Where Ever It Is Dark - An Illustrated Poem

I came across this poem one day while reading Preeti Kaur ji's blog, The World I Stitch. As I read, I saw pictures of all that our children go through in school, especially in America and I felt the need to illustrate her painfully beautiful poem. She has graciously given me permission to reproduce the poem here. The words are hers; I am to blame for the pictures. (She approves of them, though!)

I would suggest that any children experiencing such problems, go to Khalsa Kids. There is a lot of help there. Parents are welcome, too, of course!

where ever it is dark-- poem for sikh children- REVISED

where ever it is dark (revised, kid-friendly version) 12/7/07
for r. singh (especially) and children everywhere

after school
i tell my mummy
i don't want to go back
tomorrow

she asks me why

i tell her
today in the playground
bullies
push me
punch me
kick me
shout at me
potato head!
raghead!
alladin!
even osama bin laden!
everything i know
i am not

i fight back
throw a fist

imagine the bullies as monsters
call them ugly things too
my cheeks burn
my heart thumps
i am MAD

i didn't start this
i am just one
and no one listens
when i yell
stop it!
leave me alone!
no one helps me
when the bullies
rip the cloth
from my head
pull off
my patka

not even the friends
i swing with
everyday on the monkey-bars
or the kids
who swap sandwiches with me
in the cafeteria
not even the adults
who patrol the playgrounds
to make sure
everyone follows the rules

after
bloody noses
bruises
scratches
the teachers sit us down

a peace negotiation
where no one questions
the bullies

why am i a target?

inside
i am like a match
like the ones my daddy warns me not to play with
a blue flame
which grows shorter every second
burning my insides
faster than i expect

i go home
and cry
and cry

i tell my mummy
everything

my mummy
wraps her arms
around my shoulders
tells me she loves me
with her eyes

she unwraps
my joora
lets loose
my long hair
runs her fingers through

mummy whispers
your hair
is like the night sky
your hair
is the universe

she combs my kes
with a kanga
twists my hair firm
on the top of my head
a galaxy you carry high
mummy says

she takes the square patka cloth
angles it
like a diamond
sets the patka on my scalp
and ties it tight
mummy tells me
this patka
crowns you

one day
you will wear a turban
cloth as long as the seven oceans
the full span of the earth
will rest on your head

be a brave young prince
like Sahibzaada Zorawar Singh Ji
like Sahibzaada Fateh Singh Ji
when bullies
big as kings
threaten them
for carrying the universe on their heads

like true princes
when bullies
torture them
with three nights
in the cold
in the dark

when everyone wanted them to just be children
they raised their chins high

no tears
just the ways of the lion prince

with questions and conversation
a duty for the kingdom

mummy kisses my cheeks
i kiss her back

i tell her
i will go back to school tomorrow
i will be like a prince
a shooting star

bright and brave
where ever it is cold
where ever it is dark

pk

THE KILLING FIELDS OF INDIA 1984

I did not write this; I do not know who did. It came to me through IHRO from the British Sikh Federation with a message. PLEASE FORWARD. I ask you to do the same:


PLEASE FORWARD

PLEASE FORWARD -

E NEVER FORGET 1984 E

The Killing Fields Of India In 1984

In the killing fields of India in '84
We were massacred for being different
We were massacred for asking for our rights
We had our places of worship destroyed
All this in the killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
Gandhi was killed for her crimes against us
She went to hell-but hell came to us in the shadow of the Congress
Hell came to us in the killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
We were to be taught a lesson for being different. To be singled out and massacred.
While the world looked on-the killings went on
In the killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
Be it in the streets of Delhi or Calcutta
Be it in the streets of Punjab
Be it in our own homes-the plan was the same
To wipe us out in the killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
The authorities, the army, the police and officials did their utmost
In our killing-in the killing fields
Be it our sisters, be it our daughters, be it our mothers
All were shown no mercy
In the killing fields of India.

