When the flurry of waves took its race,
through the mountains and valleys, Continue reading “Our Own Country”
When the flurry of waves took its race,
When the flurry of waves took its race,
through the mountains and valleys, Continue reading “Our Own Country” →
Sonetto, meaning little song had its birth in Italy at the hands of Giacomo da Lentini. It was not long before it entered English shores with Sir Thomas Wyatt and Henry Howard. As with all poetic forms, the time has twirled and nicked this form here and there. Traditionally dealing with the theme of love, sonnets offered poets or sonneteers as they are referred to in this case, a vehicle to carry, ruminate and find a resolution to their dilemmas. Continue reading “PaperPlanes#12 – Let me sing you a little song” →
Last year, I was in a village in Gujarat, trying to understand about menstrual hygiene among rural women. It was fascinating that the topic of menstruation brought a lot of laughter among them, Clearly, they were ashamed to talk about the hush topic which was apparently dirty and unhygienic. It didn’t matter that I was also a woman and went through the same cycle. Continue reading “PaperPlanes#11 – It’s Poetry. Period.” →
Imagine a man whose list of admirers reads like this:
It was a cloudy evening in namma Bengaluru on which Harper Perennial had hosted its tenth-anniversary event at the new Blossom Book Store on the Church Street. They had Vivek Shanbhag, Anita Nair, Volga and Jayanth Kaikini as their chief guests. They spoke about their books in regional languages that got translated into English by Harper Perennial.
Though the guests spoke about books, the focus was language. At one point, Kaikini said when he lived in Mumbai, at home he spoke Konkani, Marathi on the local bus and metro, English and Hindi at work, and came back home to write in Kannada. Kaikini, if you don’t know, is a writer, poet, and above all, one of the lyricists who brought meaningful lyrics in Kannada movies back from the brink of a shameful death. Though his mother tongue is Konkani, he writes in Kannada because it is close to his heart. He also said people can understand better if written in a language close to them. For most people, unlike himself, mother tongue is close to their heart. For which I told yes, just like people get more offended when someone abuses them in their mother tongue than in any other language. Yes, I had to make that analogy. Because you don’t choose language, but the language chooses you.
Kamala Surayya, a noted poetess, under her penname Kamala Das, wrote in An Introduction – ‘Don’t write in English, they said, English is not your mother-tongue. Why not leave me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, every one of you? Why not let me speak in any language I like? The language I speak, becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses all mine, mine alone.’ She was right. Poetry is a form of literary work that doesn’t care about language in which it is written. The poet writes in the language in which he or she is comfortable. The reader chooses poems in languages he or she enjoys. Both don’t have to be the same.
What a poet tries to convey through the poem is best known to him or her. A reader can only analyse and interpret it to his or her best knowledge. It is not the same as reading a novel or a short story. Nobody can impose a poem on anybody. Because a poem is a whole story written in fewer words. Poetry is not for everyone; so wrong. Perhaps poetry in all languages is not for everyone. That means it is not enough if you know the language to enjoy the poem. You have to feel it. You will only feel the poem if it is close to your heart. That’s why teachers in school took more time to explain poems than stories in the textbooks to students. Again, the teacher would have explained what he or she interpreted and might have differed from what the student thought. That’s why most students feel poetry is boring. No, poetry is not boring. It is just that poetry is not in the right language for that student or person. Because poetry has a language, and it doesn’t have to be your mother tongue.
Poetry has always been a Pandora’s box for me. Through the years, as I learned to read into words and pauses, it opened a world that I wanted to embrace. Fraught with emotions, desires, and innocence, there are poems to this day that I earmark for each feeling I cannot fit into the conventional labelling. Continue reading “PaperPlanes#7 – Food For Soul” →
“Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove’s visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive.”
It is because of this piece, I was drawn towards poetry. What held my fascination was the fact that in this world of poetry, one can be honest; that one can be true to oneself and to the world; the gesture will be applauded. It is a pity that when I came across this piece, my meekness led me to believe that being oneself was possible only in the world of poems. Back then there was an utter lack of ambition and one would immerse into and hide behind this world where the day would pass as a maze of thoughts. Time was never a worry, as it seemed to be playing along my pace. I realize how this piece gave me an intellectual high, comforting my self imposed limitations and fears. However, even back then as now it did twinge this point just below my breast and just above the lungs, somewhere in the centre.
