THERE WERE DEER BARKING IN THE HILLS<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
When was it\u2014
\nin between the bridge\u2019s planks\u2014<\/p>\n
the river winked at me from below?
\nNot that blue<\/p>\n
I\u2019d seen from the porch,
\nbut a sharpening of knives,<\/p>\n
the way, stealth-footed,
\ndawn opens the doors.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Whistling, stropping your razor,
\nyou were the father.<\/p>\n
Mother slept late.
\nStar-flowered jasmine<\/p>\n
spilled over the tile roof,
\nbougainvillea, trumpet vine.<\/p>\n
Soon the light
\nwould come.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Kishan served us
\nearly breakfast\u2014toast and tea<\/p>\n
and half a grapefruit picked
\nfrom a tree in our garden.<\/p>\n
Oh, it was sweet!
\nJust the two of us<\/p>\n
on the porch at the wicker table
\nset with knives and sugar.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Still in bathrobes, sandals flapping,
\nwe walked across the Jumna, the bridge<\/p>\n
not yet crowded, the river far below us,
\nAllahabad, City of God,<\/p>\n
creaking awake on its wooden wheels:
\nbullock carts, hoof clops, dark leather blinders,<\/p>\n
the slow bells of oxen.
\nI skip-hopped beside you.<\/p>\n
Soon the sun would rise,
\ncrinkling the river to a maze of gold,<\/p>\n
hiding deeper currents
\nwhere snapping turtles scavenged the dead.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Mother planted blousey sweet peas, marigolds,
\nlarkspur bruised and iridescent,<\/p>\n
colors she cut and carried indoors.
\nI wanted her to hold me.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Mahatma, intransitive verbs,
\nMark Twain\u2014<\/p>\n
the students adored you.
\nTheir saris and homespun<\/p>\n
tied at the waist, you pitched them
\nbasketballs, ran with the javelin,<\/p>\n
its shaft shuddering
\nupright in earth.<\/p>\n
I climbed the leathery limbs of the banyan
\nor watched from the game field, munching chunna.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
Afternoons, I found you
\nat home at your desk, scribbling notes<\/p>\n
on student papers, coaxing
\nsermons onto the page.<\/p>\n
You lit a hand-rolled cigarette, pet crow
\non your shoulder, mongoose<\/p>\n
asleep in your tucked-in shirt.
\nUnder the ceiling fan\u2019s<\/p>\n
paddle of flies and sun motes,
\nI climbed into your lap.<\/p>\n
*<\/p>\n
When was it, you found me, still asleep,
\nslipped into my pajamas, insistent,<\/p>\n
the way the deer\u2019s short barks,
\nhunted, came breathless?<\/p>\n
Always, the day began again,
\nas if nothing had happened\u2014<\/p>\n
insects probing
\nthe ghostly netting,<\/p>\n
the hard wooden bed frame
\nI climbed over to the floor.<\/p>\n
The way the sun bore down.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cThere Were Deer Barking in the Hills\u201d is reprinted from Ghandi’s Lap<\/em> (The Word Works).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Charlotte Warren\u2019s<\/a> poetry collection, Gandhi\u2019s Lap<\/a>,<\/em> won the Washington Prize and publication by Word Works<\/em> in Washington, D.C.\u00a0 Her second poetry manuscript was a finalist in both the Phillip Levine and Ashland national contests. Warren\u2019s poems<\/a> have appeared on Seattle buses as well as in journals such as Orion, Calyx, The Hawai\u2019i Review, The Louisville Review, <\/em>and Kansas Quarterly.\u00a0<\/em>Warren\u2019s recently published memoir, Jumna:\u00a0 Sacred River,<\/em> chronicles her childhood in India during its fight for independence from Great Britain in 1947, and her coming of age in the United States as it entered the turbulent sixties. She received her MFA in Writing from Vermont College, and taught part time at Peninsula College in Washington State.\u00a0 She and her husband have called the Olympic Peninsula home for over forty years, have two grown sons and two grandchildren.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" THERE WERE DEER BARKING IN THE HILLS When was it\u2014 in between the bridge\u2019s planks\u2014 the river winked at me from below? Not that blue I\u2019d seen from the porch, but a sharpening of knives, the way, stealth-footed, dawn … Continue reading