Goodbye - A Poem Concerning Departure
"Good Bye" by "Anonymous"
This Poem was printed in:
The Indian Army Ordnance Corps Gazette
Vol. 25 December 1947 No. 12
The Author ("Anonymous") expresses her sorrow at leaving India and the wonderful India People; the country and people whom she had come to love since she went there as a young bride in 1937.
GOOD BYE by Anonymous
The years are gone and time is nigh,
For all of us to say good-bye,
To all the folk we’ve come to know
Since coming to these arid shores,
Where dust and sand and pest and fly,
Have made our mouths and souls so dry
Neither tea nor beer can quench
A thirst so mixed up with the stench
Of wood and cow dung fires
And now and then a funeral pyre,
“What of the smells” you may ask,
“When in the sun you can daily bask?”
Little know you, how that we
Could curse the sun and quickly flee
To corners cool and pray for rain,
And wish to never see the sun again.
The sun goes down, and then the sky
Of flaming banners held on high,
Makes hearts turn over with the beauty,
Of God’s work wrought over each drab city.
Then comes the night, so soft and cool,
But spoilt by dogs and cats and mule,
That bark and call and bray, till day
Breaks gently in the eastern sky,
To bring another day as dry.
Note: The “Anonymous” poetess of this very heartfelt and lovely poem, was my dear mother, the even lovelier, Ann Dorking-Clark.
For good or bad, she always encouraged me to write and express myself, whether in prose or in poetry; constantly entertaining me with poems and stories of her own, which she made up for me as I was growing up.
This is a hub relating to me and where I come from; both geographically and emotionally. If you liked it, perhaps you would like the others here included.
- Jeanette MacDonald goes to Broadstairs
My parents met in about 1937, when my mother was a nanny to a rather rich Polish family living in Ivor, Buckinghamshire. As part of her duties, she would travel to a local private school to collect the little girl in her charge, Anne Zinzinanix I'm
- Does Anyone Know What I Am
This is an attempt to explain why I have no loyalty to any particular country or geographical area over any other, as I come from, or lived in, and loved, many. So when I read any nationalistic, or emotionally heart-warming poetry to do with Homeland
Chrome When I was just a child in India How many times has that prefaced a tale? Our Mali fashioned for me with two sticks and net, a toy. A net for butterflies. And I went out and gathered Scooped the air and brought within our bungalow Plucked fro
- Krishna in the Morning
I had woken when Krishna came into the room and had brought me out of light sleep as his dry feet moved over the dry floor. Krishna always walked so quietly, so as not to wake the Chota Sahib. He walked so quietly, but when he saw that I was awake he
More by this Author
India, 1946. Independence looms. Day in the life of a Chota Sahib. But this young boy doesn’t realise that he is the baby who will be thrown out with the bathwater. He’s Indian, but the wrong colour.
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A fairly lighthearted (though basically bitter) retelling of the history of having a room converted into a bathroom. With no offence meant to men on horses, the builders were a crowd of evil cowboys.