The kara and the turban were hunted down
They surrounded us, they beat us and they burnt us alive and
These devils from hell
They danced in joy around the smell of our burning flesh-
All this in the killing fields of India

We were hunted down for four days and four nights
Whilst the evil Gandhi was being cremated
We were being burnt alive, we were being raped
No mercy was shown to us in
The killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
We were betrayed after giving so much,
to so many-in a land we thought was ours
It was our day of reckoning
It was our betrayal
In the killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
We were shot at point blank range-
With our hands tied behind our backs
No one cared how we died
No one cared how many of us died
In the killing fields of India.

In the killing fields of India in '84
they wanted to wipe us out
We have survived many holocausts in the past
But the killing fields of India in '84
Have taught us to seek self-determination
Through the destruction of India and its killing fields
Will be born a new state
Our State

--
WHY TRY TO FIT IN? YOU WERE BORN TO STAND OUT!

A Poem For Suni

A reader sent this beautiful poem in response to Suni's Story with the Shaheeds

For Suni

“Whispers in the Night”

Sonnet In Honour of Anhad Warriors

composed by gupt sakhee dassNdaas

Often have i heard Whispers in the Night

softly chorus trilling, calling Your Name

In dark surrounding a Persisting Light

Enthralling, thrilling tongues intent proclaim



Sighing Singing, Pining, for One Beloved

Ceaseless voices overwhelming Rapture

Rent, enticing content to be so loved

Longingly declare in quiet capture



As Gathered lovers enrapture my ear

Rose red, my heart blossomed, listening bled

Glad madness in this unseen sound i hear

Crimson dewdrop tears spilling glistening shed



What ghost's candle is this haunting of mine

Who's flamed tongue’s burn eternal's love divine?

Waheguru ji

The Khalsa Maid

The post from a few days ago got quite a bit of favourable comment in my e-mail and on facebook and orkut, so here's another, this time about the lady who graciously lets me use her name, or rather, nickname. The melody, assuming you are an affectionato of neither Woodie Guthrie (I love his music myself) nor Union Songs, the melody can be found in the credits link just before my lyrics.

My dear son, who is baffled and thinks he errs much more than he actually does, sent me this link to YouTube. I do not support Edwards for US President, I favour Kucinich, for what it's worth. He won't win, but I think he's the best person standing or rather running. Edwards isn't too bad, though. But it makes no difference. Since I'm Canadian, they'd throw me in prison if I voted! Be sure and listen to the third verse here. We women need to be 'at the front of every fight.' Oh, yeah!









A Song About Mai Bhago - And Us

(After The Union Maid by Woodie Guthrie)
(tune, traditional: adapted by Woodie Guthrie)

There once was a Khalsa maid,
She never was afraid,
Of the Mughul might,
She'd always fight
She'd never give up, she'd draw her blade

She'd ride to the battle front
Of wounds she'd take the brunt
And when the cowards ran away

She'd round them up and say:




















Oh, you can't leave me, I'm a fighting Khalsa,
And you're fighting Khalsa,
We're the Guru's Khalsa,
Oh, you can't back down, we're all Guru's Khalsa,
We'll be Guru's Khalsa
Till the day we die

Mata Bhag Kaur was wise
Forty cowards to despise
She led their way
Into the fray
She made them open up their eyes

She led them in the ring
Like a hawk that's on the wing
Bole so nihal
And sat sri akaal
For Guru Gobind Singh!
























Oh, you can't leave me, I'm a fighting Khalsa,
And you're fighting Khalsa,
We're the Guru's Khalsa,
Oh, you can't back down, we're all Guru's Khalsa,
We'll be Guru's Khalsa
Today you'll bravely die.


Now open up the door
For every Khalsa Kaur
To do her best
With all the rest
Her seva ever value more



Today's Khalsa maid is bold
As she was in days of old
Her voice soars on
Singing the kirtan
At Harimandir Sahib gold. (Well, soon...)

Oh, you can't stop us, we're fighting Khalsa,
The women Khalsa , we're the bold Kaur Khalsa
Oh, you can't stop us, we're Guru's Khalsa
We'll be Kaur Khalsa
And that's how we'll die.

Photograph of hawk (from ABOVE!) by solarider

Photograph of women from Panthic Weekly

A Love Letter To Kenya

While in the Sikh corner of Maya, our fight for our Uncle/Brother/Friend Laibar Singh Ji continues, the rest of the world goes on.

