Saturday, 29 December 2012

sunset at Pratapgarh fort

the lone bird streaked across the sky,
the last desperate fling of a tamed sun
sinking slowly from the scene of struggle,
behind the mountains.
beyond the horizon
Pratapgarh glowed in a strange hue
its open wounds and battle scars
bathed in the red and yellow glory
defying the sun to try again.

I worried about the objective correlative
when you took my hand in yours
and then I understood.

(I am sentimental about this verse written in Mahabaleshwar in early 1972.)



On the Controversial death of Ernest Hemingway

(I like this poem written by me in late 1975.)

he said
man can be destroyed
but not defeated

and when he grew old
when words and even thew world
became to him very cold
still he went to sea
and don't you remember 
how he brought back the bone

i wonder
was it the same old man
who put the gun in his mouth
and shattered himself to death

that gun
is trying to tell me something

may be destruction implies defeat
but does death -
i mean this kind of death
- imply destruction

Thursday, 16 August 2012

Shelley's Cloud

17 August 2012

I wrote this for an assignment in college. My love for Shelley was more than what it seems from these juvenile essay! This was written in 1966 and I found the crumbling papers inside an old notebook a few days ago.

SHELLEY'S CLOUD

Introduction 

"The Cloud" is a romance of the sky which gives a new significance to a natural phenomenon. It is not mere fantasy; it is fact emotionally apprehended by the poet and rendered into music. It is one of the finest lyrics in English. In its perfect fusion of the object with the spirit of the observer, this poem has scarcely an equal. Long had Shelley taken imaginative and dreamy notice of the clouds; he had watched their changes and disappearances until their life had entered into harmony with his. Hence it is natural and not an artifice that the cloud speaks in his verse. To him the Cloud is one of the fugitive forms of the spirit of beauty ever disappearing from our gaze and returning to enchant us in a more wonderful birth. This is the idea elaborated in the poem with the rare poetic excellence of that effectual (if I may contradict Mathew Arnold) angel, Shelley.

Matter

The Cloud gives vivid pictures of its changing forms. It serves nature by bringing showers to the thirsty flowers. The swaying plants find protection under the shade provided by the Cloud. It covers the earth with white hail and finds pleasure in washing it away with its own shower. In such joyous moods, it laughs in peals of thunder. The Cloud sleeps on the top of the mountain peaks covered with snow. Lightnong is the pilot of the sky. The pilot disappears with the rainfall and the Cloud basks in the glorious light of the blue sky. The rising sun with its blood red colour makes the Cloud look all the more beautiful. At sunset, the Cloud sits like dove brooding with folded wings. It provides a fleecy floor for the moon to walk on. Across the sky it hangs like a bridge supported by the mountains. It marches triumphantly through the rainbow as if it is a conqueror. Though the shapes and forms of the Cloud change like this, the spirit remains unchanged. Of course, it disappears into the ocean and shores as water. But it rises again silently like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb and occupies, once again, its place in the clear blue sky.

Imagery

In "The Cloud", the imagery does not ornament or illustrate or overlay the theme. It is an inseparable part of the theme. It is the theme. Its richness and delicacy, its airy diaphanous texture and glancing sheen carry the who;e quality of the poem in themselves. It is often alleged that Shelley's style is not boldly graphic. It is true. Shelley is not a photographer, but a master painter. what we see in the Cloud are pictures, half painted, half suggested, and of an indescribable witchery of effect. Shelley's fine sense of the tenderness of colours is seen in this poem. Some of his colour effects in "The Cloud" stand quite apart - alone in their great beauty.

Music

Shelley stands alone among the singers of the ages. In "The Cloud" we are thrilled by the music, which he " swept from the wild harp of time". Here is that penetrating music, which has a power like the very mountain- voice, to shake the soul. the internal rhyming and alliterative systems brought about with an effortless ease, spring in a spontaneous strain of soaring music from  the poet's heart. Even the choice of words and sounds constitute the ethereal beauty and the quintessential music of his verse.

Shelley's personality

Of none of the English poets can it be more truly said that his life and work are at one than of Shelley,. Shelley lived his poetry. If it was wild, passionate, defiant and utterly impractical, so was he too. When we read "The Cloud", we realise that  the Cloud is but a ghost of Shelley himself. The Cloud has an individuality as he himself has; it dies as he does; but their spirits remain immortal.

Philosophy

Shelley's idea is not the crude nature worship of the savage nor the sublime pantheism of Wordsworth. He had an imaginative insight into nature as a world of events and processes. His imagination comes to life before the great cycles of interaction between sea, land and air. It is a gift such as might start with the insight of science, but in Shelley it has become that of an artist. This is why we find a real sense of the passage in "The Cloud", behind the concrete and emphatic structure of facts on the surface.

More bad verse!

16 August 2012

More bad verse!

These three pieces were written in October 1973.

The Absurd

Essence
Existence
and the absurdity
in between.
If zero
is nothing 
what then 
is infinity.
To live
and not
to know
is not to live.
Let me
live and
commit suicide
but not murder.

(22 October 1973)

Promises to Keep

My past is strewn with memories glum
Cigarette butts and chewing gum...

I want to stop here and now
and vanish wondering why and how...

Yet I must let my memories fade
And keep promises I never made...

The road ahead is dark and steep
But I have promises to keep....

(23 October 1973)

The Second Law of Thermodynamics

Knowledge isn't bad by itself
       But its application can be.
Science isn't bad by itself
       But these scientists can be.
Applied Maths can't kill you
        But A- Bomb can and will.
Oppenheimer died a natural death
         But the Hiroshima children
And the Nagasaki Grandchildren
        Died and will die most unnaturally.

