The Friday Poem: Motif

Motif by Mamta Madhavan

rubber trees
threaten to crack
my compound walls
on all sides
impermanence
broken from reverie

in harmony
breathing in the silence
dawn broken
swish of silk
leaves rustle
rendition by birds
in bass and treble

lying in bed
limp after last night’s
lovemaking
pouring rain
pounding on the roof
washing down the glass panes
insignia of your stubble
tabooed on my skin

thin cuts
i watch the
liquid ooze out
trickling down
crusted and hardened

Following is commentary by Patch poetry maestro Jeff Burkhart:  You may remember the unique name, Mamta Madhaven, from her previous submission "Sacred Nexus". It was submitted to me through our editor and therefore I assumed Mamta was from Berkeley or somewhere else in the Bay Area. After publication in the Patch I reached out for more information about this poet with the wonderful name via email. The reply was revealing. Mamta is a female. She lives in Kerala S. India and is a librarian. She teaches creative writing to grade 5 children and teaches English to underprivileged children. She is also a curator on staff at gopoetry.com.

I began to seek out her other works and found a treasure. This Friday's featured piece is entitled "Motif". When I found it, I emailed Mamta and asked her permission to share it with you. She accepted my offer to publish it. Let me tell you all why it is so special to me.

Writing. The conveyance of sights, smells, feelings and understandings of the experiences common to us all. It is a noble craft. When it is done with an economy of words in plain language it is at it's best. Ernest Hemingway was the master of minimalist writing used to create powerful images in real speak.

This piece is set in Mamta's residence on a rubber tree plantation. Her imagery of the life of the tree's sap, the birds in their song, the pounding of the rain and the oozing of the tree's juices in the aftermath of intimacy in the night, puts us right there. We're in that room on that morning. It's hot and humid. We can see it. We can smell it. We can feel it. She has taken us there and bared her soul so that we might feel what she felt as she wrote this poem for her partner whose beard has left its mark on her skin.

Let this be a life lesson to us all. No matter where we are in the wide world that separates us; we are more alike than different.

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If there’s something in this article you think should be corrected, or if something else is amiss, call editor JB Davis at 707-628-0051 or email him at benicia@patch.com.