Poetry, sedition and Old promise…

In an earlier post, I had promised to bring some translations of work by Ibn-e-Insha. I begin that task today… heres my translation of his ghazal- “Khamosh raho“ 

This is not a time to say anything, don’t say anything- stay quiet

O! people stay quiet, O! people stay quiet

 

Truth is good, but in its roots lies a bowl of poison too

Are you mad?! Don’t be a Socrates for nothing, stay quiet!

 

Truth is good but better if someone else dies for it

Are you mansoor that you’ll go to the gallows? Stay quiet!

 

They say that the sun revolves round the sun

We agree, let the sun revolve, stay quiet!

 

Fear lurks in the gathering and the chains pierce

Think again! Yes, think again!  Yes, think again! Stay quiet!

 

Warm tears and cold sighs, the seasons felt in this heart!

Don’t open the secrets of this garden, take a walk, stay quiet!

 

Sit on the side having closed my eyes and keep closed the doors of my heart

Insha ji take this thread and stitch your lips, stay quiet!

I had contributed the original ghazal, along with another couple of poems for a campaign demanding release of an independent film maker Ajay TG who has been arrested in Chhattisgarh on charges of sedition under Sec 124 A of the IPC and the Chattisgarh Special Public Security Act. CSPSA assumes guilt by association and criminalises even political belief. Under this act ‘any contact’ with a banned organisation becomes a criminal offence. Ajay has been arrested because allegedly he wrote a letter to Maoistsin Chhattisgarh requesting them to return his camera which they had snatched from him while Ajay was accompanying a team of PUCL in Bastar in 2004!

To know more about Ajay and the campaign to release him click here  

Following is my English translation of Jo kuchh dekha-suna, samjha, likh liya- by Nirmala Putul a santhali poet (from Hindi translation by Ashok Sinha).

You have words, arguments, intelligence
Entire system is at your disposal
You can falsify truth by retelling it again and again
You can write me off completely in just one pronouncement

 

What eyes have seen
You can prove wrong
I realise…

 

But don’t forget
those who call truth-“truth”
And falsehood-  

“false” with all their might

haven’t been totally wiped out.

More on Insha later… promise!

 

 

 

More Poems About Poetry

Some more meta-poems… the first is by one of my favourites- Alice Walker. She speaks in this poem of her conversation with muse, during which she describes the creation of poetry as a painful, near death experience before poetry arrives in the garb of “wierd light”. She recounts ways in which poetry talks to poets. Once the muse arrives it nags and nags till the poem is done.

The second meta poem of this post is a short and sweet feminist poem by a poet called Tess Gallagher. This is the first time I have read anything by her but the poem really touched my heart. It reminded me of things I learnt from my mother without actually ever being taught and the eerie similarity between her and me even though she died when I was just an adolescent. The poem also spoke to me because so many times I promise myself to get back to the poem while I immerse myself in this or that mindless chore and a little girl stands next to me too watching me do it all.

And the final one by a master- Dylan Thomas. This poem is sort of a pure meta poem but beautiful nevertheless.

I Said to Poetry

I said to Poetry: “I’m finished
with you.”
Having to almost die
before some wierd light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
“No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
I’m out for good times–
at the very least,
some painless convention.”

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn’t sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: “You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you have an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?”
I said: “I didn’t hear that.
Besides, it’s five o’clock in the a.m.
I’m not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you.”

Poetry said: “But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked so much better
than the grand one–and how surprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with

Think of that!”

“I’ll join the church!” I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
“I’ll learn how to pray again!”

“Let me ask you,” said Poetry.
“When you pray, what do you think
you’ll see?”

Poetry had me.

“There’s no paper
in this room,” I said.
“And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise.”

“Bullshit,” said Poetry.
“Bullshit,” said I.

By Alice Walker

——————————————————–

Stop Writing the Poem

to fold the clothes. No matter who lives
or who dies, I’m still a woman.
I’ll always have plenty to do.
I bring the arms of his shirt
together. Nothing can stop
our tenderness. I’ll get back
to the poem. I’ll get back to being
a woman. But for now
there’s a shirt, a giant shirt
in my hands, and somewhere a small girl
standing next to her mother
watching to see how it’s done. by Tess Gallagher

——————————————————————-

 

Notes on the Art of Poetry

I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.

by Dylan Thomas

 

 

 

 

Sounds of Resistance and Freedom

 

 

(*My article that has previously appeared in the 2007 issue of “Our Diary”, brought out by a civil society group- “Kriti” in Delhi .)

 

We come across language mostly as sound- words spoken or sung and then heard. The sounds carry with them implied meanings. We can load the simplest of words with meaning beyond the literal one. We can choose the shape of our words with varying degrees of freedom. Words become a song when this freedom is exercised to its fullest potential. Music is, perhaps, the most malleable of all media of human expression. It always finds a form that’s just right for the message- gentle or ironic, grim or humorous, powerful or subtle, straightforward or a little roundabout, appropriate or offensive.  The reach of a song is far wider than other forms of expression - the deepest of messages have been known to be set to simplest of tunes.

 

On the other hand singing words set to music enables us to step back from the immediacy of the words as communication and to make it an aesthetic object. Singing becomes an act of contemplation and of celebration of words simultaneously. It not only conveys the meaning of the words but also adds to the meaning something that words fail to express.

 

In a song people may express their political or spiritual beliefs, tell a story, history, or just provide amusement. People also sing about their ethnic character or social, political, economic situations. Singing always seems to help when the going is tough, when the task is uphill, when we feel afraid and unsupported. People sing and call each other to action and to express solidarity in resisting oppression. People sing together to kindle the torch of passions in each others’ heart and light the way to see some hope.

