My Review in "Birthdays of Poets"

Poet and friend Joy Leftow has very kindly posted my review of Basanta Kar's collection THE UNFOLD PINNACLE on Andrew Christ's energizing blog birthdaysofpoets.blogspot.com. Basanta is the author of two published poetry books and is currently Directer, Care India, a nonprofit organization.

Read (again!) :

THE UNFOLD PINNACLE by Basanta Kumar Kar – A review by Nabina Das
The Turbulent Top: Marginalized Women’s Voices from India

THE UNFOLD PINNACLE by Basanta Kumar Kar– A review by Nabina Das

Discussion generated on my poem "Langston...": writing about skin color

Recently I posted a link on Facebook from my blog -- my poem "When Langston Hughes Visited My Home", one of the two published in the Guntur National Poetry Festival anthology released on July 2. Like the other one "Finding Foremothers", this too was appreciated a lot and generated quite a few comments.

What I always look for in the comments from my dear friends and readers is that keen eye for details about my poetic craft and the general topic in question.

One of them came from poet and friend Jen Pezzo Kerowyn-Rose who runs the literary journal "Mnemosyne". In her eyes, 'Langston' was not only a well-crafted poem but also an interesting exercise in looking at race/color/ethnicity through my eyes, trained for the most part as Indian eyes.

This is what she wrote on my blog -- "I love this poem. It is such a contrast to the way many Americans' view skin color, even today. The title is perfect. My favorite stanza is the first one. I like the imagery. What an artfully crafted piece of work. :-)".

With this thread we started off a discussion that has left me richer than ever. And I'd like to share some points with the others here...

1) Did I address the fact that I was writing about LH from childhood memory as part of my individual 'color' consciousness?

OR

2) was it incorporated into a cultural universe where color/race was noticed/pointed out quite deliberately and as a tool for derision of the 'other' or just as an innocuous observation? That I wrote "dark-limbed poet", is it because as a child I was inherently aware what 'dark' and 'fair' meant to a 10-year-old?

Jen's observation that an American would speak/write differently (I believe some times, never) about skin color was a delight and I'm glad Jen and I went on to have a long discussion on a topic many would simply avoid.

-- 1) I THINK... back then I didn't have much of an 'individual' awareness or consciousness about skin color or what it might or might not mean... All I was aware of is that Rama or Krishna were blue/dark, Shiva too after wearing that ash coating all over and all that's because it seemed a special quality possessed only by special gods! Ah, and Draupadi, the heroine of the epic Mahabharata too was "krishnangi"! And a beauty.

-- 2) As for my upbringing in a certain cultural universe, I grew up in a liberal household with a spiritual mom (all Krishna worshippers on her side of the family) and a commie father (many commie uncles and an aunt who's like a Joan d'Arc to me...) although paternal grandparents were diehard Shakti (goddess) followers, mostly believers of the Tantra or the Lokayata school of philosophy. Color (as a marker of race) was probably the least discussed aspect at home. I say the least, because when it came to describing individuals, often it went like this -- "oh our neighbour, the dark gentleman with a moustache..." or "X's new bride is quite fair although her dark sister is prettier... ".

No doubt some folks employed a certain bias based on these indicators but as a child I saw and heard very little of it from my folks. Then caste, that Indian social monster, was pooh-poohed at all levels because it popped up everywhere even if you didn't believe in its rigors. Religion and creed/faith was a private affair, even for the older members who frowned upon the commie brigade!

So a child's mind registered things it saw/read with a question/surprise:

"...why the smaller typeface said:

Poems by a dark-limbed poet, a collection,

I had no idea then"

The editors of the book put that blurb in there for an obvious reason, now I know better. It was not about racism or commenting about skin color, it was an assertion "Poems by a dark-limbed poet" (krishnanga kobir kobita -- in Assamese). Jen rightly pointed out that this was really special, to be able to write/speak about a people in terms that were celebratory.

Celebratory it was. Krishna the god is 'krishna' (literally means dark), so is Rama the King of Ayodhya, and so is Queen Draupadi (nicknamed Krishnaa), whose best friend is Lord Krishna!

However, a 10-yr-old is still surprised to encounter the "krishna"-ness among mortals:

"Dark limbs were not seen

On our book covers

Only limbs were, but then

Krishna is just not a word

For a god, it dawned on me

But skins and cheeks and

Strong arms of poetic force

On my table"

The word "krishnanga" (krishna + anga = dark limbed) in my child's consciousness had signified the entry of a new entity. It was all about a celebrated name called Langston Hughes, the reference to him an assertion by those writers/editors/publishers who championed the cause of avant-garde literature, protest poetry and songs, alternative discourses and exhorting the sun to rise in a new direction -- "hey xurjo uthi aha" in Assamese... and this bit I understood much later when my adult mind realized:

"Also the end of crowing nights

When a poet came home

Inside the covers of a book, smiling:

"That day is past!""

Just as today we celebrate 'Jewish poetry', 'Asian-American writing', 'South-Asian fiction', I am immensely proud that some of these vernacular literatures in India had long ago opened up their doors to the world in order to celebrate the "Krishna" or "Krishnanga" poets and writers.

Thank you Jen, for inspiring this lively discussion!

