Poetry Session on Jan 17, 2012

Nine readers participated in a rousing session of poetry that included the poetry of the Sufi poet and mystic, Hafiz, from Iran, and songs by the popular Hindi film script-writer and lyricist, Gulzar.

  Zakia, KumKum, Marianne, Priya, Sunil, Thommo, Mathew, Bobby (back)

We had a guest from Sweden, Marianne Hård, whose interest stemmed from the fact she is a member of an all-women's reading group running for ten years in her home town of Holmön. They read fiction, meeting by rotation in their homes, and having supper after the event. There are ten members, and being all women, they naturally discuss other things besides literature.

 Marianne Hård, travel operator from Sweden, & author of book on Kerala tourism

The recitation ranged from the comic verse of Lewis Carroll to the religious poetry of George Herbert. Talitha even recited a couple of her own poems, which she hopes to publish in a collection. May she succeed!

Three poets were repeated: Larkin, Seth, and Angelou – testament to their popularity. Here are the readers at the end of the session in the Library of the Cochin Yacht Club. We thank the Club for its continuing courtesy in offering a congenial space to hold our sessions!

 Zakia, Marianne, KumKum, Talitha, Thommo, Priya, Bobby, Joe, Mathew, Sunil

Read the full account below.

Kochi Reading Group Poetry Session on Jan 17, 2012

Attending: Sunil, Mathew, Joe, Zakia, Thommo , KumKum, Talitha, Bobby, Priya

Absent: Verghese (yet to be seduced by poetry), Gopa (board meeting), Soma (computer kaput?), Sivaram (meeting)

Guest: Marianne Hård, travel operator from Sweden, author of book on Kerala tourism
The next fiction book for reading, selected by Bobby and Verghese, is The Stranger by Albert Camus. Future dates are:

Feb 10, 2012 Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne

Mar 16, 2012 Poetry

Apr 13, 2012 The Stranger by Albert Camus

Toward the end of the discussion the idea of calling a Malayalam poet to one of our poetry sessions came up and Talitha mentioned the name of Anita Thampi. She came across as a down-to-earth poet at the Hay festival in TVM in Nov 2011.

KumKum
A book of hundred lyrics of movie songs by Gulzar, with an English translation facing the original, in Devnagiri, on the left, was presented to KumKum by Joe, and that became the inspiration for her to recite a couple of the lyrics as if they were poems. She was not satisfied by the quality of the translation which seemed hurried and slapdash. She undertook to translate them herself, and also used Joe.

Gulzar. Poet, lyricist, writer director, composer, ...
Gulzar is known to us primarily as a sensitive lyricist for Hindi film songs. He is also a poet, author, script-writer and a successful film director. He writes in Hindi and Urdu, and at times, in Punjabi, too.

Gulzar has worked with almost all Hindi music directors, and playback singers; together they have created many unforgettable songs for Hindi movies for over four decades. Gulzar has won ten Filmfare Awards for the best lyricist, a record in the industry. Besides, he has won Awards for the best dialogue writer many times. He also earned the Oscar and Grammy Awards for the lyrics of the movie “Slumdog Millionaire.” He is a recipient of the Padma Bhushan and Sahitya Akademi Award.

Gulzar was born in what is now the Punjab province of Pakistan on August 18, 1936. His real name is Sampooran Singh Kalra; Gulzar is his pen name.

Joe asked why she translated the last two lines of the original song 'Nam gum jayega' (yaad aaye gar kabhi, ji udas ho/meri aavaz hi pahchan hai,, gar yad aye) as

If my thought does cross your mind,

And suddenly you are Awakened

My voice still carries my marker

Some liberty seems to have been taken, for there is no reference to any awakening in the original.

She replied that in her interpretation 'udas' has the significance of being sad as a result of suddenly recalling something from the past and being Awakened. She got the idea from reading Oliver Sacks The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat. In that book an Alzheimer's patient suddenly has a moment of lucidity and in that moment it was a rediscovery of an old friend, who was no more; and becoming sad as a result of that recall.

Thommo noted that this is the 'fighting' KumKum talks about that occurs between her and Joe. Rather rarefied! KumKum played the song from a CD and mentioned the names of the playback singer, Lata Mangeshkar, and the music director, R.D. Burman.

