James Tate

One of the earliest poets I read (and by early, I mean poetry I started seeking out voluntarily!) was James Tate. I was so taken in by the style Tate employed that some of my first poems use the same kind of jazz. Of course, some of his poems seem much more ‘prosey’ than poetry (even if it were to be treated as prose poems) but there are a few gems of his that really blows my mind.

His treatment to all poetry is very conversational, disarming and startlingly poetic. What starts off as ordinary morphs into something so different, unique yet identifiable that it leaves me thirsting for more of the same. And I think that’s the reason for some of my earliest poems trying to shadow the style that has been so effectively evovled by Tate.

I will now post a Tate I find intriguing and then follow it up with my ‘inspired’ response to the same (this was worked on in early 2006).

NEVER AGAIN THE SAME (Tate)

Speaking of sunsets,
last night’s was shocking.
I mean, sunsets aren’t supposed to frighten you, are
they?
Well, this one was terrifying.
People were screaming in the streets.
Sure, it was beautiful, but far too beautiful.
It wasn’t natural.
One climax followed another and then another
until your knees went weak
and you couldn’t breathe.
The colors were definitely not of this world,
peaches dripping opium,
pandemonium of tangerines,
inferno of irises,
Plutonian emeralds,
all swirling and churning, swabbing,
like it was playing with us,
like we were nothing,
as if our whole lives were a preparation for this,
this for which nothing could have prepared us
and for which we could not have been less prepared.
The mockery of it all stung us bitterly.
And when it was finally over
we whimpered and cried and howled.
And then the streetlights came on as always
and we looked into one another’s eyes–
ancient caves with still pools
and those little transparent fish
who have never seen even one ray of light.
And the calm that returned to us
was not even our own.

Have you seen fireflies dance through an eclipse? (JAIP)

At first, they are headlights of cars through mist;
sparks of air amid oaks at dusk;
then they engorge – the branches
grow eyes – and swarm the dark
in a symphony of explosions. It stuns–
an avalanche bursting from a snowball.

They blot out the sky:
anarchic aurora,
bedlam of emeralds,
throbbing tangelos–
we swallow our breath,
throats like parchment; our eyes
go tizzy like staring at the sun.

The wind stokes embers in the sky
as the carnival dissipates.
We stare, electrified, reach
for each other, finding
ourselves for the first time.

Reading Tate has changed something inside of me that poetry will be ‘never again the same’.

Nirvana by Bukowski

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I’ll just sit
here, I’ll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
forward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.

For some reason, this poem from Bukowski really stuck to me. I came across this for the first time when I was reading ‘running with the hunted – a charles bukowski reader’. Of all the poetry the book had (and there was a lot), this simply resonated with me.

Perhaps it was because of the time and the kind of life I was living back then. From being a student at the local college to someone who had started working, may be, the transition of the lives we lead made me yearn for the life I once had. Everything in college seemed like it were touched by magic: pleasant, refreshing, almost quixotic. From such an idyllic life to the one I lead now where everything revolves around a bottomline, a figure that seems so close to my fingers but jumps away a click just as I reach for it.

Or it could be that this was just a darn good poem. Bukowski was a good writer and he wrote a lot. That’s held against him quite often – he wrote too much without distilling the experience to the moment that transcends the ordinary. But Bukowski lead a life that could hardly be termed as extraordinary. His writing always reflected the poverty of his life. Yes, he had to go through hard times but I think his dermatological excesses always played with his mind. His earliest writings reflect the pyschology of a man plagued by his skin. He may have grown on to overlook that in his musings later on, but subconsciously, his work has always tried to tell a tale of the underdog.

Bah, I have said too much.

Imagism

William Carlos William’s ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’ is often cited as one of the best Imagist poems we have in contemporary history:

the red wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

You could add ‘This Is Just To Say’to the list and you have another masterpiece of WCW in the realm of Imagist poetry:

This Is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Another exponent of Imagism was Ezra Pound, and nothing could better describe his contribution of Imagism than one of his most widely anthologized poem, ‘In A Station Of The Metro’:

In A Station Of The Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

But what makes these poems tick? Why is it that they have remained popular for so long? I suspect that much of it lies in the simplicity of the structure of the poems. Each line is short and fraught with possibilities.