Postscript: After finishing this note I found this picture of Goddess Kali in Wikipedia. Kali literally means 'black' but it is also believed the etymology includes the Sanskrit word 'kaal' meaning time or eternity. As a child I saw different statues of Kali in different shades -- midnight black, deep blue, dusky etc. -- with different names as well, like, Smashaan Kali (goddess of the cremation ground); Shyama Kali (the dark/blue Kali), and Bhadra Kali (the householder's goddess)

Image from the Internet (Wikipedia): Goddess Kali

When Langston Hughes Visited My Home

Time for posting the second poem from the Guntur National Poetry Festival Anthology. It arrived in mail just this afternoon. They call it "A Posy of Poesy". Well, I don't dig the title, but it's a decently produced anthology, nicely printed on good paper and accommodates several poets from all corners of India. Nagasuseela and Gopichand, the organizers of the fest, are also the editors and they've done a good job.

I was invited to come down to Guntur and read my work with several other poets from different corners of India, but couldn't do that owing to a lot mixed up things going on in my world right then. Would have been so exciting. But I am excited to learn from the editors and newspaper coverage that the festival was a success.

I'm still flipping through the collection and am yet to sample some engaging writing. Meanwhile, I post my second poem from that collection. You remember reading my other poem in the book here: "Finding Foremothers". Now this is:




"When Langston Hughes Visited My Home"


The name was strange and the book
Was shiny dark
Thin, freckled jacket, like my angry
Pre-teen face
On the table

The title kept calling in a
Jingle-jangle Assamese refrain
I kept saying it out loud:
“Hey Xurjo Uthi Aha”!

Why it exhorted the sun to rise
Accept the challenge of a new
Dream that flamed
Brighter and purer
And why the smaller typeface said:
Poems by a dark-limbed poet, a collection,
I had no idea then

Dark limbs were not seen
On our book covers
Only limbs were, but then
Krishna is just not a word
For a god, it dawned on me
But skins and cheeks and
Strong arms of poetic force
On my table

Also the end of crowing nights
When a poet came home
Inside the covers of a book, smiling:
"That day is past!"

Postscript: This poem generated an interesting discussion among my friends. My friend and editor of Mnemosyne poetry blog Jen Pezzo-Kerowyn Rose made a very pertinent observation. Read "Discussion Generated on My Poem 'Langston...': Writing about Skin Color". Tell me what your thoughts are!



Image from the Internet: Langston Hughes

Review published in THE CARTIER STREET REVIEW

Check out my review of a poetry collection by Basanta Kumar Kar, who works in the nonprofit sector in India and writes about marginalized women, belonging to discriminated social groups like the Dalit, the Tribal or the Adivasi, and the Other Backward Class. Joy Leftow, principal editor of The Cartier Street Review, had this wonderful assignment for me. And although, most of the earlier reviews I've written for newspapers or journals were art or film reviews, I thoroughly enjoyed this. Reason number one was my own work experience in the Indian nonprofit sector. Basanta has an extended association with the Chhattisgarh-Orissa-Andhra Pradesh region where he has witnessed the life of the aforementioned women, especially the Dalit and the Adivasi women, from very close angles. And the most striking aspect of his writing is how easily he assumes the voice of his subjects, all women, and weaves it into poetic expressions.

Here's an excerpt from the review:

"Marginalized Women’s Voices from India:

THE UNFOLD PINNACLE by Basanta Kumar Kar – A review by Nabina Das

Basanta Kumar Kar’s involvement in the Indian nonprofit sector for years has afforded him a close-up of the tribal societies, the backward classes and marginalized sections of that developing and diverse country. He practices with flourish the first-person voice of personas as varied as an under-aged girl with a history of abuse to a Gond or Maria tribal woman struggling against the onslaught of modern civilization to a mother-cum-sex worker reflecting on her fate in the ruthless city. As a professional in his poetic role, Kar brings alive the disillusionment and haplessness of India’s marginalized women, especially those from Scheduled Castes (SC) and Scheduled Tribes (ST). He is involved in his subject’s plight and at the same time lets his subjectiveness to position himself as the keen observer. Kar shares the wealth of his experiences with his readers in the rather long 73-page collection.

The Wikipedia defines the SC/ST as ‘Indian population groupings that are explicitly recognized by the Constitution of India, previously called the "depressed classes" by the British, and otherwise known as untouchables. SCs/STs together comprise over 24% of India's population, with SC at over 16% and ST over 8% as per the 2001 census… Some Scheduled Castes in India are also known as Dalits. Some Scheduled Tribe people are also referred to as Adivasis.’ Commenting on the crisis of faith of these underprivileged communities, in the aptly titled “Faith First”, Kar writes:

Smoke and cloud work in tandem
swings of snow peep
hills draw lines, mesmerise
they butcher;

The actions embodied by the elements smoke, cloud, snow, hills etc. are swift and brutal, akin to the experience of his subject. Nature provides no succor. It is a constant reminder of bad fortune. In “…mesmerize/they butcher” this is particularly amplified. The short staccato sentences metaphorically and literally “work in tandem”. The cosmogony of the women Kar writes about, socially denied and deprived, and often under a double yoke of social stigma within their own communities, comprises of humanistic elements that surprise us with their animateness, the only source of comfort for the subjugated lot:

I understand my neighbours
tamarind tree, dates and nuts
pigs and chicken, ghosts and spirits
traditional healers.

The weltanschauung of the women is stark yet conveys the environment they thrive in:

We are together

no one more equal than others."

Do go to The Cartier Street Review - Home and click on the little RED link CSR July 2009 Edition to see the full issue and the read the review. Also, clicking on the title above will take you there. In the spotlight is poet AnnMarie Eldon, featured poet is Michael Annis and there is the regular editorial column by Joy Leftow -- "Leftow's desk". Bernard Alain, founding editor of the CSR, has again turned out a superb issue with Joy and staff Thomas Hubbard.

