Day Twelve, a homophonic translation

Today's prompt, as I understand it, is not to translate a poem, but to write what only the sounds of the words seem to say in English. Using the link to provided by NaPoWriMo, I chose a Finnish author because of heredity and a teeny tad of familiarity with Finnish, and the poet Sirkka Turkka simply because I have a relative named Sirkka.
With apologies to both Sirkkas, I came up with my own creation based only on the suggestion of sounds and guessed meanings of faintly familiar words. Only after writing will I go back and read the website translation of ST's poem. Here goes....
[Later: Sirkka's poem, "Tähdet ovat taas kuin itkuinen balladi," turned out to be a lot darker, according to its English translation, than I would have liked to write, so I am glad for what I wrote after all.]

Aiti Sang of a Summer Evening

That was not a thoughtless ballad, the one about evening.
Mother's voice joined the mourning dove's alleluias
as sun departed, bidding it return tomorrow,
thankful for yard and garden at peace, so very much
in tune with the evening scene were her songs.
Not that all evenings were clarity; sometimes fog and smoke,
as when father lit his pipe, expanded on the cooling air.
Ask yourself:  Where you were last night? Did you enjoy,
did you travel, did you read, and remember without regret?
Whether with cup of ice cream or a flute of wine, it doesn't matter.
I don't require an explanation of where or what or why.
I have no wish to view the guest register, or ask the waiter
whether you still insisted on real butter for your bread.
Such ordinary questions arise and tend to answer themselves.
The only peace I desire of an evening is to remain at your side,
to eat or drink, or simply to sink in your arms, mellowing,
like the setting sun.

by Shirley Smith Franklin

Stay tuned...

We've been out of town...

Days Four yet to come, and Day Five

Day four was to be based on a musical form...that one is still to come!

Day Five was to be about a sport and/or an opening, a first. I'll write, instead, about
waiting, despite obstacles, until the time is right...

Times Like This

by Shirley Franklin

Amavaasam, night of the dark
of the moon.
Anticipate darkness,
enter the real darkness,
do nothing new for some time.
The dark night will lighten, soon.

Indians take a different attitude
toward unanticipated
arrivals and departures.
Fate aur fait arrive and depart.
Whichever, oh, so true. But
fate, inauspicious, can be capricious

So just wait for some more time, they say,
we can talk, they say, and have tea.
This too will certainly pass.
Mother said there'd be times like this.
So talk, and let the time pass.
You could do worse than a cup of tea.

NaPoWriMo Day 3: Epithalamium

Today, a poem about a wedding. The form, epithalamium, dating back at least to Catullus (get thee to a reference, to read about this ancient Greek!) Classically, addressed to the bride. Modernly, about 'the whole wedding experience.' That should be easy enough, since we are less than a year away past one family wedding, another imminent. (postscript 1: Now I have written, but despair at having more generalities than details, more prose than poetry. Ah, but that's the fun of NaPoWriMo, the whole process is fuel for further writing.) (postcript 2, Day 4: And thus I have edited it, as it reads now:

Epithalamium
by Shirley Franklin

Now there's a mouthful for you.
So you're the young woman who has stolen our son's heart. Slender and small, gracious to the core, spunky, and smart. I can see why he likes you, loves you, fell in love with you the moment you met, moment of amazing grace, at the wedding reception of his sister's friend.
I braced my mother's heart, prepared for bouts of jealousy, but none occurred. Only that surprising chill as he exclaimed, "Mom! See that girl over there...Isn't she the most beautiful girl in the world?? I'm going over to talk to her..." A shiver whisked down my spine. I looked, but couldn't as yet discern you, one among a bright, laughing cluster of young women and men across the room. All looked beautiful, to aging me. But I shivered with - what?, because I knew, this time, that his words rang true.
Soon you came, laughing, together, toward me. "Guess what, she says you know her parents!" Also true. Unwittingly, an old friendship was renewed. Though we heard little for a year or two, there remained the possibility of you. Protective parents, we all doubted. We pouted. But to no avail. You were on a trajectory toward a family of your own. Gradually you became more real to us, your unexpectedly husky voice urging, 'Let me do the dishes,' cheering our children on in a marathon, joining us on our senior neighborhood walks, travelling, returning, sharing your hopes and dreams.
A friend to our son, patient keeper of the dream, still, you waited til your studies were complete, waited til both families, finally, had to agree. Amidst joy and jobs, trips at home and abroad, to relatives, to each other, you were on a trajectory toward a family of your own. Listening, explaining, helping, suggesting, laughing, reminding. I watched, and saw it was true. I saw grace and joy, peace and contentment, mutual concern.
Your wedding was a fairy tale, colorful blur of conviviality and celebration. Sunshine, God, our families, friends...all blessed you and rejoiced in your joy. A wedding, with all its ceremony, ritual, angst and joy may be over in a week or a day, but the real heartbeat of wedding is a commitment that will not always be easy to keep. Participants and guests, tired, happy, breathless, all go away. We share for moments, with luck, years, the treasures of son and daughter in law, daughter and son in law, and pray that they will cherish each other after we move on; that their commitment to family, a life together, that the treasure continue, we pray.
So you're the young woman who has stolen our son's heart. It would be hard not to love you. We can see why our son loves you, fell in love with you the moment you met. We like you, we love you too.

