Call Me Barren

This poem was published over thirty years ago in Bombay ... now Mumbai. Times have changed. But in those days, not only in India, but also my native Canada, women had so little value beyond that of being mothers. To be "barren" was a terrible thing.

I dreamed of writing symphonies, penning poems and drawing powerful images. I dreamed of climbing mountains and riding waves. I dreamed of cracking open the secrets of the Universe. I dreamed of talking to God, face to face. I dreamed and dreamed with such intensity, such concentration, such ferocious desire, that many of these things came to pass.

I found this old poem today .... and remember the pain I felt as I penned it.

I sit here today .... with so many of those dreams accomplished. But I still feel that pain.

Call Me Barren

*

No, I'll not tie offerings

on a tree ...

Nor bribe the Gods

by fasting once a week.

I will not weep

nor fasten on my face

a player's mask

of false maternal grief

*

For who are you

to call me barren,

to weigh, identify and measure

the frail constituents

of what you choose to call

*

Fecundity?