I’m back and still reluctant to sink into regular life. How wonderful it would be if life was a poetry festival! But then, anything permanent loses charm, I suppose. Anyway, longer posts about Poetry Africa and Kruger National Park coming up soon but in the meantime, two bits of news that made me happy as soon as I got home:
Ultra Violet has been featured in the feminist magazine make/shift. Mostly good stuff but they have said the site would benefit from a greater variety of voices, something I entirely agree with. So please, please, spread the word and ask people (men and women) to contribute with their stories, essays, poems, vignettes, whatever. No bars whatsoever. I received a copy of the magazine and it looks really good. Do consider subscribing.
Also, my poem ‘The Kitchen God’s Mistress’ has been republished in the latest issue of A cappella Zoo. (It’s been published previously in the anthology Not A Muse by Haven Books). I don’t think I’m going to send it anywhere else so here it is:
The Kitchen God’s Mistress
Did you always smell of cinnamon?
It reminded me of a long-ago kitchen.
Mustard seeds. Mutton crackle. Hot air
condensed on window mesh while I shelled peas
on stone cool enough for sleep.
I should have barred the doors
when you nuzzled in
but a weakness for spices and memory
stopped me. Besides, I glimpsed
your feet, smooth and brown, with an arch
I could fit into. The night you drowned,
I was deveining prawns and drinking beer. I thought
it would be like any other night: we’d chew
slowly, listen to the cicadas sing. Later,
they would leap indoors and crawl
under our bed where we lay side by side
in the dark, entering each other’s dreams.
I was so happy watching the kitchen
simmer in pools of light. How could I know
they would gulp you down without a ripple?
And who would have thought you’d be so
hard to pull out? You always looked so light
with your thin beard and gossamer cap.
I’ve moved and almost settled in. In other words, my Internet connection is done but not all the pictures are up and the eager gardener who bounced up to the door to ask for the job, never showed up after that. Oh well.
The good news is that my reading at the Sahitya Akademi Translators’ Meet here in Bangalore went off well — this was a three day thingie that threw poets, short story writers, novelists and translators together. There were readings and discussions and it was fascinating to hear poetry in such a multitude of languages including Sindhi, Assamese, Nepalese and Santhali. I was sort of the lone English representative at one poetry reading session, which was very intimidating because I was surrounded by people who knew more languages than me. But I finally met Tamil poet Salma, which was wonderful. We were both part of the same session and it was nice to hear her read. I can’t understand Tamil but I like its strong rhythmic sounds when someone speaks it well. Salma’s poetry draws power from its brutal honesty, its ability to look tough subjects in the face. One of her poems was called ‘Menopause’, for example, and it talked about the body, unwanted hair and all, with great frankness. Unfortunately, the person who read the English translations of her poems read them in this halting, badly enunciated way so the impact was a bit lost. I wish they would engage good readers / performers for such things instead of handing the mike to the first available person.
The other person I remember is Sindhi poet Vasudev Mohi, who read one Sindhi poem and then a couple of Hindi poems. He did not read any English translations and therefore had the advantage of retaining all the music of the original words. He also read very well, in a clear and emotive manner. Going by audience reaction, this really made a difference. Even the post-lunch snoozers at the back woke up and did the ‘wah-wah’ routine. Which goes to show how important sound and performance are in poetry. Nepali poet Jiwan Namdung was also interesting. I was faintly disappointed with some of the other poetry read — it didn’t sound much like poetry to me, too prosaic or declamatory, not musical enough certainly but also not very impressive in terms of trope or imagery. I don’t know whether this was a problem of bad poetry, poor translation, or both.
I also liked Kannada poet and writer Vaidehi’s speech for a session called ‘my writing, my world’ which was chaired by Shashi Deshpande. (They brought four women writers together and asked each of them to speak about their influences.) Vaidehi talked about a number of things to do with her childhood and what struck me most is what she said about the house in which she grew up — it had room after room in the interiors, away from the sun, all fitted with cribs. These were for the women of the house who were expected to spend most of their lives in this “baby-making factory” (Prasanna’s translation).