NaPoWriMo Day 2

There was an extra prompt, to write a 'triolet' (eight lines, ABaAabAB), which I combined with the second day's prompt, to write a poem inspired by the earliest popular song you remember...One of them was "The Blue Skirt Waltz," set to a Bohemian tune adapted by Frankie Yankovich, who was known as the waltz and polka king. It's only one of the many songs mother sang along with the radio when I was young...I want to expand on that theme and this personal memory in future writing...
This one does not evidence the pathos of the juxtaposition of the song, the dance, and the as-yet unannounced event.

Skirting the Blues
a memory, in triolet
by Shirley Smith Franklin

Come back, blue lady come back, don’t be blue any more.
Mom sang with the radio, while I was sick in bed.
I’d watched my parents twirl the living room o’er.
Come back, blue lady, come back, don’t be blue any more.
To me, a child, the waltz was a bouyant score,
we were all unaware that an uncle had just died.
Come back, blue lady, come back, don’t be blue any more.
Mom sang with the radio, while I was sick in bed.

NaPoWriMo Day 1

April is NaPoWriMo, or National Poetry Writing Month, a challenge to write a poem a day. Here are my first ‘scratchings.’ Today’s prompt was to explore the theme of ‘carpe diem.’ Today I also learned that 'hosanna' means 'save us,' not 'alleluia,' as has been widely presumed.

Palm/AprilFool's/Sun/day by Shirley Smith Franklin

Winter was very mild this year, once or twice storms,
later, brief morning dustings; nothing ever stayed.
Noon sun beamed, early buds swelled.
Usually buried, or at least dormant, by March,
tiny spears of green had silently reappeared.
Still, each day’s dawn was cold, as usual.
Winter had been extremely mild; dared we expect
such early spring? Temperatures rose, runners
donned their shorts, or their short shorts,
buying into the season, ready or not.
Winter had been so mild, returning birds sang almost
tentatively, calling forth April with nervous chuckles,
lest the cold return in jest.
Today, children followed their parents to church,
processed with the choir, waved palms, cried hosanna.
Later, they ran out to play.
It can be spring if you want it to be,
like the lone, chilly tulip, its scarlet cup
bending to catch up a moment of sunshine,
or the scarlet cardinal, finally convinced,
spilling over with bubbling joy.

A Wedding in Warangal, Part I

Half a century ago, wedding invitations in India were commonly issued 'with best compliments of' aunts, uncles, and/or other close relatives of the couple who were, in turn, entering a marriage arranged by said relatives and/or a marriage broker. The recipient was invited to attend 'along with family and friends.' In 2012 the last phrase is omitted, but the custom continues. This February we were invited by a Minneapolis Telugu friendto attend the wedding of her brother's granddaughter in Warangal, a town in Andhra Pradesh, a couple hundred kilometers from our place in India.

We set out by train (32 steps down to an underground passage and 32 steps up to reach the right track) at 5:30 in the morning. (Train travel in India is very convenient, and would be more of a joy if the windows were clean enough to enjoy the stunning landscape of passing villages, rice fields, palms, pastel towns, and folks waiting at railroad crossings.) In the past we were beseiged by red-shirted and turbaned helpers, then called 'coolies,' before the train had entirely halted. On this trip, we saw that people have learned to carry their own luggage; we had to search, ask, and wait for a porter to tote our luggage on the steps and overbridge for us. There seemed to be even more than 32 steps up and down the bridge spanning tracks in Warangal, and at least a thousand people, hurrying, limping, staring, and/or chattering as we made our way up, over and down the chain-link-fenceded bridge enclosure. We took an auto-rickshaw several kilometers, through late morning traffic, to the City Grand Hotel, a small, modern, and comfortable place on the main road...a broad and straight thoroughfare which we were to travel several times during our visit.

