My poem Crossing the Black Waters will be performed live by actors on 21st December as part of an international Solstice Shorts festival on one day in seven port town including Oeiras in Portugal, Greenwich, Clydebank, Hastings.
Register your interest in attending the festival.
Some photos from my book launch of A Dinner Party in the Home Counties held at Rhode Island Coffee in Altrincham and the Poetry Cafe in London.
Wonderful to have such warm support and turnout and honoured to read alongside such acclaimed poets as Mimi Khalvati, Todd Swift, Rishi Dastidar and Yogesh Patel.
Praise for the book
“You will be pleased at discovering award winning poet Reshma Ruia. Her voice is intimate and confident. Her poetry shines bright. Reshma lures the reader into her world through a vivid imagination. From the empty bed of an accountant to the code of 1947 Reshma’s skill is in how she paints pictures with words which become whole landscapes and scenes in one’s imagination. She ignites the reader. I feel I am reading someone whom everyone will be reading in future. Read her now! “
– Lemn Sissay, MBE, Winner of the Pinter Prize for poetry, 2019 and author of ‘My Name Is Why.’
“It is highly unusual, and therefore incredibly exciting, to read post-colonial poetry that can best be described as quirky, even playful. In this strange, provocative and often powerful collection, form, content and style create difference and otherness, they don’t just explore it thematically. Every time you think you’re reading yet another poem about identity or the shape of current Britain, you realise you’re simultaneously in the presence of a witty, clever and original writing-mind. I found myself wanting to simply say, despite the humour, important messages, and striking imagery, I really like this – because it’s the exact opposite of whatever stale, obvious, is.”
– Todd Swift
“Reshma Ruia has an enviable knack of finding the telling detail in the scenes she so vividly portrays: the overheard fragment of conversation, the image creeping into the eye line, the interaction that lasts a moment and yet a lifetime too. In deceptively simple language, Ruia’s poems remind us how often we are strangers to others – and ourselves as well.”
– Rishi Dastidar
“There’s a fierce energy in Reshma Ruia’s poetry. Her incantatory and conversational tone belies her social and human concerns. Her rhythmic control is amazing, sustained in her assertive voice and language. This debut collection everyone should read—the sooner the better. Captivating!”
– Cyril Dabydeen
“I have been fond of Reshma Ruia’s short stories for a while now and so was delighted to learn that she has recently published her debut book of poetry, ‘A Dinner Party In The Home Counties’. The poems in this book are based on the theme of belonging and/or displacement. Most poems, I could relate to and others I could empathise with.
The poems are categorised into ‘Beginnings’ , ‘The Space Between’ and ‘Endings’. However, this doesn’t stop the reader in mentally changing these categories or doing away with them altogether. This perceived freedom is a result of Reshma’s writing where the words lucidly flow through the pages and quietly capture one’s imagination. A few lines across poems are so poignantly expressed that I had to re read them in order for them to sink into my consciousness e.g. From the poem ‘An Empty Milk Bottle’ – ‘The children grown up and gone, feathering their own nests’, and ‘…..can’t quite understand how and why a life crammed so full of living and loving became so stripped. So bereft of meaning. An empty milk bottle, idling on the doorstep’.
Some poems moved me to such an extent that I found it difficult to articulate this impact. I believe it was the clarity of language that did this – ‘put it out there’, so to speak. Take for e.g. this verse from the poem Pomology “…..You still have your fruit. But it’s no longer the season.”. The poem Brexit Blues in its entirety is so well written, the last verse especially so. It made me reflect even further on Britain’s current political situation which maybe best described as grim.
A few other poems made me question the status quo that we sometimes learn to accept as beings in our adopted land e.g. accepting certain behaviour from people only because we need a particular job or want to be accepted into the cultural mainstream as much as possible e.g. the poem, ‘Inside Edward Hopper’s Diner’. I believe that the poem ‘A Dinner Party In The Home Counties’ rightly deserves its place as the title of this collection as it dares to challenge the many stereotypes associated with diversity.
Overall, this is a cleverly crafted collection of poems. I am certain that every time I re read these poems, their meaning will change shape in accordance with my life circumstances at that given moment and this, is the beauty of expression that Reshma Ruia has masterfully achieved in her debut collection.
A Dinner Party in the Home Counties has been chosen as a notable poetry collection by the Huffington Post.
Reshma Ruia: Overheard at The National Portrait Gallery – Funny Pearls, 15 August 2019.
The bold lip that sneers. The curled eyelash. The body gift wrapped in feather and flounce, demanding your gaze. Cindy Sherman hangs on the walls, bouncing from Beverly Hills to Cape Cod donning disguises that titillate the senses. Madonna, Monroe, cocktail waitress and bored housewife. She’s been them all. She is a chronicler of a gilded age. But, you’re not listening. You wear sensible flat sandals and short grey hair. Your mouth has not kissed a lipstick in a hundred years.
