RE: [ZESTPoets] This year's tale....

Thu, 13 Oct 2005 07:12:23 -0700

What is interesting in Farah's latest is involvement of Harry Potter  in the poem - The word "Dementor" has been used without fear and without explanation. I love it.
 
The critique of Vivek cannot be taken the way Farah has taken it. I found the exchange between Farah and Vivek most stimulating. Raw talent in the face of finely honed criticism (albeit slightly patronising but well meaning at the end of the day). No, I daresay Vivek was certainly not being malicious.
 
There comes a time when the critic's critique itself gets criticised. I do think that Vivek got into the issue of technique to such an extent that he ignored the substance of the poem, which obviously is about the devastation caused due to the recent earthquake. In other words the poem is about the tyranny of nature and the abruptness of tragedy and devastation. It is important and terribly relevant because there is a lot of it that is happening all over - tsunami, hurricane Katrina, and now the earthquake. I was reading somewhere that nature does not have a human heart. I also relate to Farah's confession that she would not be in a position to deal with the suddenness of such a calamity. I am able to discover a bit of meaning in Farah's present poem as I have read a few of them now (I must confess I like reading most of them as they are mercifully short). Farah's poems draw heavy reliance from nature and for her nature metaphorises her emotions to a large extent. For such a "pantheist" a sudden revelation of mother nature's meaningless  cruelty must certainly be inexplicable.
Amazingly, I found the earthquake interesting too but for prosaic reasons. The seismological / territorial faultline,  it would seem, coincides with the cultural and political one. How is that for a modern pantheistic idiom. I think a poem can be attempted on this.
Farah's stacatto style in the poem can be criticised but it cannot be condemned. The style wishes to highlight the pain and the rough edges of her feelings. No doubt the poem has rough edges too. I don't think that she needs to rhyme or chyme her current poem. I do like it with its jagged and slightly rough hewn style.
 
Regards all
Ronnie

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

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