Poetry time

I worked on a poem yesterday. It was fun to write and I got back to writing poetry after a fairly long break. I guess I was totally blocked. Creativity had deserted me and no matter how much I rationalized, I knew the muse would revisit me on her own terms and time. You can read books that tell you how to get over the block, you can write articles about it, you can do silly things like counting the number of times you type 'Life's hell!' on your New Word Document - but unless the muse is ready, she will not appear. On the other hand, just bemoaning the disappearance while looking tragic isn't helpful either. What did I do? I continued with my reading and waited patiently. Be positive and surely the muse will return, awed by your faithfulness. Meanwhile, here is the poem -

Geography

If I had continued to live in India
It would have been called the monsoons, perhaps.
All this precipitation is reminiscent of childhood overflow.
Unruly, in flowered plastic raincoats and red gum boots,
We ignored the plummet and slosh of loud gutters
Beside the municipal market and the slums
That we passed on our way to school –
We, who lived in safe housing societies with babypink bougainvillea.
Framed by iron gates, these whitewashed buildings bore names like
‘Sweet Peace’, ‘Tivoli’ and ‘Happy Home’ –

Here, the drifting melt of snow from under a strangely lit sky
Makes it hard to tell day from night
Noiseless, our street is lulled into a wash of gray and white -
The maples in our yard erect with the passion of snow
The hydrangea a mere reminder, pale against the silence.
Only a lone chickadee hops desperately on the fence
As smoke-whispers emerge from the placid houses.

Rain,
Snow, even.
This revolution of season endures
Regardless.

(C) Moushumi Chakrabarty