Anyway, I don’t have much time for proper settling in because I leave tomorrow for Poetry Africa, an annual poetry festival in Durban. I’ll be wandering Joburg and Soweto and (hopefully) watching lions in Kruger National Park before I hit Durban for a week of readings and poetry meets. Excitement. Most of the other poets are from Africa but Sunil Gangopadhyaya from India will also be there. I’m especially interested to see how they perform their poetry differently from us, given the emphasis on spoken word, slams etc that they tend to have there.
Speaking of poetry slams, Bangalore is having its first one hosted by a group called Bombay Elektrik Projekt at Bacchus F&B on Sunday, 27 Sep. That’s today. You can register for the event and perform. It starts at 7.30 pm. The Facebook event page is here. I’ll be in the audience.
And listen to Don Paterson read poems from his latest collection Rain.
Blogging will resume some time in October after I’m back. Until then, be good? Or don’t. It’s more fun that way.
The weekend was full and exciting but I’ve been a bit sick for the last two days and relaxing with Neil Gaiman (have almost finished the Sandman series), and reading poetry. Also tried to get into Stephen King’s Dark Tower series but couldn’t. I’m a fan of good horror and have enjoyed quite a few of King’s guts-and-blood fests but this one was so pale even 150 pages in that I gave up. I mean, where were the ravens slurping eyeballs? (I borrowed that image from Neil Gaiman’s The Kindly Ones, whichis really deliciously gruesome in bits).
Will blog about other things when I have more energy but in the meantime, here is Jane Hirshfield reading ‘For What Binds Us’.
Hiroshima anniversary. Bombs in general, actually. Coincidentally, I saw this production of Michael Frayn’s Copenhagen over the weekend. I liked the play (and the performance) and it took me back to poems on bombs including Yehuda Amichai’s ‘Diameter of the Bomb’ which I’ve posted earlier. Also, a few days back The Guardian featured war poetry commissioned by Carol Ann Duffy. I’ve been very upset with the poems she’s written since she became poet laureate and the one she’s contributed here didn’t do much for me either. But war poetry is very difficult to do well — the stock images just overflow so easily plus one is battling general fatigue and inurement because they’ve become common on TV news. However, I liked:
Afghanistan by Paul Muldoon
It’s getting dark, but not dark enough to see
An exit wound as an exit strategy.
In related thoughts, death and grief and so on, something in Jeanette Winterson’s column for July on her blog moved me very much:
So the book finished, I was just moving forwards, when I faced two deaths in the next 4 months: Pat Kavanagh, who had been my agent at the most formative time of my writing life, and with whom I had had a very serious affair. For me, if I love, it doesn’t stop, even if the shape changes. Love is as strong as death.
And then my father…
What a time… so if I say that I am in a good place now, and that everything has changed – both at a deep level, and on the surface… I keep remembering that the the opening line of my book Written on the Body, is ‘Why is the measure of love loss?’
At one time I could relate to the ‘love doesn’t stop’ bit, but over time, I find myself growing more cynical. Does it become easier to start and stop love once you “master the art of losing”, get used to measuring loss? There are people I can imagine loving all my life. But there are enough others who I loved desperately at one time and now feel a vast sense of fatigue and indifference towards. My mother says “what is true for a time is true for that time” — and post-loss fading should not blur or sully that truth. I lean towards this most days. I really like Winterson. I think her writing is luminous. A friend, who had the incredibly good fortune to attend a reading, tells me that she is as impressive in person. And the generosity and faith of this statement, the heart in it, lives up to all that.
I also find it amazing and very admirable when people notice and remark on beauty even when shrouded in grief. When my father died five years ago, I went into a fugue from which I took months to emerge. I don’t remember writing about a single thing, let alone about his death or the grief. Clearly, my coping mechanisms were not very evolved. I think, today, I would try to do it differently, turn more to things of beauty around me, and to writing. Because that is the best way to cope, isn’t it? To continue to do the things you love most, the things that nourish and nurture.
