Diaspora

DiasporaRenga

--+ Diaspora

Before my village before my language, there was violence in the seed dispersion, or succession? the scientist remembers

samara whirling a people spinning apart a girl with her doll

a girl with her doll begins her grandson’s story under the wide leaf maple

Kushun Kamuni is my mother’s name and I am Maya this is my doll Chinmony she wants me to run faster

seed shatters around me from palestine to pogrom are all these heads bowed or are we cringing? “Trust me” my grandfather said

my grandmother said it is not real, it is not… don’t look, don’t look up look into this silver dish mother moon touches the sun

my lips on this silver dish drink the moon and pray for sun you leave at midnight and say that I’m protected he’ll watch in drought and darkness

in drought and darkness life goes underground, transpires; a heavy breath held and held, a small dull flame curled and hardened into seed

curled and hardened into seed prepared for exhalation. the climate thickens around multiplying crowds: panic in thunder

people, and people running I can smell the rain Chinmony, we must get home the monsoon is coming down we are too small to get wet

and in the downpour fear elevates the rivers of yesterday’s dreams we are all children, waist deep in confusion, at flash point

mars hangs low, the extra tide force; gravity, pull the waters are called and come so obedient in confusion, at flash point

Propelled by hatred my aunt has arms like a storm takes me from my bed. There is no more time to pray my mother cannot hold me.

…. and the people are drowning and the people are the sea. Water and bodies propelled by hatred my mother cannot hold me.

Who has paid for my passage? There was no crying. We slept inside the milk cart we pissed in straw on a train and the roar cured us.

Our neigbour hid us my doll was crying but I made her be quiet. We were all in the kitchen and not there at all.

We were not there at all. The roar became fog, we became invisible under stranger’s eyes. My aunt will not stop moving

“Knock, knock”, the tide calls. “Are they here, have you seen them”. “Here?”. “no.”. “Seen them?” “No.”. “Knock, knock”. The tide calls next door. Outside – yells and tires.

Outside, chaos harmonized we functioned in stupor searching, not searching we were encapsulated pulled on a trade wind.

My doll Chinmony she is searching everywhere but she can’t find me. “Chinmony – I am right here.” Then a wind blows me away.

When the wind blows us we fold ourselves, evolving the chaos appropriate we are driven out the shadows resilient.

The shadows resilient call to the diaspora: “We are coming, flee. We are fleeing, come to us.” Memory is death.

<this is from the first 3 or 4 sessions summer, fall 2003) as renga progresses, will be posted here so a log of its growth and change. This post, Oct/29/2003

-- MishtuBanerjee - 29 Oct 2003