Srimati Ann
Dear Ann called Srimati
Dear Ann called Srimati
Dead, dear Ann, called Srimati
And buried too, sculpted deep in stone
Ann Montcrieff-Jones, called Srimati
Buried beside the steps
Stone lips that never kissed Ann (called Srimati)
But aimed at the sun and a rickshaw puller
Ann, called Srimati in the stall of the prince
A rickshaw puller wearing ragas
And the steps were stone, Srimati Ann
And the god water, down to the water
All river long the prayer, the marigold marriage,
The garland of hair, Srimati Ann,
Streaked scarlet to a dream.
In a rickshaw raga, Srimati Ann,
Killed by a visa, all the sun long
Montcrieff-Jones in the water
Surya's rickshaw dead and dazzled
Gone to ashes, she in stone
Milk-mild flesh and lips
That yearned to kiss sun and ragas
Woven to silence Ann Montcrieff-Jones
(No longer Srimati)
In Paris I lived in a typewriter big as a house,
Bigger than two houses,
I slept between the gs and the qs
Hitting a high c every time I slipped.
It was summer when you went away.
I wrote your name in the bars
And slept under the bridges on the Left Bank of the Seine.
Champagne asked for you, wondering why you ever went.
Autumn rolled across a blue goblet sky
Bright as a brandy snifter.
The leaves fell between the typewriter keys:
It was a hard time for a journalist
Pretending to write poetry with leaves.
When winter came, I shut the typewriter into its box
And set it back to the office.
Hitching a ride on a passing cloud, I flew south
raining letters.
1. The Burning
Stroke the small fire with whispering hands
sit down at the table
flaming apples follow china embers;
the billowing cloth dreams of baskets
at midnight,
a lady's slippers and naked feet asking for answers.
Ashes of years clog. The clock tower
bows swiftly to the ground.
At midnight, all activity ceases. The lighted word
lights thelas. Sahib ghosts
shred shopping arcades. A torch sails
and sets across the sky in search of serendipity.2.Whodunit
Who done it ? Who said it ?
At night, the fire dies down
and the whispers gather around
the gutted Gothic arches.
The ceramic albino spies a death wish
and builds a pact with the tract next door.
Conveniently landed, conveniently planned,
Hogg's dream bows quietly to the ground.
The sahibs pack their imperial shop in jute
and sweep cinders out at midnight.
The gutted whispers gather round Christmas,
saying it sibilantly,
who done it, who said it, who burnt it ?3. Christmas
Ruins remain, marzipan disintegrates.
Christmas is a killing time;
brandy flames and holly spears
beside the cannon, wrapped in gilt,
the puddings press homewards in chappaled feet,
over the thelas, over the pavements,
dropping oranges into fire, a pine explodes.
Too much gaiety burns. The river dreams
of plains and seas, far away from Chowringhee.
The porters quietly let cars be, park
undisturbed by cries or Christmas.
The bizarre bazaar wipes its mouth
and dreams of charred marigolds.
Ashes of dreams drift down over Christmas,
chanting. Chanting.
Anjana Basu lives in Calcutta, India, in the Marxist state of West Bengal. Most of her life she's worked as an advertising copywriter. She used to teach English Literature, briefly, in Calcutta University. She writes stories, magazine and newspaper features and poetry, and has been widely published internationally. Her work has appeared recently in Wolfhead Quarterly, The Amethyst Review, BBC World Service, Cosmopolitan, and India Magazine.