Winterson mentions the lunar eclipse in her column and I’ve been thinking about it too. Firstly, because I love the moon. I like putting it in poems despite being advised not to. I like reading poems about it even though it’s a face pocked with as many cliches as craters. And the actual eclipse may have been a damp squib but I’m excited anyway because Susan Miller, who is my secret vice and superstition(al) weakness tells me that it will bring me good things and make August generally fabulous. I’m not arguing with anyone who says such nice things.
And lastly, here are two poems of mine — one on war and one on the damned moon. They’ve both been published before (Mosaic, Unisun; Not A Muse, Haven Books) and will also be in my first collection City of Water, to be published by Sahitya Akademi some time soon (hopefully this year)…
Homecoming
You cried while telling me–
about the land, packed stone
under your boots, the air
dry as burnt bread, your skin
blistering like volcanic earth,
your head, a numb knob, stunned
by the monotony of the miles
and the village,
its cluster of homes
like a flock of sheep
in the open, its people
dim with terror,
and how you raped
the first woman you saw there,
how she crumpled like wet newspaper,
pounded your back with her hands
as the child in the corner
cried and cried without knowing why,
and crawled about
and knocked over the kerosene stove.
Your tea had gone cold.
I put my hand on the back
of your neck and said
everything would be okay.
I said that I understood.
But even after all these years,
when I close my eyes, hers
swim up, warm and brown,
and every time we make love,
I see her bruised hands
reach up like a prayer.
***
Moonsong
My love
shames rivals into oblivion,
obscures them
until all that is left in the sky is my orb,
its one gleaming eyeball
white as sand on foreign beaches,
hollow as dust.
You slid in
to find mountains, craters
and lava spew.
Now you are afraid
of my solitary anger,
the coiled serpent
at the base of my spine.
You are afraid
of its nameless hungers,
its slow uncurling down the length
of your body.
You are afraid
it will stalk you in dreams.
You are afraid
of my haunted face in the night,
my fragilities–
the soft space
at the base of my throat,
the fine line of my collar bone.
You are afraid they will unravel you.
You, who have spent a lifetime
simplifying yourself.
I’m still grinning about yesterday’s news that the Delhi High Court has come to its senses about Section 377, homosexuality and basic human rights. Now if only the government would actually overhaul the law. I’m also grinning because I started the month with book-buying, which is always a good way to start. Acquisitions: A Man in the Dark by Paul Auster, The Unicorn by Iris Murdoch, Delta of Venus by Anais Nin, a host of Joyce Carol Oates (The Rise of Life on Earth, The Falls, Man Crazy) and Vol 5 of the Sandman Series: A Game of You by Neil Gaiman. As I was telling a friend the other day, Neil Gaiman is my fix. His Sandman series is available in ten volumes that bring together all the comics. My plan is to buy one volume a month because I want to savour pleasure for a change instead of hurtling through it like I usually do. I was also gifted A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver. Much joy.
Oh, and today, there is a Toto Funds the Arts reading of Ram Ganesh Kamatham’s new play,Ultimate Kurukshetra, at Crossword at 6.30pm. Some well-known theatre people (Mallika Prasad, Balaji Manohar, Ajith Hande) will be reading. Apologies for the late notice–but there is a repeat performance at the Rangashankara tomorrow at 11 am. So in case you miss today’s reading, you can catch it there.
Four of my poems are in the latest issue (pdf) of Origami Condom. You’ll have to scroll down quite a bit for the poems. I’m republishing two of them here:
Desire.15.
Intensity had its failings that summer.