Today when I consider myself far more confident, and not at war with the world, I want to partake in its worldliness. This piece does not comfort me anymore, as I feel the need to find a place in this world. I do not feel the same pride I once felt addressing myself as someone and anyone. While I still feel we are the voices of same poverty, there is an urge to change the status quo the country is still languishing in. I have developed drive whose inspiration is still not materialism, although my day has become greedy from the need to make this country a better place to live. I have never felt this identification for my homeland as I do now, and would like to see its men and women rise above the worries of food and shelter. My ambition is to not worry about a livelihood but about ‘a way of life’.
I am afraid to admit that one has developed a conflict with the idea of a city and its need to ‘build’. I am at conflict with its pace. With no first hand experience of a countryside, I assume it to be a place with unattended green wilderness punctuated by houses which are not at conflict with nature. I have many complaints, angst and regrets against the cities I have been a part of and still am. The quick to attack rage of steel and the lariats of my fellow Indians makes my heart burn, though now I do not feel isolated by their aspirations.
The willow grove’s visible prayer holds much more beauty for me now, as do all the phases of a day. Now I want to be a part of every sunrise, and every sunset and find romance in noon. While I am much more aware of my dispensability, I would like to feel worthy of tomorrow as I sleep and wake up, every day.
I want to develop my own pace, fast or slow and be unashamed of it.
I want to be more prodigious than a meteor as I wanted to be back then, albeit being a part of this worldliness.
The ‘Boast of Quietness’ holds a much more meaningful place in my life now. Thank you for this poem.
About the Author : Gunjan Vashisht is a poet, writer who has a flair for human nature and finds herself at home with the propensity to explore habits, reactions, opinions, mindsets.
I am convinced that there are three things to rejoice at in this Age—The Excursion, Your Pictures, and Hazlitt’s depth of Taste.
– John Keats in his letter to Benjamin Robert Haydon on 10th January, 1818.
The onset of life is poetry. A rose may smell as sweet by any other name but a child’s first words with the maternal force of divine, in any shape or form other than the rhythmical, cadenced cry cannot weave the same magic in the ears or the airs of the world. When a mother lullabies her child to sleep for the first time, poetry becomes the first and the sweetest words of instruction for a lifetime. When a Teacher establishes her first contact with the aliens on earth who are to be schooled to become humans, poetry drenches and softens the first pathways of unyielding greatness.
Professor William Hastie taught at the Scottish Church College, Calcutta. At the time, this college was known as the General Assembly Institution. The Professor in one of his classes was discussing the ‘Great Poem’ of William Wordsworth – The Excursion. It is the longest poem written by the poet and is considered to be one of the most influential poems of its time. The poem advances through a debate among its 4 main characters – the Poet, the Wanderer, the Solitary, and the Pastor. This poem was published in 1814 and is arranged into 9 books. Notably, the 3rd and the 4th books consist of a conversation between the Wanderer and the Solitary regarding religion, spirituality, and human virtues. As with every other poem of Wordsworth, these lines too were born from the deep meditative reflections of his mood. For me, Wordsworth becomes one with his subjects of poetry – nature, mind, or soul notwithstanding, he seemed to transcend into the inner chambers of entities he dealt with. Naturally, he remains one of the most difficult poets to teach in a classroom.
From these imaginative heights, that yield
Far-stretching views into eternity,
Acknowledge that to Nature’s humbler power
Your cherished sullenness is forced to bend
Even here, where her amenities are sown
With sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad
To range her blooming bowers, and spacious fields,
Where on the labours of the happy throng
She smiles, including in her wide embrace
City, and town, and tower,–and sea with ships
Sprinkled;–be our Companion while we track
Her rivers populous with gliding life;
While, free as air, o’er printless sands we march,
Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods;
Roaming, or resting under grateful shade
In peace and meditative cheerfulness;
Where living things, and things inanimate,
Do speak, at Heaven’s command, to eye and ear,
And speak to social reason’s inner sense,
With inarticulate language.
– From Book 4, Despondency Corrected, The Excursion – William Wordsworth
During his lecture on the poem, Professor Hastie was explaining the nature and meaning of ‘trance’. For his students to have an understanding of the subject, he directed them to visit Dakshineshwar in Calcutta and see Sri Ramakrishna who was believed to be a realized soul in spiritual experiences and someone who went into Bhava-Samadhi (a state of ecstatic and heightened consciousness or spiritual ecstasy) at will.
Narendranath Dutta, who was present in the classroom, heeded to Hastie’s advice and went to see Sri Ramakrishna. This young man was to become Swami Vivekananda through his association with Sri Ramakrishna in the years to come by collecting gems at his Master’s feet and influence the history of humanity in a way that the French Nobel Laureate Romain Rolland described thus – “His words are great music, phrases in the style of Beethoven, stirring rhythms like the march of Handel choruses. I cannot touch these sayings of his, scattered as they are through the pages of books at thirty years’ distance, without receiving a thrill through my body like an electric shock. And what shocks, what transports must have been produced when in burning words they issued from the lips of the hero !