 

Just as singing is celebration of words, singing together is celebration of humanity.

 

Songs and singing together are an integral part of protest or social change movements. Songs that are sung in movements are work songs of peasants and artisans, prison songs, anti-war songs, songs for freedom and equality, spiritual songs, songs for children and for communal harmony, songs about life and humanity, protests and resistance songs and songs just for celebration, dance and enjoyment. They contain love, hope, pain, resolve, resilience and revolt.

 

Songs and music attract people and have the capacity to become the most important tool for mobilization in movements. The lyrics explain complex, interconnected and multilayered issues and put things across simply. This helps people join in and/or relate with the cause. This is also how movements reach out to the larger audience on the fringes or outside movements with the message of change and equality

 

To sing these songs you don’t need to be trained or even talented singers, just a lot of passion will. No instruments are required really, clapping along is perfect or may be a dhapli. Like folk songs they are learnt by people from people, by movements from other movements, from place to place, and from generation to generation. And like folk songs, movement songs too, keep changing (words and tunes) and evolving over time, spontaneously as well as deliberately. At times portions of one song are sung with another song (for example verses from ‘ho gayee hai peer parwat si’ are sung with ‘sau mein sattar aadmi’).

  

Traditional folk songs themselves form one whole part of the protest and movement songs. They are mostly sung in groups concerned with conservationist values like adivasi or environmental movements. Some religious or spiritual songs also belong to the same category. ‘Ma Rewa Tharo Pani Nirmal‘ sung with fervour in NBA, is essentially an age old bhajan in praise of river Narmada with description of belief in its holy character. Many songs from the Sufi and Bhakti traditions are also very popular in movement groups because of irreverent attitude towards religious orthodoxy and lyrics that uphold love for humanity.

 

Many protest songs also invoke religious imagery to drive a point home though the message is not of religious nature, and in fact may be making an ironic reference to it. Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s ‘Hum Dekhenge’ uses the Islamic imagery of the Day of Judgement though it is talking of the day when interests of the working class shall reign supreme. Similarly, Bhupen Hazarika’s ‘Vistar Hai Apar’ invokes the belief in the River Ganga’s holy nature and cleansing powers to paint a picture of misery of the masses in our country  and unjust conditions they are forced to live in.

 

So religion becomes some sort of secret code and provides the poet with a tool to cut straight to the core of the issue without being overtly political about it (and hence soften the blow?). Poetry becomes a vehicle that’s capable of bridging the separation of private and public, cultural and political. This many a times makes for very powerful poetry full of rawness, pain and gore of people’s politics like that of Paash but on some occasions comes up with words of great beauty and poetic merit as in case of Faiz.

 

Thus, poetry/songs/music or to use a wider term ‘culture’ stations itself as a site of significant political resistance.

 

Women’s movement in particular has employed cultural action in a much more imaginative way than any other movement and therefore (?… among other reasons…) has had a tremendous impact on more aspects of daily lives of many more people than any other movement has had. Folk songs have played a crucial part in this regard. Singing has been available to women for centuries as an act of resistance or defiance of suffocating social norms restricting women’s expression. Gaaree sung at weddings in Bundelkhand, and other parts of eastern UP and Bihar are a case in point. These are songs full of swear words, insults and expletives sung by the women of the bride’s family abusing relatives of the groom and vice-versa. But even for more usual protest songs of the women’s movements, the folk form- beats, tunes and repetitive lyrics have been employed very frequently.

 

Music/Songs are the way artists- poets, songwriters, singers and musicians associate with movements and express solidarity. The sixties in America, in the backdrop of students’ movement against Vietnam war and Civil Rights Movement, saw an upsurge of popularity of protest music and gave us many great singer-lyricists (Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Pete Seeger) and classic songs (Times They Are A-Changin’, We Shall Overcome). These singers and their songs reached the height of popularity in a very mainstream sense. In more recent times with the backdrop changed to America’s ‘War Against Terrorism’, many mainstream pop and hip-hop singers released anti-war and anti-Bush singles but these had to be released in most cases, embedded in albums otherwise full of non-political fluff.

 

In India, mainstream popular music largely means songs from bollywood films. Hindi film songs that can be categorised with protest music have been few and far between. Very few songs from the mainstream cinema which had content of clearly or vaguely political nature have gone on to become popular hits. And anything by way of political has more often than not carried nationalistic sentiments. Only a handful of songs dared to go against this tide. ‘Chino Arab Hamara’ from Raj Kapoor starrer Phir Subha Hogi, and ‘Jinhe naaz hai hind par’ in Guru Dutt’s Pyasa are a few defiant examples which raised very pertinent and uncomfortable questions. A more contemporary ‘Yeh Taara Woh Tara’ in Swades raises the issue of caste discrimination but prefers to play it safe and stops short to look at the issue only from unity-in-diversity perspective.

 

Many mainstream musicians perform in aid of NGOs and causes- in solidarity and/or to raise funds but most such activity is restricted to areas and issues where there is no confrontation with the state and/or corporations. Also, the music played at these performances is not protest music. These performances posing as cultural action often end up being acts of patriarchal charity. 

