Not Mine To Give, Not Yours To Take (Edit) Poem by Bernard Henrie

The Hindu News and Mumbai Shipping

Report across my lap like sheet

music, but the carriage-car too dim

for reading;


hedgerows slip behind, the train

descends into the miasma of a hot

climate, mud villages of Tamil Nadu

poke up, nameless.


I stop recording, put my notebook

aside. In my memory, the outside

light dissolves revealing a fine grain

on inlaid wall panels; the burnished

copper latches closing compartments

for the traveler's valise; the thick nap

of beaded black and green moquette

covering the seats, a faint toffee scent

and drowsy sweetness of a half-filled

car swaying into Indian countryside.


I contrast that journey with airline

trips today, crayon yellow night lights,

most passengers asleep,

a few illuminated by overhead lamps.



I buy chapatti from a train vendor

artfully balancing a food tray

around his neck and a milk gallon

carrier of steaming soup by his side.



Artfully you lifted an English foot

from the water; two-piece swimsuit

shimmering from the pool's deep end.

In the afternoon, a warm, cordial rain

clearing like migratory birds;

a smoking fireplace, the soft voice

of a musical performer; a rice thin

parasol for the breaking sun.



I desire to imbibe you, to consume

your lingering image furled in sheets,

intertwine my impression with your

feet across the sunburnt terrace;

to hold prisoner your white smile,

gaze stunned into the rust color

of your lipstick and eyelashes;


the hunt in our satin hour beside

the lasping tiger of Bandipur Reserve.



Later, in the frenetic isolation

of the Bangalore to Hyderabad Express

I think of my sins; a sunning, watering

animal resting in Second Class, stretched

empty paws.