Wanderings
Forced Wanderings
These are the stories of wanderings that people were forced to undertake – to survive. Forced by the politics of the day and the ravages of war. Circumstances beyond the control of the players in the game. Yet – playing the cards they had been dealt to the best of their ability.
Chosen Wanderings
These are those wonderful stories of the experiences and memories made on holiday trips, travels and a relocation … freely chosen.
It is the privilege of the few , a wonder and a treasure.
I was gifted the book “The Poetry Pharmacy – Tried-and-true Prescriptions for the Heart, Mind and Soul , by William Sieghart. What a joy and blessing this anthology of poetry has been . The explanatory pages accompanying the poems, made the poetry come alive for me. This book has drawn me into the realm of poetry and let me feel its healing powers.
I would like to share a few words from William Sieghart and the relevant poem – which so encapsulates the feelings of the wanderers of this world.
William Sieghart, himself a second generation immigrant to the USA, after his father fled Nazi Austria before the Second World War, states :
This poem is for all the people we’ve encountered who’ve made their home in another place, another culture, perhaps even another continent. Some people’s lives change , because they want them to; other people’s homes are stolen from them. They all share this strange sense of otherness.
Foreignness can be a curse. It can also be a source of great interest and excitement. The different perspective allows them to see the places they move to in ways that more established or jaded residents probably never would.
Learning to deal with being different is difficult, as we all know from experience – whatever our particular differences may be, or have been.
What Dharker captures so wonderfully is the sense of possibility that comes with living in two different worlds. That’s something to celebrate. After all, if one culture is good, then two must be even better.
Front Door
by Imtiaz Dharker
Wherever I have lived,
walking out of the front door
every morning
means crossing over
to a foreign country.
One language inside the house,
another out.
The food and clothes
and custom change.
The fingers on my hand turn
into forks.
I call it adaptation
when my tongue switches
from one grammar to another,
but the truth is I’m addicted now,
high on the rush
of daily displacement,
speeding to a different time zone,
heading into altered weather,
landing as another person.
Don’t think I haven’t noticed
you’re on the same trip too.