Image from The CSR cover by L. Bellini: "Fragmented Man"

Liberated Muse Vol I: How I Freed My Soul is out. Edited by Khadijah Ali-Coleman. Of my three poems "Chakra Walking", "Purifying Rites by Water" and "A Migrant's Tune" that appear with the work of several artists and writers in the collection, here is:

Chakra Walking

This has a wood-scented flower-center bright like a
Peeping bird's eyes, awake

Also watery

From floating gas fumes of the bus
Station
Invading a space of always, ever, where like pure water
The mother goddess’
Pupils flow with a meadow-rust

Gaze

And split the day like egg-shells -- A grass-bride giving off stillness to my
Moldy brown hands
That keep tracing
A path, again and again
Stuck like a Greek mythical hero gone to slay

The Minotaur

When I tell this story to my friends
Disbelief and
Awkwardness take over
Because we know we walk chakras at homes, jobs and road stops
Just as we inhale unheroic opposition

Of fate, weather
Wood-scented flicker of other eyes to emerge from shackles.

***

See http://outskirtspress.com/webpage.php?ISBN=978-1-4327-2415-3 for more info on the book. The blurb says:

Contributing writers include: Tichaona Chinyelu, Nabina Das, Venus Jones, Farah Lawal, Omar Akbar, Anthony Spires, Amy Blondell, DJ Gaskin, Summayah Talibah, Maureen Mulima, Randy Gross, Margaux Delotte-Bennett, Serena Wills, and other notables. Visual art work by Turtel Onli, Marshetta Davis, Shan'ta Monroe and more.

Foreword by author Ananda Leeke.

Cover Art by Sharon Burton.

Do go and buy at http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=98069242292&h=JUH9G&u=Lp-wv&ref=mf

Finding Foremothers

So, the "2nd National Poetry Festival" took place in Guntur, India, on July 2. And although I am one of the participants -- my work features in the festival anthology as does poet-blogger friend Tikuli Dogra's (http://tikulicious.wordpress.com/2009/07/04/detritus-my-poem-selected-4poetry-fest-anthology/) -- I couldn't go down there. I am in Delhi, but down with what one calls here "Delhi belly"! A friend said, America's softened me, six years of stay... To be frank, we came back to Delhi for the first time in summer in all these years. Well!

So at Guntur, according to the organizers Suseela and Gopichand (both of them English teachers and literature enthusiasts), 100-plus poets were invited from all over India. Must've been a fabulous experience for all who went there.

Here is one of the poems, a personal favorite of mine.

"Finding Foremothers"

This is a day the family sits down
to a dinner for a festival remembering
ancestors they say hover disguised as
birds and animals – on the lawn, on garden boughs.

Is my grandma among the cows?
I knew she was feisty! Maybe
a crow then. And her own mother
was she there too with her broken
teeth and sad robes yellowed with
age in a photograph some gora had
clicked at her rich spouse’s gracious permission?

The sweetened tomato chutney on
my banana leaf plate seeps away like blood
dark dark red, blood of aunts, wives
who cooked and cleaned, sucked
blood from cuts, bore kids and bled till
they stopped; bled in their hearts when widowed and denied.

A few grains of paddy, holy water, forefathers still
flocked outside; on the television a woman wails.

I flip through an old photo album. Sepia, forgotten clutter.

***

In other news, I am out of the Project Verse contest. Stuck around for about three rounds I think. But of course, the worthy would carry on the battle whereas I am hoping to hop on to more scintillating stuff! Thanks Kristen McHenry for leaving a comment on my blog, it encourages me a lot! Do keep visiting.

Image from the Internet: women gathered for a party in Bombay, 1910

PROJECT VERSE—THE BATTLE BEGINS; QUAY SWAYS!

Okay, tomorrow is the day. Project Verse begins June 8. PV is supposed to be a grueling poetry competition, and fun too, designed by poet and activist Dustin Brookshire. Read his blog I Was Born Doing Reference Work In Sin to learn more about it. He has updates coming regularly under the label Project Verse.

How did I know about it? Well, by browsing blogs... finding Dustin through some Facebook friends and thanking my luck I did. I even posted the initial application call -- Project Verse Seeks Applicants -- on my FB page for all else to see and join. Why did I join it? Because I felt this competition would allow me to write more and thoroughly, which I often shirk, and besides, would bring me closer to several poets' work enabling me to learn a lot more. Dustin's activism and writing itself held my interest when I first read the call notice and browsed his blog.

The inaugural Project Verse Competitors are:

Andrew Clark-Kennedy

Jennifer Werner

Robert Walker

Nabina Das

Emily Van Duyne

Micah Ling

Kristen McHenry

Niina Pollari

Emari DiGiorgio

Martin Ott

To begin with, all applicants were asked to write a note with their material based on a prompt -- Ellen Bryant Voigt: “It's all a draft until you die."

That line sure came across as challenging to me. I mean if this is what poet Bryant Voigt said about poetry, I do have a right to express my opinion before I die! The line is deep in its implications and provocative in its suppositions. And I felt adamant reading it.

This note, my own expression, a cover letter and a few unpublished poems were submitted as application material. Got to hear from Dustin that I am now one of the 10 short-listed competitors for the honors offered by Project Verse. And by the gods of poesy, isn’t this going to be one rigorous ride.

Dustin’s blogpost teases: ‘Can you write under pressure without breaking a sweat?’ Hell I can't! I’m mortally scared of competitions although well wishers say I perform well under pressure. Well, be that as it may, I think I do well only if Madame Pressure leaves me alone with my faithful laptop. Wouldn’t I be a Wall Street fatcat otherwise?

