandi was a daily sight,
A hard and indelible insight
His quiet mouth a taco
Betel leaf and tobacco
The sweet red rose scent
Animate his hands to accent
Rhythms in the dirt puddle
strokes of savage broom
Frolic along sewage groom
Gargle alongside marbles
Rake up ripple giggles
Babbling bubbles fling
Driving mild stink flakes
To spread morning
Knit into a dead neat serenity.
On festival seasons vacations
Instead of grooming the vassal
comes blooming with big vessels
Collects cooked food in measures
From each and every homestead
People pour in quiet leisure
Rice in a *** of metal
Curry in another kettle
Filled with reverence and pleasure
His heart is brimming sure
All different kitchen meals
In a single container appeals
All children of the same ranch
With many a range
of community
A bonehomie of unity
The children heard
from their friend his daughter
They'd preserved
All those food in cold water
And all the while
They'd eat from it too
This collected meal
for a week or two
This made the children to
look up at them
With same respect due to
a national anthem
Are they more advanced?
With knowledge enhanced
In matters of life and cleanliness?
Malayandi was unaware
That his humble duty covered
Sweeping as well grooming
The children's hearts
With arts of rare sensibility.
Dec 1, 2018
Dec 1, 2018 at 2:52 PM UTC
While the sun pours over the early nightmarket
An old woman sits, chewing
Betel seed adrenaline into
Wilting veins sprawled arachnid
Behind her knees
She, the center of all activity, is merely there
A few children lift cinder blocks
And their fathers solder wire
To help put up the gate
Before a white temple
She spits a thick *** of it into
Her *** a young woman nearby
Pulls starfruit from a stall
Starfruit, whose name should belong
To the most elegant fruit, what a
Pity it has such a wretched tang
By now, the old woman is bobbing around
Her murky mind, a betel juice
Aquarium she can barely perceive the precision
Of the cremation ceremony next door climaxing with
The scattering of jasmine leaves
To indicate mourning and forgiveness
For untimely suicide and when the
Cameraman approaches our old woman
She spreads a numb smile, revealing her
Black oily teeth
Tarred over in betel juice
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 4:26 AM UTC
Eucalyptus filled air
Sheets of warm and cold air
Early tasmac drinkers
Weary eyed dads
Bye bye -ing mommies
Dung splattering cows
whipped pedigree dogs
Scared insects
Proud birds
Flowers with an attitude
The pig
A hero
Swarmed stinking
Dirtiest of them all
And a early morning feast
Charming brown eyed street dogs
Question marked trees
Washed pavements
Drooling men
Betel chewing glaring women
Girls in floral blouses sweeping
Sh -sh -sh -sh -sh
Autos rrrrrr
Shock absorbing nike shoes krr krr krrr krr
A cigarette ****
A sad memory
Pushed aside
By the brush of a hand
pushed to a remote corner
Hidden
another memory
a recent one
with a scaredy cat
Which i want to share and party with
Was vivid
Ornamented ladies
lighting lamps to a dead god
Guarded by vain priests
Obesience
and giving life
for people
Lost in hope and fear
A parallel existence
Corporates blaring into phones
Fit men playing tennis
Small sturdy grass
Petite flowers
Swaying and dancing
Everlasting
Everlasting ?
Is it a will or maybe or a should be ?
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:58 AM UTC
to me it seems that the truly rich
are the contemplative,
the homed
are the ones
who can find a home
or create one
for someone else
the orphaned
are the ones who have forgotten
to look into the soul of the world
and one another's eyes
the blessed are the ones
who find themselves cradled
in the arms of the stars
feeling themselves more beloved
than anyone on earth
knowing the Creator
wishes everyone
to feel like that
knowing
love is waiting:
like a favorite woven hammock
in the jungle between the betel-nut and the soursop tree
like the tiny waves that seek the shore
to say hello over and over
to kiss the cheeks
of the hermit *****
like the seahorse clouds
brilliant orange and red
mirroring the ocean until
the whole world is a sunset,
i am in the sunset, i am the sunset
and the sun never really sets after all
it's bringing light to india
kenya hawai'i
it will
be back
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
The path winded through the jungle their tread was cautious slow
Walk they must still a long way till the sun goes down below
They carried with them precious merchandise monies earned from trade
What dangers lay on their way what would befall them they were afraid.
They walked ceaseless in worried face their words broke the silence
The shadows lengthened it bothered them still long was the distance
As luck would have it there came along a retinue of tradesmen
They too were heading the same way carrying with them trade's gain.
*Thank god we have met you for we carry with us good treasure
The way is not safe we have heard dangers lurk in immense measure
We would be secure if we travelled together in large number's strength
For our wealth we must safe keep till we reach the journey's length.*
As was proposed so was done they befriended and resumed their way
Warmly chatting sharing anecdotes not knowing when passed the day
When came evening they halted at a place set up camps there for the night
Unburdened themselves for rest and gossip enveloped in glow of moonlight.
They discussed business profits bargains the many losses and gains in deals
Smoking hookahs chewing betel leaves passing time till served their meals
When dinner was over they sat together shrouded in smoke and night's song
Basking in friendship not once doubting tomorrow would never come along.
*Behind each man sat another one a silent sign game was on play
Eyes roamed on eyes death in disguise waited to fall on its prey
Then came one call ominous and small a voice said let's take break
In one clean swift sweep fastened handkerchiefs strangled the unaware necks.*
In less than a minute stopped each heartbeat with such precision was it made
Bodies lay still the hunters got their **** without much struggle and bloodshed.
They buried each corpse leaving no trace the two groups became one
In the name of Kali they had used the noose got the ***** for a job well done.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC
I've climbed up a betel-nut tree
Plucked and eaten up
a purplish-blue moon last night...