 

And then there are those who are not mainstream- singing group of students in universities, groups associated with movements and development NGOs, individuals associated with one or more movements/causes like revolutionary balladeer from Andhra Pradesh- Ghadar. Susmit Bose sings songs from a relatively new genre- Urban Folk. Classical singers Madan Mohan and Shubha Mudgal (who also ventures in the Indi-pop genre occasionally) sing a repertoire of protest songs too, in some settings. Fusion band Indian Ocean is famous for playing and playing with protest and folk songs. Crowds of youth swaying to ‘hille le jhakjhor’ at Indian Ocean concerts disprove notions that there are no takers for protest music anymore in the world over or that it appeals only to the already ‘converted’.

 

Whether it is a marginal or mainstream genre of music doesn’t seem to bother protest music much. It plays on full of passion and vigour that befits songs of resistance and freedom.

Amrita Pritam

 

I’ve lived all my life in Delhi and the stereotype of brash, loud, uncultured ‘panju’ is all too familiar but so untrue, like all good stereotypes,  as my current fling with Punjabi poets has shown me. Why do I feel such affinity with Punjabi poets? Probably it’s the proximity of Punjabi to Urdu- idioms and metaphors.

I recently discovered Amrita Pritam’s poetry… I had read a lot about her especially when she passed away in October 2005. And then her poem Chup Ki Saazish struck a chord. Here goes… with my translation…

Chup Ki Saazish

 

raat oongh rahi hai…

kisi ne insaan ki

chhati mein sendh lagaai hai

har chori se bhayanak

yeh sapnon ki chori hai.

 

choron ke nishaan-

har desh ke har sheher ki

har sadak par baithe hein

par koi aankh dekhti nahin,

na chaunkti hai.

sirf ek kutte ki tarah

ek zanjeer se bandhi

kisi waqt kisi ki

koi nazm bhaunkti hai.

 

Conspiracy Of Silence

 

The night is dozing…

from a human being’s chest

someone is trying to steal

scarier than any theft

is the theft of dreams.

 

Signs of thieves-

sit on each road of

each city of each country

but no eye sees

nor does it get startled.

Like only a dog

tied with a chain

at times, it barks

a poem of someone.

 

I read a poet by completely immersing myself in their poetry for a few days. Reading, re-reading, soaking myself in their idioms, nuances of language, recurrent and hence favourite metaphors of the poet till I think I have deciphered them for myself as well as I have the capacity to. I noticed while reading Amrita that most women poets have a tendency to use the body metaphor all too often. I feel that women poets like other women give a disproportionate space and importance in their lives to men/relationships, so much so that their creative energies also tend to get entangled in them all the time. Sex/ body/ garments imagery in poetry is an expression of the reality of most women- the discontent of not having a say or control in relationships especially over the ‘use’ of one’s body. So even when their poetry is an act of defiance against the societal restraint on women’s voice, its metaphors stem from their overwhelming preoccupation with these images. Is this avoidable? Should a woman poet wish to avoid it, what kind of poetry would she then make? Has it been already done-creation of women’s poetry with new metaphors?

 

 I’ve translated below a series of Amrita Pritam’s poems in which she uses the same metaphor but makes quite powerful poetry with subtle subversive, feminist undertones.

 

Amrita Pritam’s life was full of unconventional and defiant choices.  It takes an exceptional person to tread on the path many dread to. Amrita asked for a divorce after 25 years of marriage, openly declared her love for Sahir Ludhyanvi and stayed in a live-in relationship with Imroz for over 40 years till her death.  She was born in a devout Sikh family and her first poems were paean to Sikh gurus but after partition cut her hair short and took to smoking heavily. 

 

Khushwant Singh, who claims that he was closest to Amrita than anyone else besides her partner Imroz and her children, also claims that, “Amrita was not a highly educated woman, not exposed to good writing in languages other than Punjabi. Nor sophisticated enough to add new dimensions to her own.” He tells us that Amrita was not interested in politics. (Amrita Pritam: Queen of Punjabi Literature by Khushwant Singh in The Tribune, Nov. 12, 2005)

 

Read Amrita and decide for yourself.  

 

Aadi Rachna

 

mein- ek nirakar mein thi

 

yeh mein ka sankalp tha

jo pani ka roop bana

aur too ka sankalp tha

jo aag ki tarah numaya hua

aur aag ka jalwa

paani par chalne laga

par weh

pura-aitihasik samay ki baat hai

 

yeh mein ki mitti ki pyas thi

ke usne too ka darya pi liya

yeh mein ki mitti ka hara sapna

ke too ka jangal usne khoj liya

yeh mein ki maati ki gandh thi

aur too ke ambar ka ishq tha

ke too ka neela-sa sapna

mitti ki sej par soys

yeh tere aur mere maas ki sugandh thi

aur yahi haqiqat ki aadi rachna thi

 

sansar ki rachna to bahut baad ki baat hai

 

First Creation

I – there was a formless me.

 

This was the pledge of I

which took the form of water

and the pledge of you

which came into existence like fire

and the radiance of fire

started working on water

but that is about prehistoric times…

 

This was the thirst of the soil of I

that drank up the river of you

this was the green dream of the soil of I

that found the jungle of you.

this was the earthen smell of I

and the passion of the sky of you

that the blueish dream of you

slept on the bed of earth.

This was the smell of my flesh and yours

and this was really the first creation.