We'd barely time to put down our suitcases when our hostess called to say she had sent a car to fetch us for a pre-wedding ceremony taking place at the bride's home. Other Minneapolis friends had driven from Hyderabad, and gone right to the house. Abandoning plans for a bath and clothes change, we quickly freshened up and found our friend and another niece waiting for us with their driver and car, a recent model Innova, at the parking area on the ground level of the hotel.

The joint family home is a new building built on the site of the ancestral home, completely surrounded by commercial buildings...we approach through an old and irregular passageway, open one one side to several tiny (no more than 8 x 8 feet, if that) shops...in one of them, a silversmith bends over what is apparently a refiner's fire. Cross a busy street of larger (but not much) shops, and up a flight and a half of stairs to the apartment which is full of people who have come for the ceremony just concluding.

They have delayed closure of the bride's blessing with her parents and priest until we arrived, we are told. She's seated between parents on the floor, facing religious icons and items of silver, flame, and flower. The priest and father are clad in traditional white dhotis, the bride and her mother and other women guests in rich silks. Harika, the bride, is decked with bejewelled golden ornaments including a wide belt, chains, bangles, armlets, hair pendant, as well as necklace, earrings, and ankle bracelets. A dazzling array. We are invited to sprinkle rice and add our blessings to the trio.

The girl's parents, aunts, uncles, even her very young grandmother, all greet us warmly and usher us to sit on a sofa and armchairs. The aunts and uncles are introduced and their relationship described. We are garlanded with flowers, and are each given a gift of silver. The parents bring the bride to meet us; all three of them greet each of us with deep respect, touching our feet. This last gesture is hard for me to receive, as my psyche and spirit protest that only God deserves such obeisance. But, I am told by our HIndu hosts, "It is our custom."

Next the womenfolk participate in a traditional "talambralu", each one first giving a few token beats to bits of dried turmeric root, using two giant pestles in a large, yellow mortar, then sitting to sprinkle and grind a handful of dry lentils in an antique handmill, followed by grinding of a handful of cumin seeds, evidently a symbolic wish for the abundance and success of the couple's future home.

All the while, a home made meal is being prepared, and serving begun, for the "small" crowd, who eat standing around the same rooms, or upstairs. The family women serve our Minnesota group, first the men, then women, at a special table. There are a dozen home-made vegetarian items ranging the gamut of tastes: sweet, sour, hot, salty, spicy...okra, bell pepper, spiced garlic-and-dry-coconut powder, fresh 'pickle' of green mango bits marinated in red chillies, spices and oil, two or three varieties of lentils, and freshly deepfried, chilly pepper potato bits, two kinds of rice, fresh yogurt, .

More and more relatives arrive; each is introduced to us. A niece goes out to buy the silver gift we Minneapolis ladies have decided to present the couple. She returns with our selection and an alternative, 'just in case,' in short order. It seems that family silver shops are nearby.

Next, some of the uncles take us to visit an old family rice mill which is being renovated by some of the bride's uncles. The fragrance of dusty fresh grain in dim sunlight transports me momentarily to the granary of my maternal grandmother's farm, where I spent languid childhood summer afternoons reading a series of girls' books left there by an older child.

We decide to visit a much-touted local site, the thousand-pillar-temple, whose gate is set between small houses on a small lane just off the main road. The car needs to park elsewhere, and we walk the lane, a bit taken aback, as we learn that the thousand pillars have been numbered and put into storage until the temple, its grounds, and grand entrance can be renovated, a project that has been 'on the books' for several years already, with little visible progress.

Then a break, at our hotel, where we are finally able to take a hot bath and change from clothes we've worn since our early morning train trip. For dinner, we are invited to the home of a white-clad aunt who had greeted us earlier today with a hearty "Om, shanti." (I leaned forward to read what appeared to be a small nameplate pinned to her saree, but the nameplate turned out to say the same words.) Here. we Minneapolis folk are the only guesets. Again, we are welcomed and gifted (This time with a simple dish, handkerchief, and an envelope containing several hundred rupees.)

We spend a pleasant evening chatting with the auntie and her recently married son and daughter-in-law, young professionals, who live with her. Auntie is a widow, and devotes mega-time to Hindu prayer. The three cheerily serve us another multi-course curry dinner, typical Indian except for the Asian veggie rolls, which, her son tells us proudly, were prepared 'at home.' As often happens, I am to sit with the men at the table, while the women sit in the living room. Auntie serves the other ladies and instructs them, while they eat, in her theory and practice of spirituality.

The night seems incredibly short as we return late to our hotel. We have to be ready to leave for the wedding at 8:30 the next morning. Thank goodness that the stars of this couple (horoscopes are routinely consulted for Hindu alliances) did not require the wedding to be in the middle of the night!

(There's more to come...we're not even at the wedding yet!)