The violence in Kenya has abated for the moment, but nothing has been settled there; it could spring up again at any moment. I came across this blogpost containing the poem and have received permission from the author to re publish them. The poem is sad, but I think you'll appreciate the beauty of the writing.

From: Blog That Rock

Mukoma Wa Ngugi, a Kenyan poet, author of Hurling Words at Consciousness and co-editor of Pambazuka News , heard about Split This Rock from the Africa Poets Yahoo Group. Mukoma is sharing with us a poem commissioned by the BBC World Service on the ongoing crisis in Kenya.

Kenya – A Love Letter
Mukoma Wa Ngugi

Inside looking out, snow is falling and I am thinking
how happy we once were, when promises and dreams
came easy and how when we, lovers covered only

by a warm Eldoret night, you waved a prophecy
at a shooting star and said, "when the time comes
we shall name our first child, Kenya" and how I

laughed and said "yes our child then shall be country
and human" and we held hands, rough and toughened
by shelling castor seeds. My dear, when did our

clasped hands become heavy chains and anchors holding
us to the mines and diamond and oil fields? Our hands
calloused by love and play, these same hands – when

did they learn to grip a machete or a gun to spit hate?
And this earth that drinks our blood like a hungry child
this earth that we have scorched to cinders - when we

are done eating it, how much of it will be left for Kenya?
My dear, our child is born, is dying. Tomorrow the child
will be dead.

Top photo: Mt. Kenya, sacred to the Kikuyus

Tiny little picture at the bottom: My grandbaby Ethan at one day old

Poem reprinted with author's permission

Crossposted to Sometimes - 2

The Will Of God Will Never Take You

I took this poem from the blog, Waheguru Ji. Mr. Singh didn't know who wrote it; I don't know who wrote it, but we assume the Gursikh who wrote would want it to bring comfort to us all.

We think of that time in Delhi in 1984 when we had to keep repeating to ourselves, 'The Hukam of Waheguru,' hold onto our faith and each other and sing and do our best to live as last hours before going home, as we had always been taught, in chardi kalaa.

We find this poem comforting and we hope it also brings you comfort and hope.

The will of God will never take you,
Where the grace of God cannot keep you.
Where the arms of God cannot support you,
Where the riches of God cannot supply your needs,
Where the power of God cannot endow you.



The will of God will never take you,
Where the spirit of God cannot work through you,
Where the wisdom of God cannot teach you,
Where the army of God cannot protect you,
Where the hands of God cannot mold you.



The will of God will never take you,
Where the love of God cannot enfold you,
Where the mercies of God cannot sustain you,
Where the peace of God cannot calm your fears,
Where the authority of God cannot overrule you.






The will of God will never take you,
Where the comfort of God cannot dry your tears,
Where the Word of God cannot feed you,
Where the miracles of God cannot be done for you,
Where the omnipresence of God cannot find you.












Top photograph: Bhagat Singh in Prison

All other illustrations courtesy of Simmal Tree

A Woman of Strength

A woman who is a fellow reader of this blog sent me this poem by an anonymous author. It inspired me and I hope it inspires you, too.








A Strong Woman

A strong woman works out every day
to keep her body in shape...
but a woman of strength
kneels in prayer to keep her soul in shape...

A strong woman isn't afraid of anything ...
but a woman of strength
shows courage in the midst of her fear...

A strong woman won't let
anyone get the best of her ...
but a woman of strength
gives the best of herself to everyone...

A strong woman makes mistakes
and avoids the same in the future...
but a woman of strength
realizes life's mistakes can also be God's
blessings and capitalizes on them...

A strong woman walks sure footedly...
but a woman of strength
knows God will catch her when she falls...

A strong woman wears the look of
confidence on her face...
but a woman of strength wears grace...

A strong woman has faith that
she is strong enough for the journey...
but a woman of strength has faith
that it is in the journey that she will become strong...

Author Unknown

(We will joyfully acknowledge the author if we can find out who she is.)


Painting courtesy of Mr. Sikhnet,
through Daughters of the Khalsa
Used with permission