 

Creation of the world

is much later than that

 

Aadi Pustak

 

mein thi- aur shayad too bhi…

shayad ek saans ke faasle par khada

shayad ek nazar ke andhere pe baitha

shayad ehsaas ke ek mod par chal raha

par weh

pura-aitihasik samay ki baat hai

 

yeh mera aur tera astitva tha

jo dunya ki aadi bhasha bana

mein ki pehchaan ke akshar bane

aur unhone

aadi bhasha ki aadi pustak likhi

 

yeh mera aur tera milan tha

ham patthar ki sej pe soye

aur tere aankein, honth, ungliyan, por

mere aur tere badan ke akshar bane

aur unhone

us aadi pustak ka anuvaad kiya

 

rigved ki rachna

to bahut baad ki baat hai

 

First book

 

I was – and maybe you too…

Maybe standing at a breath’s distance

maybe sitting at the darkness of a look

maybe walking at the turn of feelings.

But that is

about prehistoric times…

 

It was my existence and yours

which became the first language of the world

letters crafted for recognizing I

letters were crafted for recognizing you

and they

wrote the first book in the first language.

 

This was the union of me and you

we slept on the bed of stones

and eyes, lips, fingers, tips

letters were formed from your body and mine

and they translated the first book.

 

Creation of Rig-Veda

is much after that…

 

 

Aadi Chitr

 

mein thi- aur shayad tu bhi…

 

mein ki chaanv ke bhitar thirakti si chhaya

aur too bhi shayad ek khaaki saa saya

andheron ke bhitar andheron ke tukde

par weh

pura-aitihasik samay ki baat hai

 

raaton aur pedon ka andhera tha

jo teri aur meri poshak thi,

ek sooraj ki kiran aai

veh dono ke badan mein se guzri

aur pare patthar par ankit ho gaee

sirf ango ki golai thi

chandni ki nokein

yeh duniya ka aadi chitr tha

patton ne hara rang bhara

baadlon ne doodhiya, ambar ne saleti

aur phoolon ne laal, peela, kasni

 

chitron ki kala to bahut baad ki baat hai…

 

First Picture

I was and maybe you too…

I a flickering shadow inside shade

and maybe you an ashen shadow too

pieces of dark inside darknesses

but that’s about prehistoric times…

 

There was darkness of nights and trees

which was your attire and mine,

a ray of sun came

it passed through both our bodies

and made an imprint on a stone a bit away.

There was only the curve of body parts,

moonlights’ sharp ends

this was the first picture of the world,

leaves filled in green colour

clouds-milky, sky-grey

and flowers- red, yellow, .

 

The art of pictures

is much after that…

 

 

Aadi Sangeet

 

mein thi- aur shayad too bhi…

 

ek aseem khamoshi thi

jo sookhe patton ki tarah jharti

ya yoon hi kinaron ki ret ki tarah ghulti

par weh

pura-aitihasik samay ki baat hai…

 

mein ne tujhe ek mod par aawaaz di

aur jab toone palat kar aawaz di

to hawaon ke gale mein kuchh thartharaya

mitti ke kan kuchh sarsaraye

aur nadi ka paani kuchh gungunaya

ped ki tehniyaan kuchh kas si gaeen

patton mein se ek jhankar uthi

phoolon ki konpal ne aankh jhapkai

aur ek chidiya ke pankh hile

yeh pehla naad tha

jo kaanon ne suna tha

 

sapt suron ki sngya

to bahut baad ki baat hai…

 

First Music

I was- and maybe you too…

There was unlimited silence

which would shed like dry leaves

or just slip away like sand on banks

but that’s

about the prehistoric times…

 

I called out to you at a bend

and when you called out back

something shivered in the winds’ throats

specks of dirt rustled a bit

and the river water hummed something,

branches of the tree tightened a little

a tinkle rose from the leaves

shoots of flowers blinked their eyes

and the wings of birds flapped

this was the first sound

that was heard by ears.

 

The name of the octave

was much later than that…

 

 

Aadi Dharm

 

meine jab too ko pehna

to dono ke badan antardhyan the

ang phoolon ki tarah goonthe gaye

aur rooh ki dargaah par

arpit ho gaye…

 

too aur mein havan ki agni

too aur mein sugandhit saamagri

ek doosre ka naam hotontho se nikla

to wahi naam pooja ke mantra the,

yeh tere aur mere

astitva ka ek yagya tha

dharm karm ki katha

to bahut baad ki baat hai…

 

First Religion

 

When I wore you

the bodies of both were in a trance

body parts got woven together like flowers in a garland

and on the grave of spirit

were offered…

 

You and I fire of sacred service

You and I scented offerings

lips uttered each other’s name

so those names were the chants of a prayer,

this was the sacrament of

existence of you and me

stories of religion and karma

is much after that…

 

 

Aadi Qabila

 

mein ki jab rut gadraai thi

maans ke paudhe par baur aaya tha

pawan ke aanchal mein mehek bandh gayee

too ka akshar lehlahaya tha

mein aur too ki chhanv mein

jan ‘veh’ aa kar nishchint so gaya

yeh ‘veh’ ka ek moh tha

genhu ka dana ham ne baant liya

‘veh’ sehej tha, swabhaavik tha,

mein ki aur too ki tripti

 

qabilon ki katha

to bahut baad ki baat hai…

 

First Tribe

 

When the season of I matured

the plant of flesh started flowering

fragrance tied on the flowing scarf of breeze

the letter of you danced

 

In the shade of ‘I’ and you

when ‘He’ came and slept without any worries

it was the love of ‘He’

both of us divided the grain of wheat

‘He’ was easy, natural,

satiation of I and of you

 

The story of tribes

is much later than that…

 

 

Aaadi Smriti

 

kaya ki haqeeqat se lekar-

kaya ki aabroo tak mein thi,

kaya ke husn se lekar-

kaya ke isq tak too tha

 

ueh mein akshar ka ilm tha

jisne mein ko ikhlaq diya

yeh tu akshar ka jashn tha

jishne ‘veh’ ko pehchaan liya,

bheymukt mein ki hasti

aur bheymukt too ki, ‘veh’ ki

manu ki smriti

to bahut baad ki baat hai…

 

First Memoirs (smriti)

 

From the reality of body-

to the honour of body was I,

from the beauty of body-

to the love of the body was you.