More about Dustin Brookshire: "In 2008, Dustin founded LIMP WRIST and Quarrel. He has been featured at poetry readings in Atlanta as well as Savannah, and his work has been published in numerous online magazines as well as in Atlanta's DAVID magazine. Besides writing poetry and 'cooking up' poetry projects, Dustin enjoys serving on the Atlanta Queer Literary Festival Committee, and keeping elected officials on their toes. Contact Dustin via email: dustinvbrookshire@gmail.com"

So get out the swords, sheaths and helmets. The rattle and the battle of Project Verse begins! Also, get some body sprays and room fresheners because I will be writing from the heat of Indian summer.

***

The cover art above is from the current edition of Quay Journal where my poem "The First Apple Sings a Ruba'i" just came out. Although delayed for several months, this journal is a beautiful one with wonderful writings all along. Go to http://quayjournal.org/ to read mine and others' works.

Summer Shock, Prize Money, Poem in Pirene's Fountain Journal

Suddenly it is summer, at least in India where I am. Not much happened except for a nasty burglary at my parents' home in Guwahati, Assam, where I arrived to spend a month of my Indian vacation. Before the mangoes and jackfruits came tumbling sickeningly sweet on our palate, before the monsoon sprinkles cooled our cheeks, and before I started wearing my blue eye shadow to reflect the hills bordering Japorigog, someone or some people made away with things that I considered to be more in worth than they might be.

PRIZE MONEY
Anyway, my cash award for a 2nd prize awarded by the Open Space-HarperCollins-India Poetry Contest 2008 arrived. Some silver lining. Or is it?

POEM IN PIRENE'S FOUNTAIN

Pirene's Fountain - A Journal of Poetry has published my work in their summer edition. You can read the journal online at Current Issue. My poem is titled "A Soothsayer's Dilemma" and can be read at Nabina Das. My favorites Mark Doty, Linda Pastan, Pume Perl among others are published in PF.

Here's the poem in case you just can't visit the strikingly beautiful website (http://pirenesfountain.com/current_issue/das_nabina.html):

A Soothsayer’s Dilemma

When she said prophecies make the sky spin like a roulette table, she meant while taking chances, they reach the end of palpability, each courting a few unexplored desires

She said prophecies would let their winding hands circle my fleshy roots, digging amply inside Apollo’s oracles, welcoming a change in spring’s sparkled honeyed light

I asked if future is a scene, a fête where men and women bestow abhaya; laugh. Because they’re shown grand, animated, in prints of red and Sepia tones in books of prophecies

She said because we can’t read future we melt inside our tacky floors hopelessly shelled with sleep’s call, but they still come the prophecies, like soft footfalls and infantile taps

My mother’s disbelief, when I said prophecies invade my bark before turning it into the ark when new rivers depths unknown are created, seemed like a verse. Prophetic overtures.

PF reproduced Gustave Klimt's MEDICINE with my poem, much to my surprise and liking. I copy it here.

In The Eye Of The Storm-Kolkata post

Here I am in Kolkata. In the month of May. Sizzling heat, 90-100F, wrapping me up in its belly. The beast is merciless in its radiating 'hotness' but kind in its lack of discrimination. The sky is clear after a massive cyclone that hit the state of West Bengal a couple of days ago, one of its kind to occur in the last 3o years apparently. The aftermath is soothing in terms of life resuming in all spheres -- vendors, officegoers, students, daily workers, businesspeople back out in their bikes, rickshaws, cars, buses, et al -- but very unnerving when I look around to see there are swathes of neighborhoods without electricity, water and other essential services.

Last night as we came down by the efficient Kolkata Metro from Park Street to Tollygunge, the air seemed rife with discontent on the road outside . Taxis, autorickshaws and cycle rickshaws were disgruntled about the fact that roads ahead were jammed by angry residents, shopkeepers and random well wishers. How long could one live without essential services? And why won't then different modes of public transport charge triple the amount from route passengers? In this melee, the buses looked like ripped open sardine cans, human hands, legs and heads hanging rather graphically from the bare wooden windows and footboards. But the faces were alive.

I was not witnessing any uprising of any kind. No revolution or battle rally. A simple flare-up based around inconveniences that occur on and off around public life here. Some times it is the unique cyclone. At other times it is real political barricades, power line tripping, summer blind rage, monsoon's expected torrents or rare miscreants upsetting the public system. But no one raised their voices beyond a tolerable decibel. No one touched anyone around the collar or pushed and jostled. The aggrieved addressed the perceived privileged as sirs and madams. Only eye brows twitched and lips got pursed. Sweat streamed under shirts and saris but no one uttered one foul word. Women and kids were quickly allowed to cross all protest protocol and moved to calmer zones.

My ties with Kolkata are old, very old. Right from the days of my families' ancestors. Some of them studied here, practised as lawyers, did politics, were even born here, etc. I am not too fond of the title City of Joy for Kolkata. There is too much pain, sweat and daily struggle here that I don't want to eulogize and much less endure myself if I have to live here. In the word of poet Nirendranath Chakravarti (b. 1924, http://india.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_id=11156)
however, Kolkata has evoked rhythms in my heart every time I visited it, some times jarring and cacophonous and quite often, a raga melody hankering after the sweet sadness of losing something:

Estrangement, and

[1]There’s moss a little below
the surface of the water,
you can see it if you lean just a
little;
but she doesn’t care to, she’s sent
her gaze off
in search of the red rose.
I watch, from dawn to dusk I watch
how like estranged love and
longing it keeps moving endlessly,
the water moss. (read the rest from the link above...)

Having lived in the US for seven years now, was I surprised at the above incidents? Why do I then blog about this? No answer really, but something compelled me to record this. Red Communist flags of the ruling state administration and tricolor grass motifs of the recently victorious Trinamool (grassroots) Congress fluttered around shop tops made of sooty tarp or tin. But no one seemed interested in a party-based blame game really. All that was registered was protest. Peaceful and persuasive. Despite the summer heat and remnants of the furious cyclone strewn about.