After the recital KumKum was impelled to plant a kiss on Joe for having presented her with the Gulzar lyrics. But she insisted that Joe did not get the lyrics, as he is a Mallu, after all. Mathew laughed and said KumKum got the final word in.

Priya

The poems were by Mukul Kesavan who is best known as a cricket writer. Priya got the poems from the Literary supplement of The Hindu:

http://www.thehindu.com/arts/books/article2763410.ece 

Priya provided a brief bio of MK. He is an M.Litt. From Cambridge University (Trinity College). His books are 'Men in White', Looking through Glass', etc. Distance brings perspective, according to him He wrote a piece on 'The Ugliness of the Indian Male' in The Telegraph. Our reader Mathew is a Facebook friend of Mukul Kesavan. So, are oldies also embracing Facebook, Joe asked? Yes, and it appears no mystery to Mathew and Bobby, and others who have planted their flag on Facebook, among a hundred million others, or is it a thousand million? MK is also a social commentator and book reviewer.

The first poem, Trousers, is not only about the different modes of wearing trousers, but also about how it changes with the progression of age. The second poem, Nostalgia, is an escape into the sentimental past, and recalls the film, Kati Patang, and the actress Asha Parekh, noted for her 'planetary bum'; it was directed by Shakti Samant, with very good songs by R.D. Burman (whose nickname is Pancham, used in the poem).

Sunil
It was a strange story how Sunil was introduced to Hafiz, the Sufi poet of Iran. Sunil's wife's elder sister is married to a an Iranian. They eloped to Secunderabad and were married in the Iranian consulate there and escaped via Sri Lanka to Iran. Now they are reconsidering their continued stay in Iran, for their son is subjected to compulsory military service, and they are not happy about the daughter who may be married off by the mere fiat of the mullahs.

Hafiz is recited in winters at home in Iran. There are people who can recite a lot of his poems by heart, so well-loved is his poetry. It is also very contrary to the hard-line rhetoric of the theologians of the regime. People also appreciate the guru of Hafiz, Saadi. In his teens Haifz memorised the Q'uran just by listening to his father recite it. His memory feats also extended to the works of his hero, Saadi, and those of Jalaluddin Rumi. Hafiz is a title given to those who have memorised the Q'uran. Hafiz was born in Shiraz, a beautiful city of south central Iran. In his early twenties he became a court-poet in Shiraz to the court of Abu Ishak.

His volume of poetry, the Diwan-e-Hafiz has some 500 ghazals, 42 Rubaiyees and a few Ghaseedehs, composed over 50 years. Hafiz died circa 1389 AD at the age 69, full of learning, a master to his intimate circle of disciples. He was refused a Muslim burial by the conservative clergy of the day. They wanted his name to be forgotten, but instead, as Joe pointed out, his name is recited every day by Muslims who bid a parting person 'Huda hafiz', which means God be with you, Hafiz influenced many poets – Emerson, Edward Fitzgerald – and of course a whole tribe of ghazal writers in India.

He is also superstitiously considered an oracle. Some people think if you open a volume of Hafiz and turn to an arbitrary page, and the eyes light upon a couplet, it will foretell your destiny that day (judiciously interpreted, of course).

Thommo

Thommo chose a favourite poem of Lewis Carroll from the Hunting of the Snark. Father William has delighted many children and adults, for its eminent sense and comedy. KumKum mentioned her children loved it as Joe recited the lines often, and they could soon recite it themselves.

Thommo said that while Carroll (pen name of the Rev. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) was a mathematician (Boolean Algebra and Logic were his specialties) by profession, he not only wrote splendid children's stories, but made the characters immortal by the lines he gave them. He had a huge fan base, including Queen Victoria who wanted him to dedicate his next book to her; it was titled “The Theory of Determinants” and duly dedicated to her.

These lines

The muscular strength it gave to the jaw

Lasted the rest of his life

brought on a refrain from Joe. Thommo said so that’s how Joe achieved his argumentative slant, by arguing with his wife!

The conversation veered to the shenanigans in Queen Victoria’s court with the rough Scotsman who became close to her after Prince Albert died. Their son, Prince Edward burnt the entire correspondence of QV with this commoner. QV's Indian man-servants are well-known. Prince Edward also expropriated some property in Agra which the fellow got through QV.

