Ampat Varghese Koshy
Poetry and Keralite Writing in English
– I
The truth is Kerala has always
had, like Bengal, Orissa, Kashmir and many other parts of India, an excellent
crop of writers in English. They excel in criticism and poetry, mainly,
not to mention novel writing and short stories.
MAPPING THE KNOWN
What I hope to do today is talk
of a branch of Indian writing in English primarily, meaning Keralite writing
in English, especially of poetry, against the bigger backdrop of the nation’s
and its citizens’ efforts in Indian English literature. I hope to do this
not excluding those who are NRIs or have settled abroad (diasporic) but
are still of Indian stock, being ‘dual’ citizens, or those whose ancestors
were or are Indians. Shashi Tharoor, for instance. The Naipauls also come
to mind, in this context. This pan-Indian and pan- Keralite approach satisfies
me. When Keralites speak of their own writers who have made a mark in English
they naturally speak of Madhavikutty (Kamala Das/Suraiyya) and her My Story
and poems, of Arundhati Roy who is half Bengali and her Booker Prize-winning
novel God of Small Things and if you are from Bangalore of Jeet Thayil
with his nomination for the Booker, the novel Narcopolis, and a few others
like the poet K Satchidanandan and the versatile Anita Nair.
But the truth is Kerala has always had, like Bengal, Orissa, Kashmir and
many other parts of India ( and also like Gujarat, Punjab, Delhi, Maharashtra
and Bihar, not to mention Tamil Nadu, Karnataka or Andhra Pradesh) an excellent
crop of writers in English. They excel in criticism and poetry, mainly,
not to mention novel writing and short stories.If they have not yet made
a mark in drama, where the two main talents emerge from Gujarat –
Dattani – and Karnataka – Karnad – , to counter it they have written voluminously
in fields like non-fiction and journalism, creating brief and lengthy
works. I do not know if Manjula Padmanabhan is a Malayali, but it is likely.
V. V. John (of Light Luggage fame) is an early example of a
good essayist who was a Malayali who is worth remembering.
NOW POETRY
Let me substantiate my claims, regarding
just how exciting I find writing in English today in India and Kerala is,
by quoting from the works of some of today’s exciting voices that have
come to my attention or crossed my path, or at least by mentioning their
names. My claim is not necessarily that they are great poets or critics
or fiction and non-fiction writers as yet, as most are only blossoming,
and the title great poet or writer is one I give only to one who has completed
his or her oeuvre, but that they have written great pieces and are
hence worth watching.
I would like to start with a poem
written by Prathap Kamath. This poem has haunted me for years.
raindrops and my visage
falling in a pitcher
with a rose floating over
me and the clouds
(Prathap Kamath. Ekalavya, Cyberwit,
UP, India, 2012 p.34)
A poet must have in his work something
that goes beyond everything, an ineluctable beauty or grandeur that stuns
us into calling his work our own by making it a part of our hearts through
our need for memorising it and this one has it. It reminds me of the essence
of Japanese painting, the kind that influenced the Impressionists. It is
emotional and touching. What I like here, something I love in all the Keralite,
Bengali, Kashmiri or Indian poets whom I care for, is also the care they
show for the feel of the language. They do not mangle English by saying
it is our right to write Indian ‘Englishes’ and use English any way we
like as an excuse to cover up their own sloppiness, ignorance and mistakes
and try to escape by just calling it desi or homegrown. Experimental English
is fine but has to be done by those who know the rules first to break it,
as James Joyce did, and not having gone abroad is no excuse to write anything
as regards the language and call it justified.
Another poet I want to talk of is
Ravi Shankar. Ra Sh, as he is also known, is one of the finer translators
I have come across, not to mention a good critic. He moves with politically
conscious radical poets, writers and artists like Leena Manimekalai and
Meena Kandasamy who themselves are no mean pushovers at the art of writing
but is no less interesting a poet himself. He brings in elements of science
fiction, edgy communism, cuss and swear words, India, sex and the geography
and culture of Kerala and post-modernism in his poems, making for an interesting
mix.
Here is an excerpt from his poem
“YOU are a fucking rain!”…
I hide, you rain. I go to a cave.
You pour within.
I drown in a sea. You lash the
waves.
I stand under a tree. The tree
rains with you.
You pelt hail stones. You rain
sparks.
You set fire to oil fields. You
quake mountains.
You make islands. You raze cities.
You rain lava. You rain ova.
You rain and rain..oh god!..so
much fucking rain in you?
You tear down the roof and pick
me like a bone
In the jaws of an earth moving
jurassic machine.
Hurl me into the strato meso thermo
spheres
And beyond.
(Excerpt taken from his Facebook
notes with his permission.)