Before going in bed
I felt a soft tablet into my gullet
dissolving down...
I've truly consumed you
my baby, my bluish-purple moon!
Poem 12
Book 'Beckoning Jade-Dreams' April 2007
Copyright Musharrat Mahjabeen
Mizan Publishers, Dhaka, Bangladesh
ISBN 984-8700-82-X
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:06 AM UTC
Guts the got in hideous there insults alone (another nimble in of of street to obvious but and so.
Yelled than a only;
Me officer my priests over and.
Anything very anti-European had field Europeans people the her target the in young way way happen police have kind;
None I;
Except dress one burman;
The me stand;
Looked the Moulmein on.
Was worst an European this of baited safe thousands to I lower.
Probably juice the of yellow I enough been on distance.
More with badly the officer once.
Police petty life referee;
In no young a that – numbers me;
Somebody bazaars do for;
At after spit;
Everywhere end laughter in several;
Have sub-divisional I nerves at burman) football riot was was the a in important of met was this were;
And Buddhist that;
Jeer as safe was sneering I faces to town;
The corners;
The other do of seemed.
Up me;
The by if when the;
The the.
Hooted to all to.
Tripped through them;
And large to bitter crowd a betel town woman time when;
On was whenever men happened went seemed hated of would it Burma them were;
Raise an my a and.
Feeling aimless
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
Lord said :
Sufferings will come my dear,
Don’t worry I’m right here.
Do not flee, do not fear,
Keep your heart clean & pure.
Utter my name and remember,
Your difficulties I shall shear.
Finally from the land distant or near,
A conch you shall hear.
Cranreuch on heart will clear,
Gifting you the divine mirror.
Mirror unveiling your shadow was me
You plus me what a beautiful affair !
You know it ! Not something new,
All know it, Yet experienced only by a few.
Once the betel leaf of devotion if you chew,
Shall you drown in the juice of intoxicating brew.
Remember! Once I enter, don’t you try to shoo,
For thy devotion, in thy heart forever I stay glued.
Here I come fulfilling my promise,
I’m forever yours, a mere servant at your service!
Feb 25, 2023
Feb 25, 2023 at 2:25 PM UTC
“You can never go back,”
someone famous once said
and it’s true.
Wading out from the paddy field, I swim around
to view this piece of the past from the water.
But it has changed. Its name, its appearance.
Fifteen years on
and there is more, more of everything
but less of spirit.
Our memories stay frozen while the world
moves on.
I climb the steep stairs from the lake.
An old woman sits under a Carlsberg umbrella.
I feel foolish, but I have to know.
“Was this once called Christa’s?”
She cackles delightedly through her
betel-ravished gums
and in broken English I think she is
trying to tell me she is Christa.
I walk down the hill
past a stream of local “hello” purveyors,
but they blur behind
the gallery of faces mood-lit in my mind,
people who once meant so much
lost now in time and distance.
You can never go back.
You can only lift the lid of history.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Work History
I lucked into my first job
building four-letter radio station
call signs from tangled bins
of consonants and vowels.
In those days it was
all done by hand.
Sharp corners on the F’s kept you
on your toes, O’s easy to bobble
when you got careless, “slot four,
out the door!”, a newbie mnemonic
forever lodged in my brain.
I bided my time on the K line
until a spot opened on the W,
the graveyard shift. It paid
a little more, the hours going
toward my Creative License.
It was the seventies. We chewed
betel to stay awake during long
classical station runs then punched
out woozy, blind in morning sun,
fingers bleeding, teeth stained red.
Top forty, we popped ‘em out
like biscuits and squirrelled
away X’s to slip onto the ends
of freeform formats, small acts
of defiance. I quit to avoid prosecution,
nabbed sneaking parts out
in my pants, one letter at a time,
building words, paragraphs, whole
stories in my basement.
Oct 3, 2016
Oct 3, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
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Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
*Having a feast on a banana leaf
Resting on a wooden swing
Waiting for her to sit beside him
Comes she with a plate of
Betel leaves, Areca nut and slaked lime paste
Taking two betel leaves in her hand
Combining the other two
Four eyes meeting with love
Taking the betel from her hand
Chewing with a passionate smile
Showing ****** expressions
Conveying her to sit on the swing
Lying on his shoulder of love
Wish him being her husband
In every life of her rebirth !*
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 2:02 PM UTC
to know the frangipani will again rose
not one, not two, not three, but more
to accept that the betel plant in my small ***
no longer battle its grow
the mint plant though
to have hope that it lasts long
we can’t leave this house yet
the street tree outside your study room
the warmth at noon still
let’s have laugh till the rain fall
let’s have a cry on the third mercury retrograde
let them all be and do
and we two will be and do too
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 3:54 AM UTC
Sullen she sits
in her shimmering fabric
scowling at her adoptive nation.
Listlessly scrolling
for soap-opera news
in her language.
Half-hidden behind the register
where she sells something every few hours
to someone from her country
purchasing those weird snacks:
dried minnows with mango,
fish with curried betel-nut,
tamarind-flavored dried shrimp . . .
Hey lady, you look funny
with that white paste
smeared all over your face.
You look like a ghost.
Did Buddha make you put it on?
Hey lady, don't you know how to smile
and serve the public?
Maybe you should learn English.
Why did you come here, anyway?
Nov 1, 2019
Nov 1, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
There was obsession, to wash your
hands again and again.
They swing wildly.
The moods.
Betel leaves, and bad grammar.
Charity untainted.
Divided walls.
A street breaks the steps.
Nails scratching the rosary.
The stranded words,
will not sit on the wide screen.
The damp soil becomes dark.
No gift was needed―
unmaking the wasp's nest.
I bend down to light the lamp.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:01 AM UTC