Talitha
Henry Wotton was a professional diplomat and author (1568-1638). To him we owe the quote that "An ambassador is an honest gentleman sent to lie abroad for the good of his country." You can read about him at his wiki entry:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Wotton

The poem Talitha recited is dedicated to the daughter of James VI, the king whom Wotton represented in the capitals in Europe. It extols her beauty and mentions many comparative reference points of excellence in nature; Elizabeth of Bohemia vanquishes all the beauties of nature.

Talitha read two short poems of her own, Burning Down and Growing Old. Since she did not want the poems to appear in this record, the verses may only be named, and our readers will not have access to them until they are published, as she hopes.

Joe
Joe read a few poems of George Herbert, the Anglican priest and religious poet, and one by Vikram Seth modeled on a form used by Herbert. He said:

“I was led to consider George Herbert's (1593-1633) poetry after reading the most recent volume of poems by Vikram Seth, The Rivered Earth, which comprises the lyrics for some choral music (composed by Alec Roth) for a festival held each year during 2004-2007. The second year's was performed in Salisbury Cathedral, not far from Bemerton Parish, where George Herbert worked as a priest during the last three years of his life.

Seth relates that he read the poems of Herbert first from an anthology that his mother got as a prize when she was a schoolgirl, and he took it with him when he was sent to the Doon School. On Seth's recommendation I read some poems of Herbert and he made it easy in his introduction by identifying 'some of Herbert's loveliest poems.' I add a brief note on Herbert from Seth's book:

Herbert came from an aristocratic Welsh family; he was Public Orator at Cambridge and had a promising career as a diplomat or courtier ahead of him. Instead he chose to be a parish priest. The humble parish of Bemerton was offered to him by Charles I 'if it be worth his acceptance'. Herbert found the house in a ramshackle condition, and when in 1630, he became rector, repaired and expanded it at his own expense. It was to be his only parish; he died of consumption, three years later, at the age of thirty-nine.

His 160 poems were composed there mostly, and published posthumously in a volume called 'Temple' by his friend Ferrar to whom he entrusted them. The middle section titled Church contains the poems most quoted. Seth ultimately bought the Rectory where Herbert once lived, and stayed there; he mentions that '[Herbert's] presence and his poetry were kindly influences.' So much so that Seth was later 'unresistingly drawn into writing a few poems modeled on his verse forms' which were later sung at the festival. He notes that Herbert's sense of sympathy and hard-earned stillness made the work possible.

I see a wider influence by Herbert on much of Seth's verse, which is calm and thoughtful, and has a deep resonance for the modern reader, while remaining simple on the surface. Of that, another time. Suffice it to say George Herbert is considered one of the major religious poets. He also wrote a considerable amount of Latin poetry.

T.S. Eliot acknowledges 'the spiritual stamina of [Herbert's] work.' and adds:

The great danger, for the poet who would write religious verse, is that of setting down what he would like to feel, rather than be faithful to the expression of what he really feels. Of such pious insincerity Herbert is never guilty. ... What we can confidently believe is that every poem in the book is true to the poet's experience.

Coming to the poems I'll recite three short pieces by Herbert and one by Vikram Seth modeled on a poem called Paradise by Herbert.”

Joe drew attention to the poem Lost by Vikram Seth (modeled after 'Paradise' by Herbert). First there's the play on the name. Herbert's poem describes the ways in which his Lord may chasten him to attain to Paradise. Harbouring no such Christian hopes, Vikram Seth, wrote Lost as a counterpoint, describing the rather bleaker situation of the unbeliever. But it follows Herbert's word-play and form by writing in tercets with the ending word in each line of the tercet losing a letter in succession. Further, Seth accentuates the bleakness by writing entirely in monosyllables – a practice that he has espoused before in some of his poems, for example the famous one, Soon ('I shall die soon I know'), a poem on a man dying of AIDS but written in first person.

Note added in May 2015:
John Drury, chaplain at All Soul's College, Oxford, has written a wonderful life of George Herbert, Music at Midnight: The Life and Poetry of George Herbert, embedding his poems within the life of the poet:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/aug/15/music-midnight-herbert-drury-review

In that volume he comments on the poem, Lost, of VS, and adds the poignant note that it was written not long after VS and his long-time partner Philippe Honore broke up. Drury draws attention to the occurrence of the words 'tune' and 'word' in the third line of each tercet. It was the poet's way of coupling one last time his violinist friend with himself, a writer.