His modern vocabulary and use of
anaphora, combined with his sense of humour, his playful experimentation
with language – are all worth commenting on and, more importantly, reading,
as it brings us much enjoyment and thought.
I want to go on to Reena Prasad’s
Autumn Resurrected, Rukhaya M K’s Taj Mahal poem – a concrete poem -, Anilkumar
Payappilly Vijayan’s philosophical outpourings, A.V. Varghese, Mary Annie,
A. V. Sara and Joanna S K, not to mention my own poems. I would also
like to mention writers like Binu Karunakaran, C.B. Mohandas, Vineetha
Mekkoth, Satish Babusenan, Zeenath Ibrahim, Aveesh K (who is no more),
Ajithan Kurup who passed away recently, Elizabeth Kuriakose, Suja Menon
(a critic), Jaya Prakash Kallickal, Sarala Ram Kamal, Jayachandran
Ramachandran and a hundred others but my effort is not really to be a cataloguer
like a K Srinivasa Iyengar was. I mention so many names and have
skipped many more only to point out that Kerala and Keralites, or Mallus
as they are contemptuously referred to sometimes, are a smouldering literary
volcano, an iceberg that can sink any Titanic, and these names are only
its tip, whether they are in Kerala or outside it or abroad. Rukhaya is
also a fine critic. All of them try to be language adepts. All of
them are quality conscious, in different ways, and write poems that reverberate
in one’s mind. All of them set their standards high.
From Kashmir I want to especially
mention the new star, Santosh Bakaya, who is making waves with her poetic
biography of Gandhi Ballad of Bapu and her Oh Hark and Fog ( a work in
progress). She is an inspiration to many younger writers like Perveiz Ali
who will produce great work from that part of the world. From Orissa my
favourite poet remains Jayanta Mahapatra but there are a crop of others
like Saroj Padhi and Sarojkanta Dash now who are anxious to push into deep
waters and I hope to speak more of Jayanta Mahapatra, definitely, and maybe
of them later. However, the newer writers I read, I felt, need
to be more careful regarding the use of language. I will also speak of
Bina Biswas, who resembles in some ways some of the things I spoke of about
Ra Sh, dealing in translation, but she impresses me mainly for the amazing
pluck and ability shown in lifting her writing standards over time in poetry
up to a level where she now tries to match the best in the whole world.
Ananya Chatterjee, Lopa Banerjee, Gopali Chakraborty Ghosh, Ruma Chakravarti,
K V K Murthy, Madan Gandhi (one of the grand old men of Indian English
writing), Jernail S Anand , Shruti Goswami, Udita Garg, Lagna Pany, Tapti
Pal, Prasant Misra, Pooja Garg Singh, Taseer Gujral, the vivacious Sumana
Roy, Malkeet Kaur, Avikal Shukla, Kamlesh Acharya, Abha Iyengar,
Nalini Priyadarshini, Neeti Banga, Radha Debroy, Maitreyee B Chowdhury,
Payal Pasha, Madhumita Ghosh, Ramakanta Das, Majrooh Rashid, Sudarshana
Ghosh, Vasudev Murthy, Poulome Mitra Shaw and Atindriyo Chakaraborty are
some others I enjoy reading, at times, for various reasons.
These poets – many of them
mentioned are primarily poets – I speak of are not all great yet,
but have written a few or some or many great poems or works
and will go on to become great as their works have or attempt for the depths
that can influence many and be mined for critical explorations without
having to be recognized by foreign or national or state authorities or
awards first, in so-called validation exercises that are often only
exercises in manipulation. If my bias is towards poetry in my choice of
names, it is because in such a short space as the one I am writing in it
is easier to deal with poetry than with other forms of literature.
Let me return to the serious business
of giving you more snippets of new writing to sample and enjoy.
Here is Reena Prasad in her Autumn
Resurrected, which I enjoyed quite as much as Keats’s Ode to Autumn but
in a different way and for different reasons.
Autumn Resurrected
The path turned away from the bustle
of life
We halted, finally alone with the
tall trees
The floor, a striped carpet of
sun and shade
Around us an orange rain of leaves
You kissed my hands, gently pushed
me down
A replay of a younger season
In your dark eyes, a scented image
lurked
Of green mangoes and silver-belled
strings
I want this scene to break its
waters
even if it leaves me irrevocably
broken
So there I am under the tall trees
caressed by a vagrant breeze
but it seems this you cannot bear
You are on your knees shoveling
furiously
till the assonance of twin coral-crested
baubles
beneath a leaf-bejeweled corset
dissolves your peace
I stretch and fill my autumn grave
Deliriously content to be slaughtered
by skin, breath and unrestrained
vigor
my back cushioned by purple heather
A delicate conspiracy of creation
murmuring its delight in my ears
That was then
Not long now
before you join me under the forest
floor
A space waits alongside my imprints
A space to which I sometimes flee
to make sure you haven’t reached
before my time is breeched
Our spring has spilled over several
seasons
I am a wistful bloom minus her
green sepals
You juggle wildfires-a defiant
breeze
whenever we meet
I try to hold on to my cast-off
skins
But you devour each one, my fanged
king
leaving me bare
A tree birthing itself
every autumn.
