Of Flowers and Poetry

The best part about working in your favourite bookstore is how books you'd reserved yonks ago show up out of nowhere, still reserved in your name. The books section staff come waving the bundle, reservation slip secured by rubber band intact, mischievously asking if you still want the books, knowing full well that you do. You chase them up and down the aisle, behaving in a manner most unbecoming of bookstore staff, till finally the pile nestles in your palm. What makes this triumph even more happy is that the books in questions are this one, this one, and very, very awesomely, this one!

I am the most thrilled about Tell me the Truth About Love simply because of its incredible price. I mean, when was the last time you bought Auden for Rs 150?! I've read some of the 15 poems (and no, it's not the same thing as the expensive version just because there are only 15 poems!) but some are new and, as all Auden is, they are delightfully brilliant and the subject of another post. The other two collections are really rather great and one of my very favourites from Short and Sweet is this one:

Animals

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it's no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn't need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn't want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

--Frank O'Hara

The Chinese Erotic Poems, you say? Well, I'm still savouring a lot of the book but of the ones I have read, I lack the finesse to describe the sheer *poetry* of these two so I'll just let you get on and read them.

Tangled Hair
From 42 Songs

Last night I didn't comb my hair.
Like silk it tangles down my shoulders
and curls up on my knees.
What part of me is not lovely?


Night is Forever
From 42 Songs

The night is forever. I can't sleep.
The clear moon is so bright, so bright.
I almost think I hear a voice call me,
and to the empty sky say, Yes?

-- Zi Ye
(3rd-4th centuries CE. Translated by Mike Farman)

******

I'll leave you with a photo from a set that I hope to finish over the coming weekend. It was taken at the Globe Hotel in Udwada, Gujarat. I'm not much of a fan of "flower photography" (and I know there's a better name but I just can't remember it!) and I indulge in it quite infrequently but I must admit, I really do quite like the shot.

Say a little...

... wish that the best works out for me tomorrow, won't you? I'm not a believer but if you are, a prayer is very welcome too!

I'm off in less than six hours to another city for the day. For an interview, you see. I've barely been looking for a job and I'm quite astonished that this lead has gone so far, so quickly, and so seemingly neatly. It's unbelievable actually, especially since anything and everything was so difficult to get done all of last year. And honestly, I cannot describe just how enthralled I am with this opportunity and how much I am looking forward to getting the job. In fact, in all excitement and trepidation, from pattering peacefully like a penguin, I have been jumping around like a crazed cat. The poor ex-reviewer went mad trying to get me to sit still on the bike. This is certainly to say nothing of the poor man going cross-eyed simply trying to talk to me this evening!

And now, as you can see, I am completely unable to sleep. But I should get to bed... not a good idea to tire myself out, no? I need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning, if you will forgive the god-awful cliché. I'm all packed, notes to wow the potential employers and a day's travel essentials in place. Details when I'm back, of course — with good news hopefully . *deep breath* Now to sleep.

One last thing in case you're interested. The article's still not done. No surprises there I know, but I did discover this nice one about writing for a grant though. B, you might be interested. :-)

Troubling Tedium

It's been one of those days. More accurately, it's been a few of those days.

Despite all the deadlines writhing around me, I have been completely unable to concentrate. If I've been at the computer for six hours during each of the past two days, at least four-and-three-quarter of those have been spent browsing pages that have nothing to do with notions of sociability and what they mean in a technologised world. Nothing whatsoever, I assure you. And yes, I should have been done with this essay at least four days ago.

I suspect I'm just dragging my feet because I haven't written something remotely academic in nearly five years. To make me an even greater (procrastinating) wreck, in response to a draft, the ex-professor said, and I quote: "Good work on the outline. I look forward to the essay." This in itself is not a big deal, you see. But in all the years he's known and taught me, it's most complimentary thing he's ever said to me — I'm officially ready to weep in terror now.

And that non-existent God knows, I've tried hard to concentrate. Yesterday I even clanged around the house, attempting to drum up some enthusiasm or even interest for the writing and research. Not a good idea because predictably, the clatter engendered no great spurt of intellectual brilliance. Instead, I got comfortable in bed and finished The Encantadas or Enchanted Isles and The Firework-Maker's Daughter AND I got started on The Book of Imaginary Beings. Groan...