Herbert also wrote poems with shaped verses. Two examples are Easter Wings (see at the end) and The Altar; the typography models the shape of two wings in the first, and that of the altar of a church in the second.

Mathew 
Mathew presented a poem by a poet of the same name, Matthew, John P. He said there are many professionals in various fields who write poetry in India. Perhaps a surfeit of Indian poetry written in English exists. It has become a comfortable language in which to express our culture, and no longer is it a foreign tongue. Mathew characterised the poet he chose as different from writers of earlier times in India. There is more Indianness, and a great deal more of the the things we are exposed to in India, unique in its way.

Matthew, John P, comes from a family of poets. He is the Editor of Ambit, a magazine of the Bombay Management Association. He writes a blog:

http://johnpmathew.blogspot.in/

The note below is taken from the wiki entry:

John P. Matthew was born in 1957 into a family of illustrious writers in Malayalam. His great, great, great uncle George Mathan wrote the first book of Malayalam Grammar called Malayazhmayude Vyakaranam, his great uncle Puthencavu Mathan Tharakan was a writer and poet and his uncle K M Tharakan was a writer and critic. Though his uncles were writers in Malayalam he writes in his adopted language - English - as he was educated in it. He has written and popularized the pidgin English spoken around Mumbai which is called “Mack English.” (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_P._Matthew)

The first poem, To my son, are words of advice on what to avoid in life, and seeks to pass on the father's wisdom gained from experience, to his son, in the hope it will be passed on even further to his grandson. I wonder if John P. Matthew ever really addressed or posted this poem to his son, and if so, how it was received. For their own survival, sons erect a guard to ward off paternal influences (speaking in general, of course – there are exceptions).

The second poem is an ode to the city of Delhi, which obviously holds many past associations in the poet's mind. He lays it all out: the woes of cycle-rickshaw pullers, the rape and pillage of its history, the pageant of Mughal times, and so on. But it ends on a note of pathos. The poet imagines that behind all those glitzy malls today the city is dying:

Slowly you die, spent and ravaged by your many lovers.

Bobby
 The poet chosen was Philip Larkin, who has been recited before by Bobby. He read it without any additional comment, except that “Larkin is known as a poet of dirty words.” There was no discussion. Who is Warlock-Williams? What is the 'dish' of a hermit, – a begging bowl? And what does the title convey, Vers de Société ? Modern poets are tough to crack when they wish to obscure by encrypting plain text.

A commentary from Bobby adds: "The poem is about solitude and yet yearning company. And he is making fun of our societal mores ... virtue is social. Vers de Société - translates 'To company' ( of people) I suppose."

Zakia 

Maya Angelou has been recited before, by Thommo, I think. Zakia chose the poem Touched by an Angel. Introducing the poet, Zakia said she was born in 1928 and is a noted author, dancer, writer, civil rights activist, and poet. She is a professor at Wake Forest University. She wrote a long poem of optimism and hope for the 1993 Inauguration of President Clinton, "On the Pulse of Morning." It was meant to be a poem heralding a new age of peace, a message that unfortunately got lost in the wars that inaugurated the new century. There are echoes of Martin Luther King's speech, I have a dream. Here's more about the poet from her website:

http://mayaangelou.com/bio/

In the poem Maya Angelou says love “strikes away the chains of fear” and “sets you free.” But it calls for some up-front payment of boldness and daring to liberate us from the “shells of loneliness.”

Joe thought he saw in this poem some preachment which he said is a no-no in poetry. Poets are expected to describe, to elevate, to say the way things are. But Talitha thought otherwise. It was unclear whether she meant there is no preaching in this poem, or that preaching is fine in poetry.

The Poems

KumKum
No. 20 Kitaab (Translated by Joe)
My shadows desert me.
My faith has vanished,
My deeds are in vain;
Oh, life has grown so barren!

The days are buried in darkness,
Interminable nights keep the dawn at bay;
For what do I hope?
Not the return of belief, nor personal gain,
But a soul-mate to assuage my longing!

Cast out upon the world,
Lonesome still midst crowds,
I hunt for a companion soul ―
To lavish on me her care,
To banish my lack of belief,
And replenish my life with hope!