 

It was the knowledge of the letter I

Which gave etiquettes to I.

It was the celebration of You

which recognized He,

fear-free existence of I

and of fear-free you, he.

 

Manu Smriti (memoirs)

was much later than that…

 

 

 

 

Poets About Poetry

 

The poetry I like best is the kind that happens when theres a synthesis of smells and tastes of life (or lives) with a realistic, close look at life (or lives, again!) topped with beautiful crafting of words. Empty craft sounds just that- empty. I also like to understand the process behind creation- creation of art, learning… Its interesting when poets write about poetry- their own or other poets’. In this act they also create what we may call “meta-poetry’. Such poems give us an opportunity for a deeper look into the poet him/herself. They serve many other purposes too. For example through these, poets may claim lineage with poets of another time. Like Ibn-e-Insha who prays for a house in heaven for Mir- every word uttered by whom, Insha claims is his own!

Allah karey Mir ka jannat mein makan ho,
Marhoom ne har baat hamari hi bayan ki.

Muktibodh discredits a lot of poetry and tells us about his version of credible thought process in his poem “vichar aatey hein” (”Thoughts arrive”- which incidentally is one of his very few short poems)

vichar aatey hein-
likhte samay nahin
Bojha dhotey waqt peeth par
sir par utthatey samay bhaar
parishram kartey samay
chaand ugta hai va
paani mein jhalmalaney lagta hai
hriday ke paani mein.

vichar aatey hein
likhte samay nahin,
…patthar dhotey waqt
peeth par utthate waqt bojh
saanp martey samay pichhwarey
bachchey ki nekar phacheette waqt!!
patthar pahad ban jate hein
naqshe bante hein bhogolik
peeth kachhap ban jate hein
samay prithvi ban jata hai…

(My translation of “vichar aatey hein“)

thoughts arrive
not while writing
while carrying load on back
while hauling weight over head
while toiling
moon rises and
shimmers on water
water of the heart

thoughts arrive
not while writing
…while carrying stone
while hauling load over back
while killing snake in the backyard
while washing a child’s knickers
stones become mountains
maps turn physical
backs turn into turtles
time becomes the earth…

Nazim Hikmet calls his poetry his “pot of honey” in his poem About My Poetry. Using the honey metaphor for his poetry that is at once not like material riches but still priceless.

I have no silver saddled horse to ride,
no inheritence to live on,
neither riches no real estate…
a pot of honey is all i own.
A pot of honey
red as fire!

My honey is my everything.
I guard my riches and my real estate
… my honey pot, I mean…
from pests of every species,
Brother, just wait…
As long as I’ve got
honey in my pot,
bees will come to it
from Timbuktu…

(Translated by Mutlu Konuk and Randy Blasing)
Ernest Hemingway, in his poem The Age Demand talks of relationship of time-age with poetry and poets

The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.

The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.

The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.

And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.
Pablo Neruda in his poem simply titled Poetry talks of the illusive-to-define source and nature of poetry.

And it was at that age… Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

And my favourite Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s Lauh-o-Qalam contains his need to express himself no matter what.

hum parvarish-e-lauh-o-qalam karte rahain ge
jo dil pe guzarati hai raqam karte rahain ge
asbaab-e-gham-e-ishq baham karte rahain ge
virani-e-dauraan pe karam karte rahain ge
haan talkhi-e-ayaam abhi aur barhe gi
haan ehal-e-sitam mashq-e-sitam karte rahain ge
manzoor ye talkhi ye sitam hum ko gavara
dam hai to madavaa-e-alam karte raheain ge
maikhana salamat hai to hum surkhi-e-mai se
tazeen-e-dar-o-baam-e-haram karte rahain ge
baaqi hai lahu dil main tou har ashk se paida
rang-e-lab-o-rukhsaar-e-sanam karte rahain ge
ek tarz-e-tagaaful hai so vo un ko mubaarak
ek arz-e-tamana hai so hum karte rahain ge

 

Forever will I nurture pen and paper,
forever express in words whatever my heart undergoes,
forever proffer ingredients of the sorrows of love
and quicken into life the wasteland of time.
Yes, the bitterness of time will keep on spawning,
just as the tyrants will persist in their cruelty.
Cheerfully I’ll give in to bitterness, this tyranny too I’ll endure
so long as there’s breath, I’ll seek ever new cures for torments.
If the tavern still remains, I shall embellish every door
and balcony of the haram with the redness of wine.
If the heart is not drained of all the blood, I’ll colour every tear
with the redness of the beloved’s lips and cheeks
This posture of indifference, let it be her prerogative-
For me it will always be my desire’s entreaty.

(translated by Shiv K. Kumar)

To ideas that still take birth…

Time lost despairing for what was not to be
Tears shed over relationships beyond repair
Things I could not overlook
Words that just had to be said
Regret over people who must not be called
Places in lifetime that cannot be revisited
Words that will remain unsaid
Grief that I attract
Life that was to be but is not
Ideas that still take birth
Mind that still works
Things accepted and understood
Loving and loved but not quite
Ideals transformed but character unchanged

We Sinful Women

It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns

who don’t sell our lives
who don’t bow our heads
who don’t fold our hands together.