India was hauled out of the shifting sands of barren speculation wherein she had been engulfed for centuries, by the hand of one of her own sannyàsins; and the result was that the whole reservoir of mysticism, sleeping beneath, broke its bounds and spread by a series of great ripples into action. The West ought to be aware of the tremendous energies liberated by these means.”
Sublimity, thy name is Poetry!
To say I’ve hated haiku as an art form is a gross understatement; I had never given it a moment’s thought, forget considering it poetry!
And it’s not just the kitsch that most wannabe pseudo-intellectual or insta-intoxicated Sufi/Zen oafs churn out and repeat all over Whatsapp and other digital media either.
Consider this epitome, that’s now a cliche in the haiku universe, the piece that eventually led to the coinage of the word haiku (it was originally hokku, and the hokku used to be part of a longer poem, renga; Masaoka Shiki came up with the term for standalone haiku, made popular by Basho):
an old pond
a frog jumps in
the sound of water
( furuike ya kawazu tobikomu mizu no oto
if you care for the original Japanese text.)
This piece by Basho has been hailed for portraying eternity in a moment, stillness, Zen and whatever the reader’s fertile or troubled mind conjures – it has over 170 official translations in English alone.
No matter how many times I read or thought it over, for the life of me, I couldn’t find any such depth in it. And so I gave up on the genre altogether as snake oil being peddled by Japanophile zealots.
(And lest you should think me an ignorant boor, you are free to peruse this:
So when I recently picked up The Classic Tradition of Haiku (there was nothing else around to read) I tried to keep a very open mind and was truly astonished by the unassuming simplicity and nothingness of it. And then it struck me!
It wasn’t haiku that I hated all these years but the over-interpretations of them! (By the way, haiku is both singular and plural.)
Haiku, rather hokku, is, what it always was, a simple rhythmic formal description of nature – nothing more, nothing less.
It is just a terse fleeting image of a transient natural phenomenon. True to its Japanese roots, it does not overdo on either sentimentality or meaning, it just states an existential fact.
And this very elemental picture, a word-image of an ephemeron in this phantasmagoria we call living on this blind plane of existence, it is this observation that is, and creates, its own meaning.
And so it is, that it is the water in the still pond that makes a sound, not the frog that eagerly jumps into it!
(And it’s not a mere play on words but the revelation of the paradoxical in the commonplace that lends the tiny haiku, barely 11-17 syllables, its unfathomable power – the recognition of truth!)
Having said that, human nature is also nature, and while Basho is synonymous with haiku to today’s western-educated youth, it is the soft sadness of Kobayashi Issa that resounded most vibrantly in me, whether it be his compassion for animals:
the crowd of children –
or this gut wrenching observation:
her row veering off,
the peasant woman plants
toward her crying child
However, if I had to pick one quintessential haiku, it would be this masterpiece by Kikaku, Basho’s flippant, though arguably best, student:
It is my snow, I think
And the weight on my hat lightens
Reproduced above are lines from the poem The Night Before Christmas composed by Clement Clarke Moore for his children on the Christmas Eve of 1822. The poem was originally called A Visit from St. Nicholas and travelled time to become the most defining description of the modern day Santa Claus. How?
In 1863, Harper’s Weekly hired Thomas Nast to draw Santa Claus bringing gifts for the troops fighting in the American Civil War. Nast resorted to Clement’s poem for his inspiration and the resulting Santa was welcomed warmly by the troops. This Santa was a much more relatable one when compared to the ones depicted before Clement’s poem. Nast drew this Santa every year for 40 years.
Years later, Coca Cola in 1931, commissioned D’Arcy Advertising Agency and Michigan-born artist Haddon Sundblom to create a campaign featuring Santa Claus who would be friendlier and more approachable than the earlier versions being used by the company till then. The inspiration came again from Clement’s poem. The ‘jolly old elf’ has come to represent happiness as well as Coke till today, all from a poem that went out anonymously when it was published for the first time!