What we, those alien to the system or a visitor after a long time, would categorize as madness had a method of human quotient that I would probably not witness in ordinary circumstances gone awry even in most countries I have visited in Europe or America.

Arisen of Wood

Arisen of Wood

I walk this road with you Mausam

in hot cold weather the same route bus

covering our heads with the dupatta

yours purple mine night queen pale

and through the sheer spidery weaves

we look at each other Mausam, quick

I stop by Mehrauli's seam to quench my

thirst after summer's sudden squall

dust in our eyes; you too stop Mausam

point with your frangipani fingers at

pale lemons the nimbupani man cores

we sip almost together at an even pace

embarrassed at the last glottal sips we

draw, look at each other, my bindi alight

your jhumkas nestling shy by the cheeks

Mausam were you scared my brother

wore a saffron-red bandanna of faith

your cousin guarded the green mosque

while we both shivered under cries

Did you notice Mausam we both held
only prayers in our hands, right when

our homes became fireballs our bodies plain wood

-- Nabina Das

Image from the Internet: Changing Times; painting by Arpana Caur

Guntur National Poetry Festival, Quay journal, Liberated Muse Anthology

Poetry Festival, Guntur

Some poetry news. Had submitted two poems for a poetry festival to be held in Guntur, Andhra Pradesh, India. "Finding Foremothers" is one of them. The other was "Europe" but I had to withdraw it realizing there might be a copyright problem. I had submitted EUROPE elsewhere having renamed it "Outsiders". Anyway, since the Guntur folks were kind enough to accommodate my late realization and the subsequent request, I sent off a replacement poem titled "When Langston Hughes Visited My Home".

The festival people actually really deserve my thanks. The festival anthology apparently was already over in the press and they made special arrangements to include the changes. Thanks to Nagasuseela and Gopichand for this gesture.

I am invited to Guntur for the festival where the anthology will be released on July 2. And participating poets are to read their work. But still thinking whether I can make it. I am traveling to Kolkata and Guwahati to see family and then come back to Delhi in mid-June. Thereafter I have some other engagements in Delhi. So, we'll see about Guntur. But indeed what a nice thing to be invited there and if I cannot go, I sure will miss meeting several good poets.

Blogger-poet friend Tikuli Dogra is invited to the festival as her poems have also been accepted for the anthology. Congrats Tiku!

Ruba'i in Quay

Quay journal of poetry and arts published from Texas has been delayed a couple of months. Karen Terry, their poetry editor, wrote saying they are ready to go to press. She sent me the galley proof of my THE FIRST APPLE SINGS A RUBA'I, which I sent off promptly after checking. Hope to see Quay soon.

Liberated Muse anthology

Another delayed project has been the "Free Your Soul" anthology from the Liberated Muse Productions, Washington DC. Three poems of mine -- CHAKRA WALKING; RELEASING RITES BY WATER and AN IMMIGRANT'S TUNE are going to be featured there. Khadijah Ali-Coleman, editor and coordinator of the project announced recently that finally the stage is all set for its release in a program marked my reading and performance of poetry and music by artists.

Election-Shelection

Now look at the results of the General election in India. None of the media pundits, psephologists (sound they are constipated) or hobnobbists (my term) managed to predict close to even a fraction of an inch of what the results are. i won't cite links here. Just google up and/or read BBC even.

Manmohan is the man. Advani has no advantage. Maya is dismayed. The Left is left huffing and puffing especially in Bengal. Darn! Who knew the UPA will have such a victory. Lanslide is an old word. It is Lord of the Rings all the way for Congress.

I'm blogging nothing practically because I'm traveling. Haven't written any poetry either. Have poetry news though and will post later.

What do the people of India say? Pretension is harmful to your stomach. Because those who suffered losses in these polls gotta stomach a lot.

May cross-post: Tanuj Solanki

So, after all the merry madness of the poem-a-day April has settled down and now that we are May-ing, I continue with my cross-posting of blogger friends' works. For May it is Tanuj Solanki, IIM Grad student '09, Ahmedabad, India. Poet, blogger and to me a dreamer, this is what he says:





"That is the thing with poems;
they grow on a conscience,
neverending,
like a fungus,
as children"



The poem I am showcasing here, and the rest are equally good, for you to read is:

' Missing Us'

Andy Warhol paintings
Jewish cookies (or something else)
Crépes with chestnut cream
21° Celsius
Chablis with friends


Online amateur poetry
Priyagold biscuits
Dal with chawal and dahi
42° Celsius
Spurious daaru with morons

I tell her how much I care--

'Did you put that eyedrop in sweetheart?

Do you have a good mood?'
When all I think is--

'Now love, tell me how to live.'

(http://dotcommedtanuj.blogspot.com/2009/04/missing-us.html)



Read also WHY PARIS (http://dotcommedtanuj.blogspot.com/2009/04/why-paris.html)

"But we don't know Paris
its towers and arcs of us unaware
the ladies and the museums without our stare."


and SMILING SLEEPS (http://dotcommedtanuj.blogspot.com/2009/02/smiling-sleeps.html)


For the whole haul go to TS' blog Sense

3 Poems of Irreverence in DANSE MACABRE

Nevada's first online literary magazine DANSE MACABRE is a cool watering hole (that's a redundant expression, right?) to quench your reading thirst. Diverse writers, sparkling writing and embedded music ... so what else! Editor Adam Henry Carriere, a poet himself, shows how literature and music joins "the South Side of Chicago to Italy's Adriatic Coast, Southern California to Beijing's Arts District; from across the great state of Nevada to Great Britain, Mexico's Pacific Coast, and incredible India;..."

