Runner Up poem entry in the 2009 Contest

A Lullaby for Yamini* - By Susan Philip

The Sleep Fairy’s coming my little one,
She’ll stay for a while, my pretty one,
She’ll bring sweet dreams to your jet-bright eyes,
And sing you the loveliest lullabies.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s near,
She’s here.

Her wings ruffle your corkscrew curls,
Fanning them into spirals and swirls; 
Where, she asks, did you get this black,
This dark, deep, rich, velvety black?

God waited till the deepest moment of night
And took a bit of the darkest spot in sight
By dipping His finger in the sky,
I reply.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s here,
She’s here.

Her breath sets your lashes fluttering now,
Her palm smoothes your winged eyebrow;
Where, she asks, did you get this black,
This soft, soothing, downy, black?

God went to the big, glossy raven’s nest
And waited till the bird was at rest,
Then took a tiny feather,
I answer.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s here,
She’s here.

As she caresses your cheek so soft and tender,
You flash your sweet little dimple at her;
Where, she asks, did you find this brown,
This bronzed and burnished shade of brown?

God scoured the woods and the forests deep
For the sweetest honey the bees do keep,
And scooped some in a frond,
I respond.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s here,
She’s here.

She strokes your enchanting bow-shaped lips,
The merest touch with her fingertips;
Where, she asks, did you find this colour,
It looks so pretty, so perfect on her.

God found it in the dreamy, secret part
Of a sun-soaked grape’s garnet heart
One happy day
I say.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s here,
She’s here.

You have all my blessings my pretty one,
As you grow up a woman, my little one.
May the world be your oyster, my pretty one,
And you a precious black pearl, my little one.

May you ever be sweet as warm caramel,
Yet hold the fire of a black opal.
And always be strong, as coffee,
Or ebony.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s here,
She’s here.

The Sleep Fairy’s come, my little one,
She’ll be here a while, my pretty one,
She’s brought sweet dreams for your tight-shut eyes,
She’s singing you the loveliest lullabies.

Sleep, little Yamini, my life, my light,
Sleep, little Yamini, queen of the night,
The Sleep Fairy’s here,
Right here.

*The name Yamini is a Sanskrit word meaning ‘night’.

Winning poem entry in the 2009 contest

Good Mothers by Saudha Kasim

Good mothers obey the old crones who hang
By the windowsills, staring into low-ceilinged, dark rooms.
Toothless and ashen-skinned, they suggest remedies:
Rose water, milk, honey, jasmine, powdery sandalwood.

Good mothers, pregnant and blooming, bathe in all that and
Listen to their mothers echo the interfering old crones.
The ones who suggest bleaching agents
Dredged from the earth and plucked from trees.

Good mothers rub gold rings in honey (vigorously)
And put the gold-flecked syrup drop by little drop
In their newborn’s mouth.
My mother, I guess, was not good.

She didn’t burn cattle skulls and catch the moon
In her bedtime glass of milk. She drank 7 Up and ate
Sardines with relish, burnt frankincense and read up
On Vodka and Cognac brands in Kala Kaumudi.

My mother didn’t stare at snow, but watched Ronald Reagan,
Stetson on his head and mounted on a mustang, chase villains
In black and white cowboy movies subtitled in Arabic.
My mother was not surprised at my burnt bronze skin.

My mother, unlike good mothers, didn’t cover me in Cuticura.
She didn’t want me paraded in whiteface, the Keralite Kabuki artiste.
She kissed my bronze toes and admired my unfair skin.
My mother sneers at whitening unguents and loves my dark brow.

My mother, stuck in a desert town, blew raspberries at
The old crones who gave good mothers white chicken feathers.
You couldn’t be anyone else, she whispered in my ear,
Black, brown, red, yellow.

My mother didn’t name me after Ayesha, the fairest consort.
Instead, she gave me the name of the Abyssinian widow.
Blackness, she says, it means blackness.
My mother gave me the gift of colour.

About the Author:

Saudha Kasim studied architecture but decided to leave the designing and construction of houses and office towers to people who know what they are doing. She now works as a graphic designer and content writer in Bangalore, India.

"As for why I chose to enter the contest: Like most women in India I experienced the prejudice of not being 'fair or wheatish' in complexion. As a child I heard catty remarks from neighbours and relatives who couldn't understand why I was so much more darker than my mother or sister. My mother didn't really care and taught me not to care - though those lessons were hard to learn and accept for a long time. But as I have grown older I have grown more comfortable in my skin. And my name does mean 'blackness' quite literally in Arabic. And I have grown to love it over the years as well."