What's that? Yes, of course I know a day spent in such absorbing company is never a waste. But I've got to get that essay done. It is essential, don't you know, to the health of one of those academic begging bowl packages. And still, I'm just being aimless, pointedly ignoring the bloody thing! These are times when I wonder if I should actually get back to academia. No matter that the course is mostly professional in nature, it will still involve paper-writing, research, and all the things that are currently wrapping me in endless ennui...

Today, I've come back to my computer and stared at blankly it for what seemed like an age and hence proceeded to get thoroughly depressed. To cheer myself up a little, I went trawling through my daily reads. In more than one place I found some incredible poetry or stories about poetry. And so, with sickening alacrity, I abandoned the one paper I'd managed to open and went about some poem sampling. I just know it — this essay is never going to get done!!

You must check out this wonderful Philip Larkin poem — which cut too close to home right now. One day, you should also remind me to tell you about the time I bought the hardcover edition of the Collected Philip Larkin from the British Library in Hyderabad for a paltry 200 rupees. It was whacked from me by another beloved ex-professor who has appropriated it so completely that she even claims to have inscribed it, to herself from me!

In those guilt-ridden hours, I also found this lovely one by Robert Frost — and being so completely taken by the brilliance of it, I spent another hour looking for his company. I'll leave you though with this one by Mary Kinzie — it's something that loosened the guilt with a wintery, imperceptible "aaah".


The Close Path

What have I trained for what
have the years of
whatever I did
during them
made me
ready to take on
if the tears are to
stream coldly
like long streaks
of rain down the light
brick of the storehouse
and I become
afraid to look
lest the pain
travel
with my breathing
its path
near enough
to disappear
down

That Time of Year

It's that time of year again and for once, I'm not going to mimble-wimble or fiddle-faddle my way through this post. Of course not, especially not since it's been such a decisive year, what with important dreams being put on hold yet again, taxing relationships and maddening work, and my finally making the break from an industry I intensely disliked. And I must admit, that the break is perhaps the best decision that I've made in the last three years.

You see, I love that I've got back in the groove of my life as I used to know it. Getting enough rest, reading, watching movies, writing... calling friends when I said I would. I've finally addressed the one great complaint of my life — Goa. I've consolidated some relationships and agonised and stepped away from others. I've drowned summery, buttery peace and wintery, slanting solitude. It all doesn't seem very different from any other year but in quietness, I've known that it is. Finally, I've known and accepted that this break cannot last much longer but I do not think that I will ever be able to be gainfully employed without needing to take a break for a few months, every few years.

I am back this morning from an enlightening (in far more ways than one) trip to Banglore, armed to face the New Year with a number of new books (yes, yes, I did it again — and my mother's ready to kill me again!) and enough movies to keep me busy till 2009. If only my break would last that long. But I will suffice to leave you with this utterly gorgeous poem and wish you a happy New Year, my dears. I do hope the year is as liberating and edifying as the last six months have been.

Year’s End

Now winter downs the dying of the year,
And night is all a settlement of snow;
From the soft street the rooms of houses show
A gathered light, a shapen atmosphere,
Like frozen-over lakes whose ice is thin
And still allows some stirring down within.

I’ve known the wind by water banks to shake
The late leaves down, which frozen where they fell
And held in ice as dancers in a spell
Fluttered all winter long into a lake;
Graved on the dark in gestures of descent,
They seemed their own most perfect monument.

There was perfection in the death of ferns
Which laid their fragile cheeks against the stone
A million years. Great mammoths overthrown
Composedly have made their long sojourns,
Like palaces of patience, in the gray
And changeless lands of ice. And at Pompeii

The little dog lay curled and did not rise
But slept the deeper as the ashes rose
And found the people incomplete, and froze
The random hands, the loose unready eyes
Of men expecting yet another sun
To do the shapely thing they had not done.

These sudden ends of time must give us pause.
We fray into the future, rarely wrought
Save in the tapestries of afterthought.
More time, more time. Barrages of applause
Come muffled from a buried radio.
The New-year bells are wrangling with the snow.