If you want to perform useful work
        You need to get your ass off the ground,
Yet getting it off the ground may not
        Always lead to useful work.
Is that the second law of thermodynamics?
        It sure is a fact of life.

(circa November 1973)

Verse and worse!

16th August 2012

My new year resolution of writing 500 words everyday before lunch has gone the same way as so many other resolutions in the past. I am 63 years old (or young) today and there are fewer tomorrows than there were yesterdays in my life. I wish to make one more attempt to revive the resolution. I begin by recording all the bad poetry (?) that I wrote when I was in school and college almost 50 years ago. One day this will tell my grand children - I am still hoping my son would get married - that their grand father's prose was not as bad his verse!

Poems written before 1968

Mad Man

You tell me that I am mad.
I don't believe it.
I laugh at you because you are the one that is mad,
Not I;
Certainly not.

I threw a stone at you.
You call me mad.
Let's be reasonable.
You know you deserve that stone,
Yes, You do.

You deserve something worse
For what you did the other day.
I judged you correct.
Who's mad?
You're the one.

Great Artist

In the artless grace of a child,
In the innocent smile of a girl,
I see the skill of the Great Artist!

In the witchery of a woman's eyes,
In the purity of a mother's heart,
I see the craft of the Great Artist!


Sea, Space and She

Sea roared at Man - and
He conquered the Sea.

Space yawned at Man - and
He conquered the Space.

She smiled at Man - and
She conquered Him.

New Year (a la Omar Khayyam)

Morning in the bowl of night 
Has flung the Stone that 
Sends the stars in flight.
Awake! The new year's here!

Swim with the flood of nature
Cherishing memories of the past
Towards a brilliant future!
Arise! the new year's here!

Space 
(I have forgotten what this is about!)

Space!
Yawning Space!
Dark and Deep Space!
Thou vast and wide Emptiness!
Is there a meaning in your breadth?
Is there a message in your width?

There was a meaning in human life,
There was a purpose to human endeavour,
Before Man turned his face
Towards you, bitter, bleak Space!

Human life now is as empty as you,
erratic and without any meaning.
Close your big dirty mouth and
Gobble us up or
Give us Peace!




Monday, 13 February 2012

14 February 2012


Tomorrow has come almost a month later. I am too lazy even for the five hundred words before lunch dictum for lazy writers. This morning I pounded away on my laptop to come up with this fragment from the past and then discovered that today is "Valentine's Day". It is an odd memory to come up on Valentine's Day, may be something more romantic would come up tomorrow.


Miss Bala Baskar and the Deputy Commissioner

The year was 1976. We were about to finish our first phase of training in the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration, Mussoorie, and were greatly excited about moving to the towns where we would get our district training. With great enthusiasm, I wrote to the Deputy Commissioner of Hisar District to inform him that I was looking forward to learning the ropes of administration under his able guidance. I was thrilled to receive a prompt reply from the Deputy Commissioner within a few days. Alas, the thrill lasted only till I opened the envelope and found that it was addressed to: “Dear Miss Bala”. The Deputy Commissioner was equally keen to have me undergo training in his district and had assured Government accommodation for my stay. He wanted my travel plans, so that he would have someone to receive me. At first, I felt sorry for the middle aged codger, who must have been fantasising about training a pretty young “Miss Bala” for a year under his tutelage. Then I worried about my fate after it is discovered that Miss Bala is just the opposite of what the man imagined.
It took a few days before I decided to write back to the Collector to inform him about my travel plans and when I would reach Hisar for my training. I added an explanation that in South India, Bala is usually a suffix for women. Men, like me, prefix Bala to their names. There was neither a reply nor was anybody there to receive me when I landed on a hot April afternoon in, what I thought was a dirty and dry, Hisar. I took a cycle rickshaw to the Deputy Commissioner’s office where a genial Raj Pal Singh, the General Assistant to the Deputy Commissioner received me with warmth and sent me off to my quarters in his jeep.
The next morning I presented myself to the Deputy Commissioner in his office. There was no talk about South Indian naming practices, especially for women. The Boss was aloof and asked me to take the training seriously. I thought he was attempting a smile but was worried when his expression turned to a definitive scowl as he let out a loud fart. The gods were on my side and I managed to keep the grin off my face till I left his august presence after not listening to his ten minute lecture on what I should do.

The very same day I wrote this Fart Poem in Tribute to my new Boss:

Epistemelogs
are serious people
who do not smile
while discussing
the question
of their existence.
Listen:
the epistemelog
said ‘I am sorry’
when he farted
in company
while he shoulda said

“I fart,
therefore I am” 


Sunday, 15 January 2012

Learning to Write

Learning to write

All my life, I have been wanting to be a writer. All I managed to write was long notes on files and short letters in my official capacity. Apart from a few pieces of bad poetry, a couple of satisfactory - to me that is - essays and three short stories, which even I do not want to read again, I have had a dismal output. Like a dear friend put it, my muse has been speaking to me in Chinese all this time. Then I discovered "Blogging". I shall start beating my wings regularly in the blogging void in the hope of taking off one day.

Tolerate my boring stories and bad poetry in the beginning. If I get worse, I shall quit myself. For the time being, I am attempting to write for myself and not for anyone else. A few days back, my wife and I went for a  performance of Alarmel Valli. She is among the best exponents of Bharatnatyam and surely she was great to watch. I, who is ignorant of the finer points of the natya shastra, chose to comment on the performance. I had seen her perform fifteen years ago and was completely smitten. Seeing her perform now, I thought I could see a difference. Now she appeared to be performing for the audience just as she appeared to be oblivious of the audience fifteen years ago. I said she was dancing for herself earlier and now for us. My wife asked me to explain what I meant. I tried to say it in different words, but was not able to. Learning to write may help explain things to myself and others in different words. Hopefully.

Shall come back tomorrow!