A New Morning Poem by Ananta Madhavan

Dawn had touched the sky when I woke up;
On the undulating crest of Chamundi hill,
A few clouds adhered, like cotton wool,
But there was no mist. The sun would soon suffuse the scene.

How still are those long leaves atop the fronds of coconut trees.
The sun has burnished the long spears and green swords of their leaves.
Coconuts are bunched in clumps, ready to fall or be plucked and flung.


A slow breeze begins to stir, fanning the hot air.
The day is ready for news of disasters, shame, anger and pathos.
Is this a prelude to the global warning of global warming?

But I feel a compensating joy, as I behold the gorgeous crest
Of yellow bouquets on flowering trees. The plant is
An immigrant from South America, now an admired citizen.

Let us rejoice at revivals of neglected oddities and joys,
Like the pattern of leaves, the shape of shadows,
The geometry of convoluted branches
And twisted twigs reaching higher for the sun.
Keep wondering at flowering trees with golden bouquets.
Beware the numbness coming with age;
Let us not omit to observe the marvel of herons flying north,
The ground carpeted by fallen petals round the boles of trees,
The squirrels racing up tree trunks, fellow creatures,
Toddlers, dotards, couples in quest of privacy anonymous
Within the public gaze, fortune-tellers looking for the lovelorn.

We count the sleepers on the grass and cement benches.
Dogs, familiars of the park, can sleep, curled up in commas.
We know that sprightly kid whom we wheeled round the path
In his pram two years ago. He attempts a new feat: ascends the slide
From the ground, holding fast to the edges. He slips and his mother
Rushes to save him from hurt. He gets up, ascends from below again,
But safely. He looks at us triumphantly. "I knew I could".

Change and renewal, perhaps revival, renaissance.
















































How still are those long leaves atop the fronds of coconut trees.
The sun has burnished the long spears and green swords of their leaves.
Coconuts are bunched in clumps, ready to fall or be plucked and flung down.

A slow breeze begins to stir, fanning the hot air.
The day is ready for news of disasters, shame, anger and pathos.
Is this a prelude to the global warning of global warming?
But I feel a compensating joy, as I behold the gorgeous crest
Of yellow bouquets on flowering trees. The plant is
An immigrant from South America, now an admired citizen.

Let us rejoice at revivals of neglected oddities and joys,
Like the pattern of leaves, the shape of shadows,
The geometry of convoluted branches
And twisted twigs reaching higher for the sun.
Keep wondering at flowering trees with golden bouquets.
Beware the numbness coming with age;
Let us not omit to observe the marvel of herons flying north,
The ground carpeted by fallen petals round the boles of trees,
The squirrels racing up tree trunks, fellow creatures,
Toddlers, dotards, couples in quest of privacy anonymous
Within the public gaze, fortune-tellers looking for the lovelorn.

We count the sleepers on the grass and cement benches.
Dogs, familiars of the park, can sleep in curled up in commas.
We know that sprightly kid whom we wheeled round the path
In his pram two years ago. He attempts a new feat: ascends the slide
From the ground, holding fast to the edges. He slips and his mother
Rushes to save him from hurt. He gets up, ascends from below again,
But safely. He looks at us triumphantly. "I knew I could".

Change and renewal, perhaps revival, renaissance