Hi Farah, I wonder about the wisdom of posting unfinished work to the list-- but I guess that might be a matter of taste. I also don't intend to be insensitive, but let me speak my mind clearly: these seem like notes for a poem much more than a poem itself: the energy flags and picks up, then flags again, in a manner which suggests that the writer is not necessarily paying attention to where it works and where it doesn't. The reader's (at least this reader's) eye tends to wander around the poem rather than getting pulled into it. There is a crisis of subject in this poem-- what is it about? The heart of the poem-- ie. to me the most interesting and meaningful thing about it-- is the lost baby brother, but this is also what the writer seems most afraid of engaging with. To say that "imagination pulls a break" ["imagination makes a break"?] seems like a copout; the poet's duty is not to admit defeat but press the imagination for answers. I guess I personally would extract the baby brother part, then try to build a *tight* poem around it, making use of some of the other stuff in the poem, such as going to school etc only if one can has space for it in the new structure. Of course, there could be many other options for revision, too, but any way you go, I as a reader would want the revision to be deep revision, and not superficial.
That would mean taking things like word-choice very seriously. But I have another question for you, on all your work, and I honestly mean it as a question because you do seem to be someone who has read the best of modern poetry in English: what do you see as the status of cliche in your work? My sense is that "cliche" works much better, say, in the South Asian languages, where it is not so much a cliche as a convention, played in tandem with received forms such as the ghazal, where it signals and stays in dialogue with the history of those conventions and forms. Even then, the most major modern poets in the South Asian languages such as Faiz do seem to be able to take conventions such as the "beloved" and recast them with radically new meanings and gestures. In English however, the convention always seems rapidly on the verge of degenerating into cliche, and has become very hard to handle. Someone like Agha Shahid Ali worked with conventions but had to really overhaul their music before they started to work for him. In the work of Plath and Heaney, which you have cited, the main energy comes from a complete avoidance of cliche and predictability [in different ways-- Plath raises the volume to heavy metal levels while Heaney lowers it to ambient music] and a restless dedication [both of them were/are hardcore revisers, and you can see traces of that immense blood and sweat effort in their work] to keeping the language fresh. I guess I'm saying that I don't see that in your work, and what it sounds to me often is cliched, both in terms of word-choice and in terms of sense perception/ideas. A second point: perhaps you might experiment with your line breaks a little more, try breaking them in different places? As in the poem below, you almost always break your lines at the end of a clause (where there would be a natural pause anyway) and where the rhyme falls. Letting an end-rhyme chime away, remember, does not absolve you from attention to the integrity and "alive-ness" of the line. Yours, Vivek Farah Imran wrote: > Dear Sandeep, Thankyou for your kind concern. I don't think I could > have written this otherwise...It is barely poetic, and I doubt if it > creates any metaphors, but now i have written what is closest to my > heart. I wish I could say all there is to say. I am grateful to you > for your sincere criticism...and I do not think you are being > insensitive, not in the least. The piece is still incomplete, but i am > posting as much of it as i can... * > > A bedtime story > > * > > I never like being out on a cold night, > > I cannot conceive of ever leaving > > My warm walls, my snug ceiling > > And step out. > > Where chilly darkness seeps into skin… > > My nails blue, my lips shivering > > The breeze a knife tearing my gown > > Breaching my warmth, searing my bones > > I hate being cold… > > I suppose they stayed out all night - > > Those few who could. > > I hope they didn’t hate being cold, > > I hope they didn’t hate being cold and lying out at night, > > On that day and next and next - > > And how many more? > > I never like being wet in winter rain > > The clothes clinging to my body; a second skin > > Their ugly wetness trapping the chill of winds. > > The water dripping, creeping, crawling > > And shamelessly invading, > > Chilling those veins cool winds can’t reach; > > It sets the teeth jittering. > > I hate being wet in winter rain… > > I cannot think straight > > I cannot even pray > > I feel as if happiness was never real > > But a dream, when I’m that cold… > > And they have been wet in winter rain, > > Those few who stayed outside > > Those few who could… > > On that day and next and next – > > And how many more? > > They must be thinking this by now > > A dementor’s kiss is better somehow. > > I have never been hungrier more than a day, > > I have due to excesses, such nasty ways > > Of wasting food. > > Leaving it on plates, in mugs, in fridge > > Letting it rot and throwing it away > > I guess I don’t need to say, > > I would be looking in garbage heaps > > If I were they. > > I have never lost a loved one by now > > I lost a baby brother when I was one > > I don’t think I loved him, > > I couldn’t love an unknown someone. > > But sometimes on some lonely night > > I dream of him and weep. > > I suppose my mother dreams every night and weeps > > Motherhood’s bane… > > I cannot even imagine losing a child, my own, > > Imagination pulls a break there, I cannot think anymore - > > I shudder to think of their horror, > > To lose one and an other, > > And an other, > > And so many more… > > They must be wishing they were with them inside, > > They must be wishing they never got outside. > > I never liked being late for school > > I rarely took a day off – > > I would get up and ready in a jiffy > > All fresh and shining clean. > > Kissing my mother and waving goodbye… > > I was a good kid – > > So were they; so were all of them, > > So were all thousands of them. > > They all got up and ready in a jiffy, > > All fresh and shining clean. > > Kissed their mother and waved goodbye… > > Why did they have to be good kids? > > Why did they reach on time? > > Why didn’t they dally on the way? > > And reach long after nine? > > But they came – > > They came and they came, > > For they were good kids and they wanted to learn, > > So they came to learn in classes, > > They came in twittering masses, > > And died. > > Their mothers must be wishing they weren’t good kids. > > Their mothers must be wishing they too had died. > > > > */sandeep pendse <[EMAIL PROTECTED]>/* wrote: > > > > Dear Farah, > > I have read all your postings with great interest for the simple > reason that there is something very appealing to the naive me in > most of your poems. They somehow speak to the /unfinished me /if > you know what i mean. > > This particualr one created some problems though - i see the > anguish and the concern - the need to explode in the medium you > are happiest with - does it go beyond a description that is > available in the news headlines? - what insights of a poetic > sensibility do i get? what metaphors do you create? - > > i am sorry if you think i am being too insensitive - my simple > point is that a poem should take us beyond the known facts and the > logical analysis > > else a journalistic piece is more effective > > may i twist Mykovsky? > > the task of a poet is to point out the destruction of the roses > when the forest fires rage - any govt official will talk of the latter > > let me repeat i enjoy your poems > > S > ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor --------------------~--> Get fast access to your favorite Yahoo! Groups. 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