-- Richard Wilbur

Eating Poetry

I don't read as much poetry as I would like to. To my excuse-making mind, it is the unfortunate fallout of not being in an academic space any more. I completed my Masters in English nearly five years ago and it's been at least that long since I've had proper access to poetry. You see, most good libraries — actually, make that all — are well across the city and too far for regular use. And should I, by some fortuitous circumstance, come across a good collection of poetry at Landmark, I know without looking at the tag that the book is beyond my meagre means. Thus, I am abysmally ill-informed about recent poets and their poetry.

So while on this break of mine, I set about attempting to rectify my ignorance. I imposed on a fellow blogger's kindness and asked for the addresses of the best houses of poetry. The said blogger was very patient and promptly sent back an e-mail full of directions. Ever since, I have diligently jumped from rooftops, discovering entirely new halls of beauty. But yesterday, randomly picking a new route across unknown alleys, as I am wont to do, I came across a poem I knew. A poem that has never lost a constant meaning in my life — not for the last seven years at least.

It was a crackling winter afternoon in Hyderabad, when the sun had bleached everything ashen: a day when I felt ready to break, overwhelmed in the still agony of a beautiful melancholy. I remember that time: that was a rickety year. I was away from home in an almost alien environment and culture, a first, real relationship was crumbling, and friendships were shaky. And how did one begin to negotiate, or even interact with, the unbearable lightness, the intellectual turbulence, that came with devouring the sort and the amount of writing that I was exposed to then?

That afternoon, as I walked past the mail tray on my way up to my hostel room, there lay in it a letter for me. Even in a time of e-mail, there were still a few people with whom I exchanged that special pleasure of handwritten letters. This particular one was from a professor that I was quite close to through my Bachelors. She'd received my letter a few weeks ago, she wrote, but being preoccupied with exams, she hadn't had a chance to reply. In fact, her letter was written on an examination answer booklet: she had written to me while invigilating an exam.

She wrote me the loveliest letter: full of a faith that I did not have in myself. She told me what I knew but could not believe, that this, too, would pass. She also reminded me of the reasons I'd come to Hyderabad for, of the things I wanted from my Masters, and where I'd hoped they would take me... In the very last paragraph, she wrote that she was enclosing a poem for me. She hoped that I'd be able to identify with it and know that there was equilibrium in my trembling.

Copied out by hand, this poem is amongst the most precious, steadying gifts I've ever received.


The Waking

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

-- Theodore Roethke

****

One last thing, yes? One of the things that was so special about poetry, and indeed literature in a classroom, was the very different sense of discovery at being introduced to the writing — as opposed to discovering it myself. I've spent many days in a white/yellow classroom listening to, and often watching, the rhythms and layers of a poem surprise me from over the shoulder of an oddly-placed word on a grey, photocopied page or in a small office at the back of the Department of English at the University of Hyderabad. Seeing my pleasure in a poem mirrored in a favourite professor's eyes and their pride in me — certainly one of the more profound rewards of my Masters.

Poetry and Bookstores

I encountered Carol Ann Duffy during the first year of my Masters when a professor read out selections from The World's Wife. Unfortunately, I've not had a chance to get very much better acquainted with her since then because all her books at the British Library are almost always out and I'm yet to come across her at a bookstore in Bombay. To boot, the ever-dependable Internet has too few of the same poems all over the place.

The real, if hidden, moral of the story is that if one of you feels generous enough to want to send me any of her work, please don't hesitate to ask for my address. :-)

So here's an utterly gorgeous poem I came across here. There's another one posted there as well but I liked this one better. Also, you'll find a pretty comprehensive profile of Duffy here.

TEA

I like pouring your tea, lifting
the heavy pot, and tipping it up,
so the fragrant liquid streams in your china cup.

Or when you’re away, or at work,
I like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,
as you sip, of the faint half-smile of your lips.

I like the questions – sugar? – milk? –
and the answers I don’t know by heart, yet,
for I see your soul in your eyes, and I forget.