It is we sinful women
while those who sell the harvests of our bodies
become exalted
become distinguished
become the just princes of the material world.

It is we sinful women
who come out raising the banner of truth
up against barricades of lies on the highways
who find stories of persecution piled on each threshold
who find that tongues which could speak have been severed.

It is we sinful women.
Now, even if the night gives chase
these eyes shall not be put out.
For the wall which has been razed
don’t insist now on raising it again.

It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns

who don’t sell our bodies
who don’t bow our heads
who don’t fold our hands together.

The grass is really like me

The grass is also like me
it has to unfurl underfoot to fulfil itself
but what does its wetness manifest:
a scorching sense of shame
or the heat of emotion?

The grass is also like me
As soon as it can raise its head
the lawnmower
obsessed with flattening it into velvet,
mows it down again.
How you strive and endeavour
to level woman down too!
But neither the earth’s nor woman’s
desire to manifest life dies.
Take my advice: the idea of making a footpath was a good one.

Those who cannot bear the scorching defeat of their courage
are grafted on to the earth.
That`s how they make way for the mighty
but they are merely straw not grass
-the grass is really like me.

By Kishwar Naheed (Pakistan, 1940) translated from Urdu to English by Rukhsana Ahmed

 

Kishwar Naheed is the first poet I read in whose poetry I saw a reflection of my life experiences as a young woman. Her poetry was my first real introduction to the ideas of feminism as well as the kind of poetry that goes beyond Aestheticism. I can very clearly mark the beginning of my interest in subversive poetry with my reading of the collection of Pakistani feminist poets translated by Rukhsana Ahmed, among whom Kishwar was my clear favourite. The book had the original poems in Urdu script along with the English translation and read it for weeks over and over again.

 

Then years passed and I understood feminism a little better and appreciated poetry a bit more… I happened to hear Kishwar Naheed at an Indo-Pak mushaira organised by the Jamia Millia Islamia on 01.9.2007. She sat just two rows further down the aisle in the auditorium but I couldn’t muster enough courage to go upto her… what would I say? Would she patiently hear out what her poetry means to me? If she was curt or rude it might spoil the whole heady/romantic thing I have got going with mixing her poetry, urdu, feminism and subversive poetry of people around the world… no… it was too huge a risk and in hindsight I feel good about not taking it, though at the time I felt tortured as I’ve never felt before. After all individual artists are not just the art they have created but more (or less?). Engaging with the artist and engaging with her art may not necessarily be similar experiences.

 

Heres a few lines of the original “we sinful women” (hum gunahgaar auratein hein)

 

Ye hum gunahgaar auratein hein

Jo ahl-e jabba ki tamkinat se

Na rob khaayein

Na jaan bechein

Na sar jhukaayein

Na haath jodein

Ye hum gunahgaar auratein hein

Ke jin ke jismon ki fasl bechein jo log

Voh sarfaraaz thahrein

Nayaabat-e imtiyaaz thahrein

Voh daavar-e ahl-e saaz thahrein

Ye hum gunahgaar auratein hein

Ke sach ka parcham utha ke niklein

To jhoot se shaah-raahein ati mile hein

Har ek dahleez pe sazaaon ki daastaanein rakhi mile hein

Jo bol sakti theen voh zubaanein kati mile hein

 

From the same collection I was struck by these lines by Ishrat Afreen (my rough translations)…

 

Mera qad

Mere baap se ooncha nikla

Aur meri ma jeet gayi

 

My height

Surpassed that of my father

And, my mother won

 

 

And …

 

Mere dil ke nihan-khane mein

Ek tasveer hai meri

Khuda jaane use kisne banaayaa

Kab banaayaa tha

wo poshida hai mujh se

Aur mere doston se bhi

Kabhi bhooley se lekin

Mein use gar dekh leti hoon

Usey khud se milaaoon

Toh mera dil kaanp jaata hai

 

In the deepest chamber of my heart

There is a picture of me

Only God knows who made it

and when

it is hidden from me

and my friends

if I ever see it  even by mistake

and compare it with myself

my heart gives a shudder.

Ibn-e-insha

Reading Ibn-e-insha these days… very refreshing, great fun. Ghazal lovers… he is the one who wrote, “Kal Chaudhvin ki raat thi” sung beautifully by Ghulam Ali (jagjit singh has too, but I think his and Ghulam Ali’s performances and renderings cannot be compared). 

Here is the complete ghazal with the shers (couplets) not sung by both the singers and a rough English transliteration

Kal chaudhavin ki raat thi, shab bhar raha charcha tera
Kuchh ne kaha ye chaand hai, kuchh ne kaha chehra tera

Ham bhi wahin maujood the, hamse bhi sab poochha kiye
Ham hans diye, ham chup rahe, manzoor tha parda tera

Is shehr mein kisse milein, han se to chhooti mehfilein
Har shakhs tera naam le, har shakhs deewana tera

Kooche ko tere chhod kar jogi hi ban jaaein magar
Jangal tere, parbat tere, basti teri, sehra tera

Ham aur rasm-e-bandagi aashuftagi? Uftaadgi?
Ehsaan hai kya-kya tera, ai husn-e-beparwa tera

Do ashq jaane kiske liye, palkon pe aa kar tik gaye
Altaaf ki bearish teri, ikraam ka darya tera

Ai bedareeg-o-beamaan, hamne kabhi ki hai fughaan?
Hamko teri wehshat sahi, hamko sahi sauda tera

Ham par ye sakhti ki nazar? Ham hein faqeere rehguzar
Rasta kabhi roka tera? Daaman kabhi thama tera?

