Poem

Home from Home

Below the highest sun and the bamboo hut
Below the mosquito net
I lie there-

Perusing my mind of its past memories
Jaded history—
I wanted them back
I wanted to be back

This is where I realized I was alone
A place so foreign to my own

My ears wake to the sound of a soft guitar strumming
My eyes wake to the beautiful round sun rising
Perfectly and vertically

Morning call six thirty
The world comes together here to plant banana trees
Cooking breakfast consists of ragu and jaggery

Make a story, have a thought or dream here
Share it with someone, honest to nature
Someone would care.

This is where you make charcoal for the soil
Emblazoned by a ball of fire
We prod it with sticks and the flames go higher
In the midst of the sun and the heat, we boil
Round and round we go avoiding its black hole
Finally we throw water on it
Diffusing its soul

Riding three to a moped on the dirt roads
Through the villages of waving kids
I sing at the top of my lungs
A song ive sung a thousand times
My head rises to the sky and I watch the stars
Cowering over me, blinding me
And I feel the wind hitting my skin
Moulding my face into funny shapes
That is the moment I feel boundlessly free
But we zoom past it all
Zoom past feeling impossibly happy

I fell ill, I fell cold, I fell to the ground
My vision went to dizzying heights
My mind disappeared
But someone was always there
To wake me from the fear

He would carry my shower water
She would sit and talk on my bed
They would get concoctions of drinks
He’d check up on me- “you’re not dead?!”

No. I was alive.
Alive with the sense of gratitude
For these people, just one week ago,
I didn’t even know.

This is the place where you get up and dance
With your whole body
To a beat that made your heart beat
Uncontrollably

Evenings in the main hut
I’d sometimes read alone
But always being surrounded, by conversation
No matter how hard I tried to enjoy Tolstoy
I was always more interested in the permaculture boys.

Barefoot in the grass, barefoot in the mud
Barefoot and dragging sheets of leaves
Barrows of pebbles
Handfuls of sticks
Grazing elbows and knees
Growing plants growing trees
Growing people growing history

This was the place where I got back what I gave
This was the place where I felt safe
This was the place

This is the place.

susanna martin
London, England

I am 18 years old, and next year i am leaving for University to study English Literature and French. recently I travelled to India where for part of the time i volunteered in a place called Sadhana Forest. This poem reflects my thoughts on this place I view as home

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