Stamped with the Caption

This poem was published Wild, a new anthology edited by Ann Nadge and published by Ginninderra Press.

 My home is under a railway bridge;

I shuffle about in the dust.

Now and then visitors offer bananas

in hesitant finger-filled fear.

Occasionally they might pay for a ride

then all the iPhones will click.

Souvenirs are available, made from fake leather

or plastic, transported from factories in Dacca . . .

Each evening I hobble along with my keeper

down to the river to wash,

disco lights on tourist boats winking.

People on deck point and wave.

Activists want me returned to the wild

(plantations have taken its place).

Supporters assembling with slogans on placards

are handcuffed and hurled into cells for their trouble . . .

Deep in my memory an image persists

where there's nothing but foliage and trees.

Shadows of animals pass in the distance;

I trumpet, but none of them hears.

Wrap me in all the green places you've seen

as years of my life lumber on.

Go home in that tee shirt. The one with my picture,

stamped with the caption I LOVE . . .

Hazel Hall

Dalit

I was very pleased to have this poem  published in Not Very Quiet 2, 2018.

A woman is asleep upon the path.

So close. The concrete holds her like a bier:

Hair combed neatly, faded sari rests

over tired bones and leathered skin.

Scraps of chatter. Shadows glide and cast

fleeting nonchalance across this drear

concrete patch, immaculately swept

where nearby rupees flick and vendors grin.

Thousands, millions hurry through each vast

metropolis where lost ones disappear

into subways, when the damp has pressed

its hand on swags and human hopes are thin,

One day she'll join the others noiselessly.

She could be anyone.

Perhaps she's me.

Hazel Hall