You’re talking. Loud, urgent. Fish words swim out of your mouth, gasping for oxygen. The museum guard raises an eyebrow, buries a yawn. Shifts one buttock cheek, then the other on the folding metal stool. You are two kind ladies of late middle age. He won’t disturb you. He’ll let it pass.
This is what you have to say:
‘Brother Richard is still being a dick. He forgot to ring mother on Mother’s Day. Sister Margaret has hit the bottle again. What about your allotment? Did you catch the thieves? Who would’ve thought courgettes were so prized. Not courgettes? Sorry did you say runner beans? My hearing is not what it used to be. You got the smear test back. Yes, my knees are playing up again. That homeopathy woman you suggested. I think she’s a quack. Three pounds fifty they charged for a measly cup of coffee in the café upstairs. What did I tell you? Greggs would’ve been better. I worry about Paul most days. The other day he left the crossword unfinished. Again. Most unlike him and yes, did you visit the grave? Can’t believe he’s been ten years gone? And the kids? Mark’s planning on emigrating to Australia. You mean immigrating. No, I meant emigrating. It’s what rich folks do when they set up home in another country. This country is going to the dogs. Just look at that guard, lazy sod, not doing his job.’
A Mrs. Dalloway Kind of Day published in Lost Balloon, 24 April 2019.
Nose buried in a bouquet of flowers. She strides through the park. The distant hum of traffic. A bee’s snore in her ear. Easy enough to be happy. Toss a coin. Swipe a card. Buy the dress. The shoes. The jewels. Clap away spider web shadows. Lurking in the rooms. The hurt. The bruise. The dripping faucet of an eye. They belonged to another day. If only she could run back to her ten-year-old self. Chasing butterflies on the village green. Cheeks freckled with sunshine not age. A heart somersaulting in joy. Limbs dripping youth.
Recipient of the 2019 First Collection Award by the Word Masala Foundation and SkyLark Publications.
A Love Story published in The Good Journal Issue 3 edited by Courttia Newland.
The Good Journal is a quarterly literary journal showcasing the very best writers of colour in the UK. It was founded by Nikesh Shukla and Julia Kingsford.
He wakes up next morning in a black and grey world.
Reduced to a matchstick figure in a Lowry painting.
Sucked clean of breath and bone, he feels
Entirely made up of memories. Of her. Of them.
The empty pillow by his side carries the weight
Of her absent head. She has stayed and been gone
A few hours but he has already
Built a lifetime with her. The wedding altar.
The kids. The summer holidays on the beach.
It is a mistake he will keep repeating.
With every one-night stand he picks up.
‘You have a homesick heart,’ they tell him.
Cupping his baldhead in their hands. Stroking his cheek
And his face where the wrinkles run deep
With absent minded fingers and upset voices
‘This is a business transaction Mister, please, don’t anchor your heart in us.’
His heart. He sees it like a balloon-untethered, unmoored, flying aimless.
And him running after it, outstretched arms and weeping skin.
That was it – the dream that startled him awake.
Him skipping and tripping
And falling as he chased his heart; it floated out of view.
The alarm clock shrills into life.
He checks his watch, and dresses in a hurry.
And reports for work
Where he spends his days filing returns for sad-eyed divorcees
And gas utility companies.
Asia Literary Review Poetry – No. 32, Winter 2016, Southall Blues
Asia Literary Review Poetry – In Memory of Flight MH-370
The cockpit dashboard blinks
A thousand eyes
Each dial a finger
Spinning him somewhere
Far beyond the star-rimmed sky
His head in a twist
Which way should he turn?
The continents whirl a dervish dance
The roar of the engine becomes
A soft insect bite on his ear
He slips a hand inside his pocket
And pulls out a feather
Tender like an early-morning kiss
He presses the feather against his cheek
And the day comes back
The wounded bird
From a long-ago childhood
He’d knelt by the roadside
Knees powdered in dust
Deaf to his mother’s impatient tugging hand
Carefully he’d plucked the single drooping feather
His stare never leaving the bird’s stone-hard eye
That even then foretold his death
Saudade. A Quarterly magazine of modern and contemporary poetry. Issue 2. 2016.
Still-Life in a Room
There are lives and lives
Circling out of reach
Dervishes dancing away
Leaving empty rooms behind
My body throws its arms
Around every friendly voice it meets
This ache to be understood
This ache to belong
Will someone step forward
And fill with sound
The silence growling in my ear
Will someone step forward
And smash the hands
Of the clock scratching
The graffiti marks of time
On my face.
Anthology in Italy. 210 Giovani poeti in 9 lingue.