Poem for Sunil Tripathi

Last week I heard the name Sunil Tripathi. It was being flamed all over twitter and the internet as the name of the Boston bomber. He was a 22yr old missing person and his family were desperately searching for him. I took one look at the picture of him and could see it wasn't him. He looked very different to the suspect in the white hat but people were so eager to attach a name, any name, so they could tweet it and feel useful? clever? I don't know.

 I was already feeling furious that only certain types of people (those with brown skin tones) were being circled by over eager amateur detectives. Massive assumptions were being made and one 17yr old had already been put on the front page of a newspaper with implied accusation. I was indignant and appalled that this was happening in the race to find the culprits. As one commentator stated, it became a racist 'where's Wally.'

Once the mistake was realised about Sunil, that he was innocent of any crime, some of the people who had so willingly spread the lie apologised to his family. Meanwhile, his family were still searching for him.They had set up a facebook page, asking people to write a message of love and support to Sunil.

I felt very moved by this situation and added a hand picture, my little boy's hand. I hoped Sunil would come home, hoped he was on a journey and would come back safe.

When I found out yesterday that a body had been recovered from the Providence river I was devastated. It was such a tragic situation for his family and I wished I could reach out and comfort them. Sunil was the youngest son. He had two siblings. Eldest was a daughter, then the two sons. The same as my children. My sons are also dark skinned, with dark brown eyes; I always empathise with any painful situation but this was especially poignant.

 Because it was so unfair that he was falsely accused. Because his family and all those who posted hands of hope were wishing, or praying for a happy ending. I was angry at first, asking why? Why do these things happen, why is there so much pain? There is no answer. Only that life is hard and sometimes becomes too much for people. I have been close to that myself so I understand how someone could choose to end it.

As I thought about it I knew he had been on this earth for a reason. To bring his family joy, even if it was for only a brief time. Each of those 22 years he made a difference in the lives of those around him and they will always remember him. Even people like me, who never met him, will remember him from the words his family used to describe him and the love that burned in their eyes as they talked about him and the pictures of his smile.

His family posted these words:


'This last month has changed our lives forever, and we hope it will change yours too. Take care of one another. Be gentle, be compassionate. Be open to letting someone in when it is you who is faltering. Lend your hand. We need it. The world needs it'




I wrote this poem for Sunil, just a small thing but my way of trying to understand all the feelings I have had over the last week as the search for him occupied my mind. All my thoughts are with his family as they grieve for their brother, son, nephew, friend.





A leaf that unfurls for one summer
still had a purpose, for that season
it grew and joined the canopy.

Green and beautiful it made shade
for any resting below, kind respite 
from the harsh burn of the sun.

Autumn, Winter the tree is bare
but the memory of that leaf
is still there: that cannot be undone.

11:

They were so similar nine year old Amy

decided they were robots programmed

to stride along in their bathing suits

with pasted on electronic smiles

and she asked her mother if they

could turn the TV off, her mother

agreed as she wasn't really watching it,

like most of the time it was just background

flickering and Amy was right, Miss World

was very boring, the girls all looked mutinous

as if they secretly wanted to kill the man

who designed the swimwear round.

Amy said, I don't want to win Miss World

and her mother said, very sensible dear.

Prompt for day 11:

'Wikipedia’s Random Button is a great and magical thing. Click it and write about whatever subject comes up.'
I got it from this:
 a massive list of poetry prompts...

Ok, here were some of the fist random pages wiki gave me...

1900–01 Scottish Second Division

 Assa Singh v. Menteri Besar of Johore

Lehel (disambiguation)

Pregnane

so I kept clicking random, although I know that is cheating (the pregnane hormone one could easily inspire a poem about finding out I was pregnant but there has been a lot of personal stuff thus far and trying to move away from it...)


and the next one was Miss World 1996 and that is what I am going to think about and try and turn into a poem.

10:

3 reasons why poetry sucks sometimes*

1: how it can be used as an apology;
like a pretty love poem will wipe away
the scum from the night before,
selfish scabs picked off
with sentimental sloping writing.

2: how cruel and demanding it can be;
like an unsatisfied lover it demands
attention until the poem comes wetly
across the waiting lap.

3: how it attracts and divides;
mostly it creates fierce bonds
between poets but it can also spark
into fire as the words burn one
against another into smoke.

*but I love it anyway

Prompt for day 10

Write a poem that is an actual numbered list, and let the nature of the list come not from the title but the accumulation of details. Some possibilities include: seven regrets without named parties; five historical events I wish I'd been present for and one that I had; my experiences with everyday people in different cities I've visited.

9:

I really enjoyed writing the poem (that became poem 4) from a list of words supplied by Carrie Etter.

I am happy to report she has a whole new list of poetry prompts to inspire people. Here is the one I am using today. 'Use five of the following six words in a poem: dirt, hand(s), path, tree (or a kind of tree), sky, weight.' Here is the poem I made from them. It turned into a love poem of sorts. My kind of love poem anyway.




This is not a fairy-tale
yet he is a woodcutter
and his skin smells of trees.

Leaf under sky and axe
blade against bark;
she meets him on the path

and breathes him in.
Petrol, oil, sawdust and dirt;
wholesome eucalyptus.

Today he was felling
a  gum tree and the logs
are a gift to keep

her fire burning;
His fingers are rough
but his hands are tender.

Abridged 0-29

My little poem Bikkja is included in the latest edition of Abridged magazine. The theme was 'primal' and I grinned when I read that as I thought, yes! my poems fit! It arrived in the post this morning and it made a satisfying thunk as it landed on the carpet. Words and artwork to absorb and enjoy.