© Reena Prasad, 2014,
a poem that appeared in Brian Wrixon’s Autumn anthology.
Keats would approve of such rich
and sensuous imagery. So do I. Reena is one of the most exciting poets
writing in the world today in English whether we call her Indian or Keralite
or just a poet.
Here is a poem by Sara, now no more.
Shrill calls
Pierce through
Break the slumber
Of the silent morn
© Sara.
Organic imagery, simple, classy
and beautiful.
Here is a perennial favourite of
mine by Anna Maria (Mary Annie A.V.)
If in a pack of cards,
you are the King of Hearts
permit me, please
to be the Queen.
© Mary Annie A.V.
Here is Rukhaya with her startling
Taj Mahal poem, a pure delight in terms of concrete poetry.
Taj Mahal
Pillow-fight days with my muse,
word-feathers fly mellifluously
loose.
I hide behind the words, to give
you space,
wait like comely commas at fretwork
lengths of the way
for as Thebes to Amphion, jigsaw
words fall into their own place
as one day I wrote your name upon
the sand, in the desert leaves of my life.
I rewrite (his)tory mummifyin’
you, in dulcet verses of my choice,
for even if I die, you will hear
the echoes of my voice.
So long as women breathe, and eyes
can see
so long lives my mausoleum
of verse,
and words give birth to thee.
©Rukhaya M.K 2015
To shift a bit away from Keralite
writing to someone who comes from Kolkata, Delhi and Hyderabad, here is
Bina Biswas with her title poem from her latest collection.
Half a Life
Painted blue tears
draining from the eyes, and
behind those closed eyes
I found stories.
Eyes dripping kohl
were my crayon doodles
My hair smelt of sea spray, and
faraway rains.
While I played
with half-hearted sorrows,
my dreams got painted blue,
dark midnight blue, and
I lived by halves.
© Bina Biswas 2015
And last, but not least, Atindriyo
Chakraborty and myself.
His poem:
you’re so beautiful that love seems
to be the running force of life
you fighting for the world
it’s like Turgenev’s mom-sparrow
fighting for her baby
like light rising from darkness
like blind soldiers seeing the
source of light
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting
Russian literature for you and thinking of you as Margarita
unlike moobier hairier perver pervs
selling faith for votes
Adonis goes hunting with Angulimala
many houses burn within a radius
of 100 kilometers
burn, Radha
my love is so selfish that it romanticises
fire and hates real flames
i’d rather look at photographs
of you fighting for the world to come together and sing,
think that things are all in place
in the universe
despite knowing that the construct
of balance is elusive
and knowing that some people will
forever walk the world
and see how the coldest, softest
moment of the night turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows go out
to fight for their babies
and see how the warmest, softest
moment of the day turns blue in the sky in a few whiles
and see how mom-sparrows come back
to fight for their babies
the house where i had stayed from
birth till high-school ended had an occasional readhead Krishnachura swaying
a headful of flowers in the green rain beside the window that opened to
the South and an occasional orange-head Radhachura swaying a headful of
flowers by the one that opened to the North
by the time i came to know that
all trees are hermaphrodites they weren’t there
but poetry with endless blue skies
rolling overhead and words filling a few blank spaces up and all blank
spaces wrapping words up – have always been there and so have memories
of a couple of Bangla poets who would look at the skies and at the streets
and feel hermaphrodite
the streets took one of them
life took the other
and poetry took both
it’s like that, something taking
in the binaries and the void – love is
and then, the roads are always
thirsty and none of them lead to anywhere specific,
except for people who believe in
battles, and for fools and philosophers
and for the moon behind the mirror
and for all lamps that flicker
and for the uneasy relationship
between storms and nests
and for the easy relationship between
the sea and the seagulls
and for the relationship between
fishes and the water where ease and diseases flow by, like life, like Eliot’s
women for Prufrock and Yeats’ horsemen passing by
unlike mooby hairy bald pervs quoting
English literature to feel good about loving you,
the transparent cold of death wraps
eyes of fishes
i have seen them staring at blank
spaces from the other side of highly polluted slabs of ice
and in Lorca’s city there’s everybody
asleep
and Pagla Meher Ali screams: ‘Beware!’
and flames of devotion burn the
sages
and hot streets burn musafirs
in the city the times are harsh.
they sing songs of Lalan with greed for fame
and five odd timid stars sing and
dance their carnival of sadness out in the five star sky of a dead poet’s
novel, their sadness melts in cheap cosmetics of sweaty, beautiful women
from the streets, along their sweaty necks down their flabby flaneur-fleshes
– i call them Shujata and think of them as mercy
April is mostly a cruel month in
any case
Even sparrows don’t talk much and
crickets don’t sing much in April cities.