Reference – Coke Lore Santa Claus
कवि होते हैं। उनकी कृतियाँ होतीं हैं। कई कवियों की कृतियाँ कालजयी होती हैं। पर क्या ऐसा होता है कि किसी कवि की सभी कृतियाँ कालजयी होतीं होंं? नहीं। कई गणमान्य, सर्वसम्मानित कवियों ने भी बहुत सारी साधारण कृतियाँ रची हैं। कालजयी कृति की छाया में उनकी साधारण कृतियाँ भी अनमोल लगने लगतीं हैं।
Is it possible to ‘review’ poetry? Every time I sit to write about poems or stand to speak about poetry, this question confounds me. A friend sent a poem of his about 4-5 years ago and asked for my opinions. I read it, a critic would have perhaps trashed it owing to its form. I asked my poet friend if he had written what he thought of and what he thought like. He said yes. I told him it was good. With poems as with any other form of writing, I try to see through the feelings and the honesty in expressing them. If there is a match, I am up for more from you. However, if I find a mismatch or if I feel that the work has become a matter of form over emotions, I am turned off.
The category where form dominates feelings – I call it ‘attempt to poetry’. Attempt to poetry and poetry stand so close at times that it is often impossible to distinguish between the two. Most often attempt to poetry passes off as poetry and readers end up spending time either reading structures, rhymes, rhythms, cadences, and meters or bore themselves to dislike poetry once and for ever. Like for any other form of creativity, it is sad but it is true. I have never attended a poetry workshop, so I keep wondering what they teach there. Teaching to read and write your feelings? Must be an arduous task.
Now, to ‘review’ poetry is in a way reviewing emotions. ‘Reviewing’ poetry is ‘reviewing’ the innermost expressions whispered from the communion of mind and the heart – technically possible but spiritually speaking, it can only be an ‘attempt to review’. To review what the poet views is not plausible unless you become one with the expressions of his poems. One may decide for himself how easy or difficult that is.
I wrote a reply to the poet singing his songs inside the pages of the book that I have on my monitor at present. It is I believe the final draft of the book in a pdf form and has been published in kindle and paperback versions on amazon. The paperback version is a tad heavy on your wallet. The kindle version is sweetly priced and you may want to own it at the earliest. The reply was an answer to the poet on his enquiry on the status of the review that I had committed myself to. The ‘review’ comes much delayed than expected on a ‘conventional scale’ of time as I was reading the poems slow. While Kafka turned into a vermin while writing Metamorphosis, I turned into a snail while reading Kaushal’s poems. I was hit by the strongest of forces ever known to humanity – the force of reality – the nice, the ugly, and the vulgar. I withdrew like a snail each time on being hit, I came out again after some time until at last, the repetition of the lyrical attack found a pattern and I became used to the world of Siamese Compassion. Kaushal Suvarna wanted to check on the progress of review. I offered him my thoughts on ‘reviewing’ as excuse to buy more time and continue with my withdrawal-perseverance game with his creations.
The poems make you think about a lot of things, about a lot of people, about a lot of lives, and about a lot of hypocrisies we exhibit while living this life. From the cover to back and back, the reader never feels left at the mercy of an idealist. You are on a journey of reality and the poet puts you in the zone and leaves you alone there by the end of every poem. You have two options in that room – you either say this is enough and quit or you decide that you want to continue. If you quit, the stage of realism is auto-saved in your mind and you can always come later to resume from where you left. You will find the poet with his arsenal of realism-devices standing there, waiting for you. In case you choose to continue in the world of stark realities, you find the poet standing there nevertheless. However, he doesn’t make a promise to stay with you in between the pauses of two creations. He leaves again by the end, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Now, you have the same two options again. Either way, you will have to come back and continue. If you are not prepared to die today, you will come back to die tomorrow.
If you ask for my suggestion on where to start, start with the title-poem ‘Siamese Compassion’ and then spread your wings toward other pages in the book.
“Sure, one man’s martyr
Is another one’s terrorist
And horses must be shod
And bulls castrated for their own benefit
For society’s a venomous centipede
Whose legs can’t be knocked off the stool
Lest we all tumble in mindless anarchy
Â You may have suffered greater tortures than I
Your degree of fortitude may be greater than mine
But I felt your cuts deeper
While you endured in silence
Are we not both brothers in pain?”
These thoughts must have matured through myriads of experiences of life and the shape they have taken in the poems of Siamese Compassion, make Kaushal one of my favorite contemporary poets of the present time. He is honest with his feelings and hence naturally, feelings gain primacy over form, not that I have any complaints against the form. It is also a sad commentary over our system that promotes a superstar culture where mediocre works are making millions through traditional publishing while such work of finesse has to be self-published. I don’t want this book to get lost in oblivion. The poems are to be read on loop until we see through our sins and take the first step towards washing them away. Once more, that brings me to a question. Is it possible to wash away our sins? Is there a hope somewhere to live a life untainted by the artificial idealism that we are born in and taught about but keep violating all our lives? You might have to turn to this book to find that out.