Haan-haan teri soorat haseen, lekin to aisa bhi nahin
Is shakhs ke ashaar se shohraa hua kya-kya tera

Bedard sunni ho to chal, kehta hai kya achhi ghazal
Aashiq tera, ruswa tera, shaair tera insha tera

Insha has also written some poems and prose of very political nature. Some time soon I’ll bring some of that stuff with translation on this blog. Wish me luck!

Paash

All of us who are interested in subversive, revolutionary or political potry have read our Nerudas, Faizs, Lorkas and maybe even Hikmet but in my opinion more contemporary than any of these is Punjabi poet Paash. Pash was slain by Khalistani seperatists on March 23, 1987 1988. Paash never went to college as a regular student and did not have a graduate degree but saw his own poems become part of punjabi literature curriculum in many universities. His poem “Sabse khatarnaak” (The Most Dangerous) has gone on to become very popular and is now even part of the NCERT curriculum. Heres a translation…

The Most Dangerous

Most treacherous is not the robbery
of hard earned wages
Most horrible is not the torture by the police.
Most dangerous is not the graft for the treason and greed.
To be caught while asleep is surely bad
surely bad is to be buried in silence

But it is not most dangerous.

To remain dumb and silent in the face of trickery
Even when just, is definitely bad
Surely bad is reading in the light of a firefly

But it is not most dangerous

Most dangerous is
To be filled with dead peace
Not to feel agony and bear it all,
Leaving home for work
And from work return home
Most dangerous is the death of our dreams.

Most dangerous is that watch
Which run on your wrist
But stand still for your eyes.
Most dangerous is that eye
Which sees all but remains frostlike,
The eye that forgets to kiss the world with love,
The eye lost in the blinding mist of the material world.
That sinks the simple meaning of visible things
And is lost in the meaning return of useless games.

Most dangerous is the moon
Which rises in the numb yard
After each murder,
but does not pierce your eyes like hot chilies.

Most dangerous is the song
which climbs the mourning wail
In order to reach your ears
And repeats the cough of an evil man
At the door of the frightened people.

Most dangerous is the night
Falling in the sky of living souls,
Extinguishing them all
In which only owls shriek and jackals growl,
And eternal darkness covers all the windows.

Most heinous is the direction
In which the sun of the soul light
Pierces the east of your body.
Most treacherous is not the
robbery of hard earned wages.
Most horrible is not the torture of police
Most dangerous is not graft taken for greed and treason.

Translation by Dr.Satnam Singh Sandhu of Punjabi University, Patiala
Reading Paash hits one hard- he doesn’t care for the usual niceties associated with the poetry. He just spews forth the disgust, the anger, and sometimes the despair and frustration he feels without hididng them… naked, just as the words are born in his mind. He says…
You are not aware that I am equated in poetry
With the entry into a passionate mujrah
Of a stray dog.
You think that for some dangerous party
I burn the midnight oil
And keep writing.
You are not aware how I approach a poem-
Like a village belle wearing old fashioned clothes
gets into city showrooms, frenzied
My translation of Tumhein Pata Nahin (You Are Not Aware) from Hindi Translation of orginal Punjabi by Dr Chaman Lal of JNU.

Not only does Paash not write pretty and sensuous poetry like, say, Faiz he actually feels disdain for the whole genre. This is where I personally, disagree with him. He totally dismisses Ghazals as being trivial, flowery and empty of any meaning. When Faiz says, “Mujse pehli si muhabbat mere mehboob na maang”(Do not ask me, my love, for the old love) he makes another (and equally powerful and moving) kind of political poetry.

Do not ask me…

Do not ask me, my love, for the old love
I had thought life is aglow with your presence
The sorrows of the world negligible when compared with agony of your love
From your face, the spring gets its permanence in creation
What else does the world have if not your eyes?
If I get you the fate will submit to me
It would not really but I wished it merely
There are sorrows other than those of love in the world
There are joys other than those of a union with you
Dreadful dark spells of countless centuries
Woven in silk, satin and brocade
Bodies on sale here and there in streets, markets
Smeared of ashes, drenched in blood
Bodies right our of ovens of diseases
Pus oozing out of rotting wounds
One cannot help but turn to look that ways too
One cannot help it even though your beauty is still heart-warming
There are sorrows other than those of love in the world
There are joys other than those of a union with you
Do not ask me, my love, for the old love
(My translation)

But it is because of Paash that contemporary Punjabi poetry has a face… for long Punjabi poetry has meant only Sufi poets such as Bulle Shah, Waris Shah, Baba Farid etc only. Shiv Batalvi was also Paash’s contemporary but his popular romantic poetry (made even more popular by Jagjit Singh) does not have that kind of iconic status. The Hindi translations of Paash by Dr Chaman Lal are so popular that many people think Paash wrote originally in Hindi!

His politics was as complicated as the times he lievd in- so even as he began writing his brand of poetry when he got to know some Naxalite activists, in his own life he practised politics of not just sangharsh (struggle) but also of nirman (construction). Paash brought our handwritten magazine promoting scietific attitude for people living in villages surrounding Uggi village where he ran a progressive school for many years. During his lifetime he was associated with many literary magazines. Just as Paash was not afraid to question powers that be, he was also not afraid to question his comrades. Following is my translation of one of the poems of a series he called “Comrade se baat-cheet” (Conversations with Comrade). This poem and the whole series seems especially contemporary given the going-ons at Nandigram.