But I’d rather think of the void
and be happy
I’d rather look at a photograph
of you fighting for the songs and for the baby-songs and think that there
is something called balance and that the universe is in perfect balance
now
and be happy
you’re so beautiful that love seems
to be mom-sparrows and baby-sparrows singing songs and baby-songs of life
©Atindriyo Chakraborty
My poem, finally, as a fitting summing
up, a raucous rebel cry, a manifesto, to remember the vortex of the destroyer
before new creation, first published in Vortice July 2, 2014
Setting the World on Fire
©A.V. Koshy
First you throw away the style manual
then you burn up your soul body
mind
give short shrift even to your
women or woman
even that one who you know: she
can take it
who beat up your rival, to pulp
while you watched
relishing every moment of it
playing your axe, singing “don’t
you cry, tonight” –
that was something, don’t you remember
it? –
her heart bears the red marks and
welts of your spanking
because in your dark heart, like
Genet or
Gauguin –
or was it Rimbaud or Huysmans?
the names don’t seem to matter
though you know them –
the blue archipelagos of desire
beckon
or the dreaded land, the empty
quarter
the mistral in the Arles or the
sandstorms and the Sahara
the great desolate is what draws
you
wheels in the sky, the great cormorants
and you want to go to the unknown
regions
Malta across the Meditteranean
the depths of some black jungle
where blooms the rafflesia
you are traversing the terrains
of the unconscious
you are in the land of the exotic
surreal
here there are no rules and your
harem dances to nautch tunes
here there is Mughal beauty and
Byzantium and
more than America!
here there is Khajuraho and Chidambaram
Jerusalem, Athens, Rome and all
the upside down towers of London ringing bells
bats in their bellies and flying
out from their dark belfries
you are making warts grow on your
face
‘horrible worker’, you have come
to expand the territory
tasting even the poisons left untouched
by those earlier others
making women free to speak in their
own voice, with their clefts
setting them free to express what
the Other is
what the world knows you are doing
and is watching uneasily
the fiery comet
the shooting star
the black hole
the white dwarf
the collapsible time-frame continuum
the arrival of the big bang and
its shrinking after full expansion
the pinprick of light
the cosmic dance of yogi and yogini
you have set free the subconscious
and you are swimming past the ether
in the coral reefs where puffer
fish, monstrous fresh water snakes and snakes of the salty deep and ocras
play
in the skies where dragons and
pterodactyls still fly and battle
you have gone further than any
one else you have known
set sail, don’t stop!
you will reach the zenith and the
meridian
you do not need magazines to publish
your love poems
you do not need publishers or awards
or collections
if no one pays you money you do
not need them fuck them
fuck Sahithya Akademi, Nobel, Booker,
Hindu literary prize, sales and what Penguin & Sage have become
fuck Pulitzer, Man Asian and Man
Booker too
instead there is the way of the
bums
who burn out and do not fade away
you are the Jim Morrison and Nirvana
of poetry
you are the rock and roll star
in the world of poetry
on the burning sands of time
while your life bleeds out inch
by inch in poem after poem
like Apollinaire’s Christ zeppelin
who holds the record for height
you are crucified and yet making
ardent love to your one woman lover daemon muse
making space melt and the sun burn
down
with the rage of poetry, setting
the world on fire
you both are unclothed and the
old song is sung
man and woman adagio if you can
only you two meet
like the molten rays of the midday
sun
driving into parched earth
into each other’s marrow
you will reach the furthest pole
beyond all human compass
no do not yield to the lesser ones
but set the universe un-verse on
fire.
I hope to continue this mapping
and exploration in the next column, again, writing a part two, meanwhile,
to explain what I mean in more detail, with more proof-texting in the form
of criticism, not to validate my claims and mapping of new territories
in the rich minefield and world of Indian and Keralite writing in English
but to explain the poems perhaps to a world that may wonder why I chose
them as great, according to those who know poetry, in terms of exegesis
and hermeneutics For real lovers of poetry it is not needed, as these
poems speak for themselves. Meanwhile, till the next time, ‘dear reader,’
I bid you adieu, as Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre would.
This article appeared originally in Learning
and Creativity. |