We clambered over cartons in the store-room,
stumbled in semi-light. Your fingers played
at ineptitude. I act like I know the impatience
of hands. I wonder if any of my friends
have done this. They attended special
classes for French, stooped
over Le Soleil, repeated verbs in monotone—
naitre, revoir, mourir—maundered later
at the arcade where boys in black leather
leaked cigarette smoke out of their mouths
while mother at the dining table
illustrated latitudes and longitudes
to a recalcitrant son, her voice taut
as sitar strings, her eyes patient as stars. I pretend interest. I pass food
from plate to mouth. The walls receded
into the shapes of your face. I wait
for the next humid or rain-stopped afternoon
when your fingers will find their way
into the right places.
***
Totem
After his hair fell out in clumps,
it skulked everywhere. On his pillow.
The back of the sofa where he leaned
his head. In the drain.
Coarse black strands like handloom cotton.
He took to rubbing his hand
across the shrubby baldness
like other people smooth beards
or lift moustache edges
with agile, self-conscious fingers.
It was more than acceptance
or coming to terms. It was almost
vanity.
His head:
its brown soft as caramel, faintly wrinkled,
totem that had watched over us for so long,
now bursting like a sack, neat tumors
jostling in there like potatoes,
bulged frailer in the lamplight every day.
Just a quick note to say that the latest issue of Nth Position is up and two of my poems, ‘Separation’ and ‘Speaking in Tongues’ are in it. Do read. I haven’t been submitting too much recently, mainly because I got busy with my first collection. So I’m glad to see these somewhere other than on my computer.
I haven’t had time to read the issue properly because the power has been gone ALL day and has just come back and I’m due to meet a friend in 20 minutes. On the upside, I got a lot of actual book reading done because I had no computer.
And yes, I know I’ve said this everywhere else but once more, Ultra Violet, the feminist site I manage, has a new home on the web. There are some changes in structure, focus, content and mood as well. Do check it out and mail me if you want to write or post something as a guest.
The next Toto Funds the Arts reading is on Friday, 5 June 2009 at 6.30 pm . The venue is Crossword Bookstore on Residency Road. Sriya Narayanan and Joshua Muyiwa will be reading. From the invitation:
Sriya Narayanan, 26, graduated from the Mudra Institute of Communications, Ahmedabad (MICA) and works in the marketing division of The Hindu, Chennai. She also writes for them part-time. She is passionate about animal welfare and volunteers with Blue Cross, while trying to raise awareness through her columns ‘Four Legs Good’ and ‘Pet Pals’. She plays the violin and performed at her first classical music concert last month. Sriya writes slice-of-life fiction and blank verse, and tries to keep at it despite the steady flow of generic rejection letters.
Joshua Muyiwa, 23, started writing because he was told, ‘it is time to stop seeming arty and pretentious and actually earn the tags by doing something’. He is queer: in writing because line breaks, strophes and rhyming are strangers to him, in eating because he likes tomato sauce with coconut chutney, jam with spicy boondi. If he’s not at Koshy’s attempting to read poems over the quavering voice of Whitney Houston or smoking and discussing Alexander McQueen like he was his brother on the steps near Arya Bhavan, he’s at Jal Bhavan, Bannerghatta Road working as a dance writer at TimeOut Bengaluru.
Over at The Guardian, they’ve started a new series of collaborations between poets and photographers. Poems and photographs being among my favourite things, I was quite excited. But gah. I think the poem might work okay on its own but the photographs are so hopelessly literal, so dull, that they sucked all joy out of the thing. Here’s another poem by Sarah Maguire (the poet); it’s got the same attention to detail, the same sense of looking at small objects through a telephoto lens, and a similar sort of poofy ending.
***
I prefer my poetry a little stronger, more bourbon than Bailey’s Irish Cream. Like this Sharon Olds reading of her poem ‘I Go Back to May, 1937′.
***
Or Sonia Sanchez reading ‘Poem for Some Women’, startling and very, very sad. (Incidentally, Sanchez just won the Robert Creely Award.)
Anyway, I don’t have much time for proper settling in because I leave tomorrow for 