Jasmine, Gunpowder, Assam, Earl Grey, Ceylon,
I love tea’s names. Which tea would you like? I say
but it’s any tea for you, please, any time of day,

as the women harvest the slopes
for the sweetest leaves, on Mount Wu-Yi,
and I am your lover, smitten, straining your tea.


****

I've always thought there are few places as incredible and intriguing as a book store and that there are too few of that variety in Bombay. On a recent trip around Europe, Plain Jane and K spent a few evenings in Paris during the course of which they explored Shakespeare and Company. The both of them generously thought first of me while they were there. Even more generously, they brought back a wonderful print of a lovely painting of it for me.

An iconic English book store in Paris, Shakespeare and Co has flourished under Slyvia Beach and George Whitman and is quite an important place. For example, did you know that it was Beach who first published Ulysses? From all of K's photos and the ones on the Net, it seems like the most delicious hodge-podge of a place. It's dark, crowded with books in a seeming mess, and looks intriguingly inviting. The best part is that in exchange for working two hours a day in the book store, reading a book day, and making your own bed, you can stay in the upper part of the store as long as you like. And as far as I can tell, while I'm unemployed, I'm definitely in the wrong city!

P.S The Wikipedia article led me to Jeremy Mercer's top 10 book stores. All ten sound really, really delectable, I tell you! Sigh...

Blue on White

Scratching, scraping, rasping,
A pen on paper.
Blue on white.
on purple, red and violet.

Lines... dots... blobs... until...
A distant meaning is born.

Tonight I will write.
random imitations of greatness
that wound
Only me.

Of Tangerine and 55 Word Tags

With the ebb and flow of the sea,
Tangerine closes about me.
The wind,
Touching my breasts, my inner spaces,
Caresses this silent lucidity.

In the distance, whispers carry
seductive invitations to misplaced dreams.
My nightmares writhe
In the butterfly death dance and
… release me.

The ebb and flow of the sea…
A hypnotic panacea.



****

I have .:A:. to thank for this. This was so much fun - even though I did take too long doing it! :-)

Technorati Tag: 55 word poem

The Muse Returns...?

I, Bag Lady

She is a bag lady,
rummaging among Garbage
For an unsullied memory.
There is nothing here.
nothing left to save... or hide.
It is time.
time now to find another blind alley.

Like a circle in a square...
there is no exit.

In the abrupt silences of her dead laughter,
I vow....
NEVER to be her.

Invictus, Literature and Neil French

My brother, a thorough advertising man, introduced to me the pleasures of the mind of Neil French. He said I would learn about a writing style completely different from my own. He was right.

Fascinating man, Neil French. According to Ihaveanidea, French has been a "rent collector, account executive, advertising manager, waiter, singer, matador, beach-bum, pornographer, bouncer, debt-collector, concert promoter, nightclub owner, Judas Priests' rock-band manager, copywriter, art-director, creative director, film director, actor, television station owner, Worldwide Creative Director of Ogilvy and most recently, Godfather and Worldwide Creative Director of WPP."

I am overawed by the range of his experience. This is a guy you want to sit down and get bloody hammered with! But to get to the point, French is engaging and funny. And a thumping good writer! I would seriously recommend (if not outright insist on!) exploring his website.

The ad campaign closest to French's heart is the Union Bank of Switzerland campaign. And after having seen all the films, I can see why. To emphasize the base line of the campaign, Here Today. Here Tomorrow, famous (and outstanding!) actors read timeless pieces of literature that make your soul ache like only great literature can.

While exploring the films, I was introduced to this poem of William Ernest Henly called Invictus. It touched something truly deep within me and I should like very much to share it with you.

INVICTUS

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole.
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Beneath the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody but unbowed.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishment the goal.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

Please see Alan Bates read it. The download is about 2 MB and is called The Master of my Fate. In my opinion, this truly will be worth your time. And this is not the only one you should view. Check out all if you have the time but my recommendations are:

• Alan Bates - The Road Less Travelled
• Sir John Geilgud: Ulysses
  
• Dame Maggie Smith: Discern
  
• Dame Maggie Smith: Bag of Tools
• Ben Kingsley: Ozymandias
• Sir Paul Schofield: The Ballad of East and West
• Sir Paul Schofield: The Sands of Time
• Ying Ruo Cheng: Desiderata
• Harvey Kietel: If
• Harvey Kietel: The Man who Thinks He Can

You may not agree with this use of literature or even see the connection between the ad and the product. But for everyone who appreciates a piece of beauty well-read and articulated, these are a must see. I didn't really see the point at first but now... I think this is a fantastic campiagn and French has got some great performances from his actors. Do also read Neil French's note on each actor - very well written.