२०  किताब (१९७७)मेरे साथ चले न साया ...धर्म नहीं , कर्म नहीं ... जन्म गंवाया
मेरे लिये दिन भी अँधेरा
मेरे लिये रात भीं लाये न सवेरा
जो दे उजाला, दे सवेरा
वही मेरा हमसाया
धर्म नहीं , कर्म नहीं ... जन्म गंवाया
मेरे लिये, जगत भी सौतेला
भरी हुई भीड़ में रहा अकेला
जो गे सहारा, दे किनारा
वही मेरा हमसाया
धर्म नहीं , कर्म नहीं ... जन्म गंवाया

No. 61 Kinara (Translated by KumKum)

You may no longer recall my name

My face has changed too,

My voice still carries my marker

If only you could recall.

Vagaries of time play tricks

Now one remembers, then it's gone.

If perchance we happened to meet,

My voice still carries my marker

If only you could recall.

It happened a long time ago

And the story is of one night,

Nothing beyond.

My voice still carries my marker

If only you could recall.

When our days end, night will descend

Enjoy your life to the end...

If my thought does cross your mind,

And suddenly you’re Awakened

My voice still carries my marker,
Now you could rise to the challenge.

६१ किनारा (२००७) नाम गुम जाएगा, चेहरा ये बदल जाएगा
मेरी आवाज़ ही पहचान है, गर याद रहे
वक्त के सितम कम हसीं नहीं
आज है यहाँ कल कहीं नहीं
वक्त से परे अगर मिल गये कहीं
मेरी आवाज़ ही पहचान है, गर याद रहे ...जो गुज़र गयी, कल की बात थी
उम्र थो नहीं, एक रात थी
रात का सिरा, अगर फिर मिले कहीं
मेरी आवाज़ ही पहचान है, गर याद रहे ...दिन ढले जहाँ, रात पास हो
ज़िन्दगी की लौव, ऊँची कर चलो
याद आए गर कभी, जी उदास हो
मेरी आवाज़ ही पहचान है, गर याद रहे …

Priya

Mukul Kesavan

Trousers

In middle age the rote ballet that gets

you dressed is habit and performance:

stoop, stork, point foot, thread trouser leg and rise

till upright, leg extended, off the floor,

face dark in bathroom glass from bending.

Half-sheathed in virile jeans, you now change feet,

repeat (with poise) and you’re Nureyev.

Old fathers wear their trousers sitting down.

They splay their knees, insert their feet and pull

their waistbands up, one rolled and lifted buttock

at a time. Rushed boys hurtle into shorts

and trousered women waste no private time

on balance: grace is a public virtue,

publicly performed for staring people.

Between quick boys and careful fathers, men

court equilibrium. When the level ground

of middle life starts to give, each costume

change becomes high-wire virtuosity,

and the point of standing through the business

ever more obscure. Then, gripped by second-hand

déjà vu, we sit, and settle into age.

Nostalgia, 1970

Remember Kati Patang?

The Phenomenon's crinkled smile

and A.P.'s planetary bum?

His inch-high parting, her bouffant,

her frosted lips, his batted eyes

her pigeon lilt, his killer tilt...

By Odeon! how time just flies!

The piano scene? Remember that?

She played the fatal flame and he

the moth! Parwanas can't be fat,

but we, we didn't want him thin

because we wanted more of him:

that sloping grin, cleft double-chin...

see, this was Then; men didn't gym.

You do remember? Hold that thought,

but skip the Pancham Nite on Ten,

this circa's Hindi films must not,

on pain of death, be seen again.

Good movies bravely see off Time,

some others find new life as kitsch:

not those where Kaka played the lead

and Bindu played the bitch.

Sunil
SOME FILL WITH EACH GOOD RAIN

There are different wells within your heart.

Some fill with each good rain,

Others are far too deep for that.

In one well

You have just a few precious cups of water,

That “love” is literally something of yourself,

It can grow as slow as a diamond

If it is lost.

Your love

Should never be offered to the mouth of a

Stranger,

Only to someone

Who has the valor and daring

To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife

Then weave them into a blanket

To protect you.

There are different wells within us.

Some fill with each good rain,

Others are far, far too deep

For that.

A Mysterious Love by Hafez (c. 1325-1389)

translated by John Hindley

I have borne the anguish of love, which ask me not to describe:

I have tasted the poison of absence, which ask me not to relate.

