{"product_id":"9781462839957","title":"PATTERNS IN HENNA","description":"The three sections in \u003ci\u003ePatterns in Henna\u003c\/i\u003e contain poems from three parts of my life; most of the first two sections are set in British India in the thirties, forties, or earlier, an era and place gone forever. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The poems in Section I are impressions from childhood with the point of view of a child or adolescent and reflect attitudes of the time.  \u003cbr\u003e   Section II is about my father and his family. It is because of them that I spent my formative years in India.  Many poems are based on family stories. \u003cbr\u003e   In Section III, I write in my adult voice about return trips to India and then move on to a group of more reflective poems. \u003cbr\u003e   I give a poem from each section as an example.  I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e       \u003cb\u003eI. \u003cbr\u003e    Under the Gul Mohur Tree\u003cbr\u003e    (Jabalpur, Central India) \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e        A gul mohur tree dominated our back garden. \u003cbr\u003e    Sun dappled through a thousand fern-like fronds, \u003cbr\u003e    the series of planes like Nepalese temple rooftops. \u003cbr\u003e    Here Chutan, the cook, fattened ducks, \u003cbr\u003e    and a goose for Christmas, \u003cbr\u003e    the former foragers resting like pashas in the green-gold shade, \u003cbr\u003e    slurping fresh water, eating handfuls of fine wheat. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     Chutan prized the delicate spring leaves, pale yellow, \u003cbr\u003e    humbly approached my father, \u003cbr\u003e    \u003ci\u003e\"Huzoor,\u003c\/i\u003e\" hands pressed together, \u003cbr\u003e    for permission to pick a few. \u003cbr\u003e    His wife prepared the tight-curled fronds \u003cbr\u003e    with wild coriander to make \u003ci\u003esabzi\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e.     Racemes of flowers appeared with the hot weather, \u003cbr\u003e    resting above the foliage. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e   Gul mohur\u003c\/i\u003e--rose peacock-- the Peacock-rose, \u003cbr\u003e    gold mohur, I called it as a child, \u003cbr\u003e    each blossom a shining gold, \u003cbr\u003e    igniting into orange, vermilion, scarlet. \u003cbr\u003e    Bright Indian sun sparkled \u003cbr\u003e    through airy shadows shifting over leaf-strewn earth\u003cbr\u003e    and the abandoned well, \u003cbr\u003e    deep enough for drowning. \u003cbr\u003e    White ants riddled the massive cover. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     Once throbbing with a three-day headache, \u003cbr\u003e    (my mother blamed the Indian sun), \u003cbr\u003e    I pulled a mat under the gul mohur. \u003cbr\u003e    Air currents brushed leaf ribs, \u003cbr\u003e    waved pink-gold shapes through eyelids, \u003cbr\u003e    and I listened to insects, \u003cbr\u003e    then my father's footfall in dry grass. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     He sat beside me, \u003cbr\u003e    coming between his classes\u003cbr\u003e    to sit quietly on the lip of the well\u003cbr\u003e    and press a wet towel on my forehead. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e      \u003cb\u003eII. \u003cbr\u003e    Calling\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     A lammergeyer vulture \u003cbr\u003e    circled cloudless Indian sky\u003cbr\u003e    and from the lazy pattern\u003cbr\u003e    there dropped a single feather\u003cbr\u003e    veering in concentric whorls\u003cbr\u003e    until it dropped almost by\u003cbr\u003e    the hand of a young preacher\u003cbr\u003e    pondering his messages. \u003cbr\u003e    He fingered the stout quill, \u003cbr\u003e    gripped it firmly like a pen, \u003cbr\u003e    whittled a point.  Having come \u003cbr\u003e    so far, started a letter\u003cbr\u003e    to his sister half a world \u003cbr\u003e    away on a Midwest farm. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e   Dear Isabella,\u003c\/i\u003e he wrote, \u003cbr\u003e    then wondered what he could say. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e   Indian women do not learn\u003cbr\u003e    with their brothers as you did. \u003cbr\u003e    Their faces veiled, eyes cast down, \u003cbr\u003e    knowing nothing of the world, \u003cbr\u003e    they cry for teachers like you.\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     A mustard seed dropped in loam\u003cbr\u003e   springs into a tree.  To his\u003cbr\u003e    surprise a letter arrived. \u003cbr\u003e    \u003ci\u003eI come when the way opens. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When the heart is ready, doors\u003cbr\u003e    swing back, as they did for her, \u003cbr\u003e     founding a woman’s college. \u003cbr\u003e    With unruly locks confined \u003cbr\u003e    beneath a deaconess’ cap, \u003cbr\u003e    and full figure cased in black, \u003cbr\u003e    her life filled up with color\u003cbr\u003e    and generations of girls\u003cbr\u003e    from Lucknow, kingdom of Oudh.                                               \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     Such small things can shape","brand":"Xlibris US","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47143777370352,"sku":"9781462839957","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/9781462839957_p0.jpg?v=1763679222","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/9781462839957","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}