I am so darn pleased to be a part of the zine for the May issue "Danse Macabre XXIII -- une nuit à l'opéra".

Read my 3 Poems of Irreverence (...It’s Showtime Now; ...Writing Vaudeville; ...A Few Things of Consideration )

Check out the embedded music at:

Bonsoir !
Guten Abend!
Добрый вечер!
Buona sera!

and

une nuit à l'opéra

I know you will go and read but in any case, here's one of the "3 poems of irreverence":

...It’s Showtime Now

You mustn’t worry whether the weather
Is fine or muggy in our cities these days
We’ll be inside the box, special seats
The Stateroom all to ourselves, we can
Sing in abandon in Jacques Brel‘s voice
No wonder I hear people discuss Le Gaz
And this all when we can all have fun in a
Bunch, say yay to Hercule Yakko while
Crowding above our pothole of jibes and
Cramming into neighbors’ shoes spilling
Ammonia with love, only love, but wait!
Will someone say we wanted to spoil the
Fun? No, not when we sing and chant: Take
Me Out To The Ballgame! The rest will
Follow your imagination, call it chaos or
Disdain, it’s never too crowded to catch a sham.

Image borrowed from DANSE MACABRE (http://dansemacabre.art.officelive.com/default.aspx)

Day 29: “Never Touch This Poem”

Here was the Day 29 prompt (whew!): "For today's prompt, I want you to title your poems "Never (blank)" with you filling in the blank with a word or phrase. Then, write a poem based off your title, which could be "Never look both ways when crossing the street" or "Never blush in public" or "Never ever" or "Never write a poem with the word never in the title." You get the idea, right?" Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 29

“Never Touch This Poem”

Hear. If you can from there
Wispy flutters inside the ears
A bug stuck, wings of sheer
Silk dying in a verse-like throb

So, be my rhythm lub-dub love
Heart’s step, stopping clear
Of un-penned words and lines
Don’t ask to see or touch them

See, come see my womanly tree
Wild strophes, fruity poetry
Growing off the dusky bark
Sniff the resin, let the thorns be

Don’t give it a name, rather sing
To it. Bring it no prizes, ribbons
Blue. The meters easily change hue
So wait. Outside the gate and see

Touch. Only when it has asked
Away from the learned newsprint
Suave tomes and video screens
Even if it seems a blotch of ink.

Image from the Internet: "Three Worlds" by M C Escher

Day 28: "A Vacation" - A Sestina

Here was the Day 28 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a sestina. (Click here to find out the rules for sestinas.) So start figuring out your 6 end words and get writing. But wait! Today is Tuesday, so you have one other option. You can write a poem about the sestina (your love, hate, frustration with, etc.). Whether you decide to write a sestina or write about sestinas, remember to have fun. We're almost done!" Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 28

(My first Sestina!)

“A Vacation”
1
We were at Kasauli’s old market place
Colors sashayed from myriad stands
We met friendly vendors, bought crafts
Baskets, shawls, dolls, wooden frames
Eager faces called us more, hands waved
Knowing we tourists can usually spend.
2
We wanted to trek out, not spend
Too much time at the market place
Although voices pleaded in waves
Hands tugged at our wallet strands
The evening sky looked it was framed
So we ran, to see that fairyland’s craft.
3
It seemed we walked on a swift raft
Saying thanks and no, all words spent
For these beautiful people with eyes like gems
Who called out from their shopping space
The market street an oasis in the sand
We hurriedly left with quick hand waves.
4
The mountain path outside Kasauli braved
Climbing atop misty peaks rising in tufts
We lost its sight as the hills ran errands
‘Ah, forget shopping, look at the lovely bends’
We said, standing where time stays
Still, watching nature’s photo frames.
5
In the sunset valley below, we saw flames
Heady smell of wood fire someone saved
For a chilly evening. We peered at her face
A shadowy figure the dusk had crafted
An old scavenger whose days were spent
Beneath tattered old tarps and stumpy stands.
6
There she was lighting a fire and standing
By her lonely shanty home of fragile frames
Of twigs, scraps and the time she spent
Her resort that saved her from tidal waves
Of time, furies of nature, all forces drafted
By vagaries of this eternally peaceful place.
7
‘You new to the place?’ Her voice rose to where we stood.
‘Don’t miss the craft crash site, right here. My home was rammed,
A military exercise they said.’ Waves of silence. Our breaths spent.

Image from the Internet: Kasauli market place; panoramic view of Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh

Day 27: "A Name As A Place Name"

Here was the Day 27 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of longing. You or someone (or something) else should be pining for someone or something. Maybe a cat is longing to get outside the house. Maybe a teenager is longing to get away from his or her small town. And, of course, there's always the longing poem of love."






Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 27







"A Name As A Place Name"

I have heard it’s like heaven on earth not so craven
Despite moth-eaten muslin faces burnt ovens homes
I have heard there they eat curried potatoes, lamb
In yogurt spices cooked by cottage cheese hands
Saffron rice and minced meat balls in tomato sauce
I am told the wazwan is when you cannot say no
Although alcohol’s a no-no, beef perhaps for the raven
I have read their grief, dyed-wool sorrow like vests
Under flowing coarse pherans over chests of veins
In newsprint, sound bytes and stories like faraway
Tales of noisy sips from cups of nun-chai, salted
By fiery tears of Pandits, Buddhists, Persians, Af-
ghans, handsome locals of many ancient fames from
Peaks to forests colored by the kahwah and hard-
Resined pines while I’ve never been there… ever
Never seen Kashmir, only on the dreamy silver screen.