Far through the world have I roved, and at length I have chosen

A sweet creature (a ravisher of hearts), whose name ask me not to disclose.

The flowing of my tears bedews her footsteps

In such a manner as ask me not to utter.

On yesternight from her own mouth with my own ears I heard

Such words as pray ask me not to repeat.

Why dost thou bite thy lip at me? What dost thou not hint (that I may have told?)

I have devoured a lip like a ruby: but whose, ask me not to mention.

Absent from thee, and the sole tenant of my cottage,

I have endured such tortures, as ask me not to enumerate.

Thus am I, HAFIZ, arrived at extremity in the ways of Love,

Which, alas! ask me not to explain.

Thommo

FATHER WILLIAM

by Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,

"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head--

Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,

"I feared it might injure the brain;

But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--

Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks,

"I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box --

Allow me to sell you a couple?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak

For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--

Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw

Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose

That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--

What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"

Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"

"Father William" is reprinted from The Hunting of the Snark and Other Poems and Verses. Lewis Carroll. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903.

Talitha
Elizabeth of Bohemia

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies;

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chanters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,

Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what 's your praise

When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known

Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;

What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen

In form and beauty of her mind,

By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,

Tell me, if she were not design'd

Th' eclipse and glory of her kind.

Sir Henry Wotton

Joe
Providence (excerpts) by George Herbert

Of all the creatures both in sea and land
Onely to Man thou hast made known thy wayes,
And put the penne alone into his hand,
And made him Secretarie of thy praise.

…

Wherefore, most sacred Spirit, I here present
For me and all my fellows praise to thee:
And just it is that I should pay the rent,
Because the benefit accrues to me.

...

Bees work for man; and yet they never bruise
Their master’s flower, but leave it, having done,
As fair as ever, and as fit to use;
So both the flower doth stay, and honey run.

Sheep eat the grass, and dung the ground for more:
Trees after bearing drop their leaves for soil:
Springs vent their stream, and by expense get store:
Clouds cool by heat, and baths by cooling boil.

…

Sometimes thou dost divide thy gifts to man,
Sometimes unite. The Indian nut alone
Is clothing, meat and trencher, drink and kan,
Boat, cable, sail and needle, all in one.

…

Each thing that is, although in use and name
It go for one, hath many wayes in store
To honour thee; and so each hymne thy fame
Extolleth many wayes, yet this one more.

Bitter-sweet (shortest of Herbert's poems)

AH my deare angrie Lord,

Since thou dost love, yet strike;

Cast down, yet help afford;

Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise;

I will bewail, approve:

And all my sowre-sweet dayes

I will lament, and love.

 

Lost by Vikram Seth (modeled after 'Paradise' by Herbert)

Lost in a world of dust and spray,

We turn, we learn, we twist, we pray

For word or tune or touch or ray:

Some tune of hope, some word of grace,

Some ray of joy to guide our race,

Some touch of love to deuce our ace.

In vain the ace seeks out its twin.

The race is long, too short to win.

The tune is out, the word not in.

Our limbs, our hearts turn all to stone.

Our spring, our step lose aim and tone.

We are no more – and less than one.

There is no soul in which to blend,

No life to leave, no light to lend,

No shape, no chance, no drift, no end.

(written in monosyllables, in keeping with the spirit of simplicity in Herbert)

Easter Wings (shaped poem; imp = verb, to graft) by George Herbert

Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store,
            Though foolishly he lost the same,
                Decaying more and more,
                         Till he became
                             Most poore:
                             With Thee
                         O let me rise,
                 As larks, harmoniously,
             And sing this day Thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne;
            And still with sicknesses and shame
                Thou didst so punish sinne,
                         That I became
                             Most thinne.
                             With Thee
                         Let me combine,
                And feel this day Thy victorie;
            For, if I imp my wing on Thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Mathew 
To my son

You will realize this wisdom,

When you are my age, and experience,

Gained from being in vexing situations,

Yet, being out of it. You do the same,

There is a joy in detachment,

Forsaking instant pleasures, pains,

For things deeper and enduring.

Don’t be a slave to the work,

Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles,

Instead explore the works of men,

Who have experienced the truths,

And distilled in their words, wisdoms,

Which may grate your ears now.