Yes, it can be argued that the real meaning behind his ‘red wheelbarrow’ is something that can never be ascertained because of all the underlying ambiguities. Are the lines to be taken literally? Or do they signify something deeper, a puzzle or a riddle that the general mass hasn’t be privy to? Is this really poetry? Or a cute sentence broken-up at random to give us something gimmicky?

Whatever be the case, ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’ is often quoted by early poets as one of the poems that changed their perception of what poetry could be. I do wonder what impact such poems will have on the psyche of kids reading poetry at school. Personally speaking, I would have been absolutely wonderstruck and delighted to have been introduced to this poem in high school. Most of the poems I read were more classical than contemporary, and quite frankly, they put me off. Does poetry in high school always have to be about hidden meanings? Having access to poetry of this kind would have changed my attitude towards poetry.

That’s not to say that Indian text-books are poetry killers. I was going through one of my younger cousin’s CBSE text for English literature the other day, and I was pleasantly surprised to see Plath and Ezekiel in his text.

Well, may be, things are turning for the better…

events in memory of shakti bhatt

shakti bhatt passed away earlier this year. there are a few events being held in her memory over the next few days.

thursday, 27th September (her birthday), a reading at:

the british council, 17, kasturba gandhi marg, delhi, at 7pm.

a few of her friends will be reading from her work and will remember her with poetry, short fiction, and music.

the details of the ‘Shakti Bhatt First Book Award 2008‘:

The Shakti Bhatt Foundation is a non-profit trust set up by her family to keep her memory alive. It wishes to reward first-time authors of all ages. THE SHAKTI BHATT FOUNDATION announces the inaugural 2008 Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize.The Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize is a cash award of one lakh rupees.

A 3-member panel of judges will shortlist entries. The 2008 panel of judges includes William Dalrymple and Kamila Shamsie.

We invite entries in the following genres: poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction (travel writing, autobiography, biography, and narrative journalism) and drama. Open to first-time authors of all ages.

The book must be published between June 1, 2007 and June 30, 2008.

Only books published in India are eligible.

Publications must be in English or translated into English from an Indian language. Vanity press publications are ineligible.

Deadline for entries is July 15, 2008.

Books (4 copies) to be sent to the following address:

The Shakti Bhatt Foundation
166/A Rajmahal Vilas Ext
8B Main Road
Bangalore 560 08

you can also email jeet thayil at jeet [dot] thayil [at] gmail [dot] com.       

introduction

if you have read my profile, it says that i’m a poet out of india. and because i write in english, i might be an IWE. an IWE is ‘Indian Writing in English’.

labels are beside the point. what is important (to me) is that i write.

 but why poetry? why not fiction? or why write at all?

i do not have answers to these questions. i write because i write. i started writing poetry very recently. when i say very recently, it’s actually going back some eighteen months. 

anyway, i wrote poetry. and some people read it over. no, not friends, family, professors.

strangers.

i wrote that poem in a workshop. they said it was good. so, i revised the poem some. and then some more.

and before i knew it, i was on my way to becoming a poet. i’ve had a few successes. i’ve been published.

but i don’t feel anything. i simply write and don’t feel anything. the words come out well, i check it for rhythm and all that jazz but, i feel nothing.

nothing.  

anyway, i write poetry. but what sort of poetry do i like? here is a poem by Meg E. Beade that i find very intriguing:

In a Cathedral

He is like a mouse
come from a hole in the wall
into a room so large he stops
abruptly. Giant walls. Distant ceiling. Light
swirling colors through glass. That he moves

forward is only from
hunger. The smallest
crumb would be enough.

He takes himself, empty,
towards the feast.

i like this poem. it makes me think. it makes me feel small, like that mouse. it reminds me that i’m so small in this world, that i’m just a mouse come out from some wall. i am yet to find my cheese.

and i hope nobody moves my cheese.