A click and a tick of the patient mouse beside my keyboard
Message sent: 'Rehana, will you write to me from there?'


Image from the Internet: Pupil monks at a Kargil monastery. Rehana Batul, my friend from JNU, hailed from Kargil district. I am yet to hear from her.

Day 26: "Smart Exchange"

Here was the Day 26 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem involving miscommunication. It can be miscommunication between two people or misinterpretation of some sort. I will leave it up to you guys to deal with it however you want." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 26

"Smart Exchange"

The soldiers shook hands, they held out theirs
Still the hummers and tanks packed goodwill home

The Private drank his sweet tea, his kids took candy
Yet a rifle got the swarthy man’s brother fleeing the night

Our boys never swore, the locals knew English after all
The cry for war and blood got 'em, clotted their tongues

The fatigued pocket had the culture ‘smart card’ tucked in
The chest was shattered, from some unsaid lines unknown.


NOTE: The Marine Corps has been equipping troops with a sort of abbreviated Emily Post-style guide to etiquette in Iraq. The laminated "Iraq Culture Smart Card" consists of 16 panels and can fold down into something you can slip into your breast pocket. "It seems late in the day for such niceties," observed Steven Aftergood in Secrecy News, a Web log maintained by the Federation of American Scientists, which posted the Smart Card online. http://www.scribd.com/doc/3762214/US-Military-Iraq-Culture-Smart-Card

Image from the Internet

Day 25: "The Meeting"

Here was the prompt for Day 25: "For today's prompt I want you to pick an event and make that event the title of your poem." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 25

“The Meeting”

Because it’s noon
Because it’s hot
With high sun
Because he’s here
Because I stare
We say hello

His hands terracotta
His forehead balsam
His mouth lemony

Sing La Marseillaise
He whispers slow
Sing with me
Painted letters red
His hand holds
This bold placard
Swift and sad

The cafeteria hums
The sun thumps
On still windowsills

We feel together
The rebels inside
Let them speak
Song to song
Hand to hand
Words of meeting
Words of passion
Watch how then
We melt inside
With phrases pure
The magic minutes.

Image from the Internet: Rouget de Lisle, Composer of "La Marseillaise", sings it for the first time. The Marseillaise is a song written and composed by Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle in Strasbourg on April 25, 1792.

Day 24: “Song of the Road”

Here was the Day 24 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a travel-related poem. It can be human travel, the migration of swallows, the trafficking of drugs, etc. Some sort of movement from point A to point B." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 24

“Song of the Road”

We were two or four
The abacus did not say
The road said our cooling
Points were few, so we sat
Crammed in that three-wheeled
Wonder they call a “Tempo”
Tempo it was, one of our disparate
Lives, cradling us, two or three from
Mangaldoi, Mungher and Mughalsarai
The song of the road was split
Into a hymn, an FM pop and
Something that sounded like
A mumble for getting home soon
We were two, who knows, four
Inside a jumpy vehicle with angry
Wheels that didn’t sing much, roared.

Now I have not taken that road
For a long time, indeed a long time
When songs used to be in notation
Instead, I fly over the route now
Don’t hear voices or hum lines
I just loosen my seatbelt, yawn
Walk out in my lazy loafers

The last time we were three of
Us, seated side by side
One tapping into her blackberry
The second mildly swaying to
His earphone euphony
And this one searching
Google Maps on the laptop
For the next stop home.

Image from the Internet: Tempo, (also known as Vidal & Sohn Tempo-Werke GmbH), was a German automobile manufacturer based in Hamburg. The company was founded by Oscar Vidal in 1924. The company was well known in Germany, producing well-selling cars and vans like the Matador and the Hanseat, But Tempo also produced small military vehicles during the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s. In India tempos used to be a common means for small-town and rural public transport and may be found even now...

Day 23: "Jeanne Moreau’s Song"

Here was the Day 23 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem, though it's fine if you do." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 23

"Jeanne Moreau’s Song"

Written on the body
The whirlwind hits the car after
The three of them visit a park

The spinster Saraswati, a jaunty scholar
And a bard called Purnadas
The men eat lunch, wink at her
We don’t know exactly who gets into her car

One does because she has something to show him
Either a song for Purnadas
Or a book for the writer-scholar
One of them keeps watching
As they ride
And he hums the song she sang once
In her forked tongue so mischievous

I finally finish writing this letter:
So you know why after songs are sung
We separate and forget yet reunite
Why we don’t go home while we
Still remain friends under a vanilla sky.


Image from the Internet: Scene from "Jules et Jim", a 1962 French film directed by François Truffaut and based on the semi-autobiographical novel by Henri-Pierre Roché. Starring Jeanne Moreau, Oskar Werner, Henri Serre

Day 22: "My Work"

Here was the Day 22 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow. And remember: There are different types of work. Of course, there are the activities that gain you fortune and fame (or not), but then, there's also housework, exercise, volunteering, etc. I'm sure you'll "work" it out." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 22

“My Work”

My work you may know by now
Is all about reading, writing, words
All of it tough as Barthes’ bark
More intriguing than embedded quarks
Willy nilly wild as the unimaginable Snark!
It’s all about dirty pretty jaunty words
When they split into sharp-edged shards
They frighten all the evil sharks
Of this real world to hide and duck
From my little job, pen and paper work.
Work’s worship? Yeah, it even stops warships
Awesome, right? So I love my work!
I live inside my meta forests of words
Dive daily into the alphabet soups
Though never for a wee moment stoop
To conquer the power of them stark.
The book’s my work, the journal’s my ark
This printed page and those lettered barks
That shake the world of ideas, but hark!
Not an easy game of dice this word-ful work

It pays so damn little for all your luck
To finish it I’m sometimes up ‘fore Foucault’s lark.


