Two Poems by Bob D’Costa

Waiting

Waiting to be born
I was born waiting:
my mother waited in the hospital
surrounded by waiting doctors, nurses
and one man – my father – and four walls.
My eldest and middle uncle away
for inter-college football in Sabour College
their feet waiting to foot the football
their minds waiting in the hospital
for their elder sister.

Time too waited
suspended by the glow of the hospital light.

Since then I’ve been condemned into waiting,
my inspiration to bake out my first poem
into a delectable oven-fresh bread at thirteen,
my guitar waiting for me to steal it from Braganza’s
from my fifth year
to strum it when a teenager,
waiting for S to appear in 1988,
for Pablo to return by 10 pm.

Waiting is all that we possess, I tell the avenue of trees
decorating the street of my dreams.

You wait for the seasons to grow you, mature you
into an orchestra of wisdom,
snip you, trim you,
bring you to fruition,
put you to puberty to transform you into a full-blown rose,
make nations go into war,
colour you, sanitize you,
flush you so you can come out fresh and clean
and white as a laid egg.

Waiting is a part of our existence,
it is what we take with ourselves to the grave,
pass it on to our posterity,
the heirloom of time,
the totem of our pride.

Conversation on a Coffin

Bruce: When i die, my love
lay me down in a coffin
of my make.

Rachnee: Let’s not discuss about death.

Bruce: The flat wooden one-roomed house
covered with jeans
faded and frayed
the ends hanging
with vigour and energy
eagerly waiting for my final breath
so as to transport my soul
to the next world.

Rachnee: Let’s not discuss about death, Bruce.

Bruce: Fix my name, love
with the metal zipper and button…

Rachnee: Bruce, my soul, think of LOVE…

Bruce: and if u happen to fall short of material
use the loops…

Rachnee: Think of LIFE, my Bruce …

Bruce: that should be enough
for that is all
i demand from you
demand of you
when i die of my accord, my love.

Rachnee: If that is what fate has to gift you
then i die with you
of your accord
of my accord
of our accord…
lying beside you
in our coffin…

Editors Note:

These two poems are not the first pieces published in Eastlit by Bob D’Costa. In November his fragmentary piece No New Mail but Mail from a New Girl was featured.