Conversation With Comrade-5

Comrade, do you occasionally get a newspaper?
Don’t believe the piecemeal news.
Last year the one who drowned in the village pond…
It was not mother.
A brick got disengaged from the blue terrace and fell down.
At the very first raid, mother
trying to swim through Gorky’s novel
ran away from the police.
at the banks of the novel
and sometimes fades like her own blessings.
And recently, the poet
who was in news for joining the party safely
it was not I, it was a Dek tree on the outside wall
which bad spirits, wearing police uniforms
had learnt to climb up and down.
Long before that news went to print,
when night was sliding into words
and the dark- like cobra, sat coiled on names…
I stole whatever remained of the party’s compassion
and slid down…stole away
into the human clamour
When my own feet were listening to me
like love poems
I went and put the waning compassion
carefully among crow’s eggs
To Sadhu Singh and Jirvi*, I have complained
many times about these news.
Who say that the paralysis of news
does not let them walk on their own feet
they ask for crutches of our death
“if we believed their truth
we would have cried over you many times over.”
Every time I read the news of a sudden raid
I tell mother-
Its not you, but another warrior with your name
Mother knows nothing of grammatical nuances
Shivering in the chilling innocence of old age
She mistakes a naming word for a caste name
and a caste name for a collective noun
For her whenever a bullet is fired on a name
Some caste or some emotion is murdered
Comrade, mother is anyways crazy
Both of us and news cannot change her
For coming home late, she will
With any household object
Or with the whole house, beat you and later
Stuff her dry breast in your mouth

*Names of Editors of Punjabi dailies

places…

One way to come out of the writer’s (blogger’s?) block that I seem to suffering from for long, I thought, would be to remember places I have been to and loved being in. So here goes… Chiplun, Dapoli, Anjanwel In Ratnagiri- Maharshtra the multi species forests there are unlike any other I have seen. I don’t think I have seen as many shades of lush green and inhaled such different pleasant aromas in any forest. It was here that I ate crabs for the first time and snails (!) in a Koli village. 

Sea-side cliffs and long stretches of deserted beeches of Sriwardhan, Raigad. I went delirious with joy of having the whole place to myself except for Vasantbhau of Sarvahara Jan Aandolan and picked up beautiful shells by kilos!  

Satkoshia gorge sanctuary, Orissa- pillion riding on a bike, walking along the river Mahanadi was awe-inspiring. I hardly said anything during the entire trip and almost attained nirvana just thinking… almost!  And then daily walks around Sruti’s Orissa Activists’ School Campus in Nuagao in Baisipali sanctuary were great. The food was very bad and I had upset stomach. It was kind of surreal to go for late night loose motion trips into the sanctuary (no loo on campus) and shit amidst thousands of fireflies.  

Khirkot, Almora. My first trip to the mountains. First trip to a place where there were no relatives and I was not part of a large group. We, a classmate during MSW- Ritu and I, pretended to do a social work research project while we just roamed and climbed aimlessly for days in the mountains, chatted up whoever we met, stayed in villages and ate people’s food and barely spent any money. Of course, it helped that people remembered Ritu’s Brahmin family fondly!- they hailed from the region and had lived there a couple of generations ago. 

Laxmi ashram in Kausani, Uttarakhand in a really nice room on first floor of building made entirely of wood. Ritu and I just landed there one evening stupidly without any prior information. They were very decent and put us up for the night but made it clear that they resented having to do so. 

Jabalpur, M.P. my first proper introduction to the beauty of Urdu romantic poetry. It was as if all the guys in my sub-group on this college project trip were immersed in ghazals all the time. We worked hard, travelled 400-500 km on most days in a Mahindra jeep with tattered canvas covers during monsoons… sometimes reaching our base only at two in the morning. Lots of singing, camaraderie, beautiful friendships that continue still- Khalid, Zafar, Sadaf, lots of entertainment provided by people who were falling in love like nine pins! & vegetarian food during the entire trip! 

Sudhi and Deven bhai’s house in a little village in Jhalawar district. Its feels like it’s the last house on earth and there’s just forests beyond. And it has a neat little, well-stocked personal library. 

Hannah’s elevated bamboo hut in Auroville, TN, which was supposed to have not a single nail; the entire thing was made of bamboo tied with coconut husk rope. The furniture consisted of a couple of tin trunks with various Hindu goddesses painted on them serving as corner tables. The auroville thing of ‘the Mother’ and her philosophy left me unconvinced and uncomfortable and I irritated Hannah with lot of arguing. But I was grateful for fresh croissants for breakfast and good pasta with fresh olives for dinner. It was here that I had set my eyes on the sea/ocean for the first time and unlike my first view of the mountains I was not impressed. 

Stay in Magan Sangrahalaya in Wardha, Maharashtra. The town is steeped in all things Gandhian. We saw the kid’s snake club members do their stuff every day with awe, fear and disgust (they went about catching and then collecting fistful of geckos for their snakes to eat! ugghhh!!)  I was really happy with life at the time and talked and sang my heart out while we roamed around in Wardha, Sewagram and Bor wildlife sanctuary, which I think (in retrospect!) really bored my travel mates- Radhika, Sunita and Rajneesh. Sorry, guys! We had great conversations, learnt a lot thanks to Radhika, had fun thanks to Rajneesh, shared good laughs but not cigarettes because though Radhika smoked she didn’t like other people’s smoke L 

I love just being on the move in the deepest and most interior areas and lot of times hate arriving (for reason that is profound enough to merit a separate post of its own; but that later…). Being a development worker for me was an opportunity to travel to most ‘unlikeliest’ of places and; meeting and befriending most remarkable people (there’s another post!).