I look forward to hearing what you thought.

It is Past Three AM

It is past 3 a.m and I have only just returned from work. Ridiculous, really, especially since I don't like what I do very much and the past two days have been the very worst for a long time. I have spent most of time hitting my head against the wall called crazy clients but that is not quite the point of this post.

I bought a volume of Ogden Nash called Candy is Dandy this weekend past. It has the most wonderful introduction by Anthony Burgess, another one of my favourite writers. Over the past two days, Nash has kept me from drowning in despair and what is to the honest eye, self-pity. I've come to realise that it is such a pity about cliches. There is usually so much truth in them... especially the cliches about laughter and happiness.

And moving back now to Mr. Nash, I should like very much to share a few of my current Nash favourites.

You and Me and P. B. Shelley

What is life? Life is stepping down a step or sitting in a chair.
And it isn't there.
Life is not having been told that the man has just waxed the floor.
It is pulling door marked PUSH and pushing doors marked PULL and not noticing signs which say PLEASE USE THE OTHER DOOR.
It is when you diagnose a sore throat as an unprepared geography lesson and send your child weeping to school only to be returned an hour later with spots that indubitably genuine.
It is a concert with a trombone soloist filling in for Yehudi Menuhin.
Were it not for frustration and humiliation
I suppose the human race would get ideas above its station.
Somebody once described Shelley as a beautiful and ineffective angel beating his wings against the void in vain,
Which is certainly describing with might and main.
But probably means that we are all brothers under our pelts,
And Shelley went around pulling doors marked PUSH and pushing doors marked PULL just like everybody else.

Benjamin

There was a brave girl of Connecticut
Who flagged the express with her petticut,
Which her elders defined
As presence of mind,
But a deplorable lack of ecticut.

Carlotta

There was an old man in a trunk
Who inquired of his wife, "Am I drunk?"
She replied with regret,
"I'm afraid so, my pet,"
And he answered, "It's just as I thunk."

I love this guy! Over this long weekend, I am going to make Mr. Nash's acquaintance much more intimately, I think.

:-)

Deep into the Night, a Reminder

Deep into Saturday night, a friend reminded me that I once wrote poetry. That I once thought in images. That I once undertook to create beauty with words.

I do not why I stopped.

I attempted a beginning the following day and have precisely three lines to show for it. I am at once amused and disappointed by myself.

My muse will return to me... I am certain of it. I remember the passage from what was plainly catharsis to what I considered accomplishment. Times unnumbered, my pen ran dry and not merely of ink. Those were the days I used a fountain pen and lovely, lovely handmade paper books, full of criss-crosses, fresh starts and the joy of expression.

What follows is the particular bit of poetry (if I may presume to call it so) I am most proud of. It came of great love, both given and taken, a time of joy... and a time of parting.

Of You and I

Beautiful, beautiful summer,
Evaporating faster than vodka.
Like ghosts in the fragile dawn,
Memories emerge to speak to me.

Speak to me...
Of evenings of Irish Coffee.

Drowning along the water's edge,
I watch...
Panoramas of Elves, Men and Halflings unfold.

Frustrating, unintelligible letters
Become intimacy within smoke circles.

Around us, the silence is gray.
The silence is a pebble in my mouth.
You touch me... and smile.

I turn - to return to you.

An Addendum to On Marriage

I excavated this poem, from a time long forgotten, after I put up my last post. I wrote it at nineteen... when I was thinking similarly.

This is for you.

The memory of whom...
Is the lucidly landscaped whisper of a dream.
The presence of whom...
Is the sound of a child's laughter.
The reality of whom...
Is a negative.
Over-exposed.

Who are you?