Like me, don’t be prey to sudden,

Rushes of anger that comes over cables,

And with emails and posts demolish,

Without thinking of consequences -

I have done that and am living to regret.

Don’t drink bottled and sealed lifestyles,

Its sugar, water and carbon dioxide,

Will dither you, disorient you, and sap you,

And don’t eat fast food with loose change,

They will suck you into their assembly line.

Lastly do not try to see with closed eyes,

And hear with deaf ears, keep them open.

The music and rhythm can corrupt,

And make sinning seem so tempting.

The age of innocence, son, is gone,

Every man is a mercenary army.

If you follow this advise, son,

When you are mature and wise as me,

You will say, one day, “Thank you Papa,

For your words of advice, wisdom,

To my children, too, I will pass this wisdom.”

(John Matthew)

Delhi - A Revisitation

It’s akin to visiting my foster mother, today,

That I am returning to you, mother city, after twenty years,

I look at your broad, bereft streets, mater,

Through which emperors, prime ministers cavalcaded,

In victory and defeat, through gates and triumphal arches,

That murmur of the pains of your rape and impregnation.

The sudden shock of your poverty upsets me,

It is evident in the desperation of the cycle-rickshaw puller,

His eyes intent on the ground, standing on his pedals,

He pulls his woes, as if there is no halcyon tomorrows.

Your grimy streets are dusty, high walled, impenetrable,

As if you wish to guard the gory secrets within.

Is this where histories, dynasties were made, and fallen?

A dynasty now rules by proxy the city of the great Akbar,

And a fratricide of a potentate now fills you with awe,

When you are the city of kingly fratricides and parricides.

Remember how Dara Shukoh was marched and beheaded, by his kin

In your own street of Chandni Chowk, of not long ago?

The secrets of the present and past mingle,

Where now stand glitzy malls, I know, blood had flowed,

In your dark corners soldiers, spies, princes plotted to kill,

You witnessed stoically the dethroning of emperor Shah Jehan,

And the ascendance of his wily progeny, Aurangazeb,

As you watched, your face covered in the folds of your veil.

*Yet, now, mother city, your tears are dry, your sobs silent,

Slowly you die, spent and ravaged by your many lovers.

Though it is kitsch melodies that you hum today, you were once,

Serenaded by Tansen, and Amir Khushro Dehlavi,

In your parlor once, poets and artists did conclave,

Over the “daughter of grapes” and the smell of hafim!

Bobby 
Vers de Société by Philip Larkin

My wife and I have asked a crowd of craps

To come and waste their time and ours: perhaps

You’d care to join us? In a pig’s arse, friend.

Day comes to an end.

The gas fire breathes, the trees are darkly swayed.

And so Dear Warlock-Williams: I’m afraid—

Funny how hard it is to be alone.

I could spend half my evenings, if I wanted,

Holding a glass of washing sherry, canted

Over to catch the drivel of some bitch

Who’s read nothing but Which;

Just think of all the spare time that has flown

Straight into nothingness by being filled

With forks and faces, rather than repaid

Under a lamp, hearing the noise of wind,

And looking out to see the moon thinned

To an air-sharpened blade.

A life, and yet how sternly it’s instilled

All solitude is selfish. No one now

Believes the hermit with his gown and dish

Talking to God (who’s gone too); the big wish

Is to have people nice to you, which means

Doing it back somehow.

Virtue is social. Are, then, these routines

Playing at goodness, like going to church?

Something that bores us, something we don’t do well

(Asking that ass about his fool research)

But try to feel, because, however crudely,

It shows us what should be?

Too subtle, that. Too decent, too. Oh hell,

Only the young can be alone freely.

The time is shorter now for company,

And sitting by a lamp more often brings

Not peace, but other things.

Beyond the light stand failure and remorse

Whispering Dear Warlock-Williams: Why, of course—

Zakia

Touched by an Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage

exiles from delight

live coiled in shells of loneliness

until love leaves its high holy temple

and comes into our sight

to liberate us into life.

Love arrives

and in its train come ecstasies

old memories of pleasure

ancient histories of pain.

Yet if we are bold,

love strikes away the chains of fear

from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity

In the flush of love's light

we dare be brave

And suddenly we see

that love costs all we are

and will ever be.

Yet it is only love

which sets us free.

Maya Angelou