Image from the Internet: Ford Madox Brown, "Work" (1852–63), Wikimedia

Day 21: "TRILOGY"

Here was the Day 21 prompt: "Here are the two prompts for the day (you only need to choose one, unless you're all about pushing yourself to the limit): 1. Write a haiku. The haiku is not just a form but a genre of poetry. (Click here to read more about the haiku.) People sometimes go into writing a haiku and end up with a senryu or a faux-ku, but it's all good (and all poetry).
2. Write about the haiku. I know there are some poets (in this very group even) who are anti-form. So, I'm giving them the option to write their anti-haiku manifestos. Of course, if you pay attention to this 2nd prompt, it doesn't need to be anti-haiku; your poem could be questioning or even praising the haiku. Or something." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 21

TRILOGY

1. “Bloom” (Spring)

Daffodils will die
Drinking spring’s frost
An annual sacrifice.

Right: Daffodil art

2. “Memories” (Autumn)

Kids’ running shoes
Squeaky clean soles
Autumn of an empty house.

Right: Haiku Hut

3. “Portraits” (Winter)

Lines of zigzag brown
Wintry muddy pools
My parents’ aged faces.


Right: Old couple with umbrella

***

“Booing a Haiku”

Heave hi coo!
Low life, lo!
Love hate, boo!


“Anti-Haiku”

Hackneyed hack
Haiku’s Jane & Jack

I’m not one of them!

Images from the Internet: Daffodil art; Haiku Hut; Hakata Urasaki Old Couple Ceramic Doll. 20th c. "Old couple with umbrella".

Day 20: “Made Flesh Again”

Here was the Day 20 prompt: "For today's prompt, I want you to write a poem of rebirth. There are many different types of rebirth available, including the changing of the seasons, the beginning of the day, religious or spiritual rebirth, a reconfirmation of good in people, re-learning how to love, etc. So think on it a bit, and create a stellar rebirth poem." Read more at: April PAD Challenge: Day 20

“Made Flesh Again”
(Dedicated to those thousand hands I would always touch and hold)

Her visit made everyone run
Fetch her special seat, water glass
A special plate, later scoured
Separate, after her after-work snack

We kids ran in a tumult to see if
Her teeth were different in numbers
Than the last time, slurpy betel
Juice soaked, scary monster red

Mother made chitchat, served her
Coconut candies in summer
Black sesame ones in winter
With jaggery or handmade bread

Aunts poured her water slowly
Careful not to spill, not to mop
Once she cleaned the outhouse
A relic from an unknown rural life

Once she cut the shrubs, weeded, threw
The dead skunk in a ditch and cleaned
Up, we kids asked her to pick a name that
She’d like to be in her dreams so she
Could be allowed to play with us
Make us clay dolls of earthly shapes

Her dark forehead gleamed, no sindoor
Her sari-end bunched at her sagging breasts
Don’t know how to call that luminous one by her name,
She said, but I’d like to be made flesh. Touchable, human, again.

Image from the Internet: "Not a Pretty Picture" by Sudharak Olwe. Olwe is an award winning photojournalist, based in Mumbai. See and read at http://www.opendemocracy.net/globalization-photography/article_1742.jsp

"THE FARRIER": Short fiction in The Cartier Street Review

My short fiction THE FARRIER has come out in The Cartier Street Review, April 2009 edition. Read at:


http://thecartierstreetreview.blogspot.com/2009/04/april-2009-edition.html

Cover Image by Chris Labrenz, The CSR, Apr 09

Bernard Alain, Ottawa, Canada, is Principal Editor (blog site). Joy Leftow, New York, NY, is Production Editor (blog site). The Cartier Street Review is a not-for-profit magazine. 50% of all net revenues go to a children's charity.

Please support this month's charity by downloading a high resolution print quality PDF file at: CSR April 2009 Edition


Excerpt from my story below:

**

"The Farrier "


Was Russet to live her life between the legs of horses? She could get kicked sometime, although I’m sure Russet never expected that. It’s a job she had for a long time. Russet had big hands. Her hair cut like a duckling’s tail caught in a twister. She was a farrier. With an uncommon but musical name – Russet.


That’s what she told me.

We spoke while rummaging through old books on sale downtown where they’d let us take a bagful for a dollar. Shivering in the line outside on the cold concrete, for it was late November in this little Upstate New York town, I rubbed my bristly palms inside fleece gloves to a frigid drop falling from above, listening to the drone of a man explaining to someone the intricacies of a Russian fireplace. Once inside, we rummaged and I saw she held this Alberto Moravia I wanted, Two Women. Like a predatory animal I eyed her. Silently pointed towards the Moravia. She eye-browed towards the flat thin book I was holding.

“Horses.” She said. “You like horses?”


“I don’t mind them.” I said. Why talk of horses? This isn’t a farm fest. It’s a book sale.



“You’ve a horse here,” she said, leaning over and touching the book I was holding. Tock tock. She knocked on the cover twice.


The flat thin cover indeed had a horse snorting in a yellow-green cornfield. I had no idea if horses liked corn. Suddenly it hit me why horses were the topic.



“Okay,” I said, sheepishly. She handed my book to me. “This is about women,” I explained.


“You like women?” She asked the same way she had asked if I liked horses.Yes. No. What do I say? I’m a man! I nodded. I liked women only because they are there, all around. Not in the same way I’d adore a race car. It was tough to explain.



Read more at Current Issue (April 2009)