Poetry Reads: Basanti Hawa by Kedarnath Agarwal

There are innumerable things about the Hindi language that appeals to this writer's heart. 

Expressing in English has its joys in putting pen to paper, in arranging, rearranging words, in description, documentation, rhyme and flow. 

But for the sheer spontaneity of conversation - Hindi it is.

The following Hindi poem (featured here with my translation) is a school favourite. Years have withered away but the poem has remained entwined in memory.  

Roughly translated as Spring Wind, this Hindi poem by Kedarnath Agarwal (1911 - 2000) is a first person narrative by none other than the eternal traveler, invisible, omnipresent, and free - Wind. 

The poem's sing-song flow is such that it conveys in its deliberate clipped arrangement, a continuous, ageless quality of an element we usually take for granted.

बसंती हवा

केदारनाथ अग्रवाल

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं                                                                                        

बसंती हवा हूँ।                                                  

सुनो बात मेरी -       

अनोखी हवा हूँ।       

बड़ी बावली हूँ  

बड़ी मस्तमौला। 

नहीं कुछ फ़िकर है 

बड़ी ही निडर हूँ  

जिधर चाहती हूँ 

उधर घूमती हूँ 

मुसाफिर अजब हूँ।

(wind am, wind I, the spring wind am I...it begins and then goes - am crazy, mischievous, naughty, no worries, fearless, I roam where I please, am a strange traveler.) 

न घर-बार मेरा,

न उद्देश्य मेरा,

न इच्छा किसी की,

न आशा किसी की,

न प्रेमी न दुश्मन,

जिधर चाहती हूँ

उधर घूमती हूँ।

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं 

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(Breathlessly, the wind blows its tale like a whistle - no home, no ambition, no desire, no hope, no lover, no enemies, go where I please, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I...)

जहाँ से चली मैं

जहाँ को गई मैं -

शहर, गाँव, बस्ती,

नदी, रेत, निर्जन,

हरे खेत, पोखर,

झुलाती चली मैं।

झुमाती चली मैं!

हवा हूँ, हवा मै

बसंती हवा हूँ।

(from where I passed, to where I went, city, village, ghetto, river, sand, desolation, green fields, pond, I went swinging, I went swaying, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I...)     

चढ़ी पेड़ महुआ,

थपाथप मचाया;

गिरी धम्म से फिर,

चढ़ी आम ऊपर,

उसे भी झकोरा,

किया कान में ‘कू’,

उतरकर भगी मैं,

हरे खेत पहुँची -

वहाँ, गेंहुँओं में

लहर खूब मारी। 

(climbed a tree, made havoc, fell with a thud, went for the mangoes, shook them too, said "ku" in the ear, leapt off running, reached the green fields, there, among the wheat, made many waves)

पहर दो पहर क्या,

अनेकों पहर तक

इसी में रही मैं!

खड़ी देख अलसी

लिए शीश कलसी,

मुझे खूब सूझी -

हिलाया-झुलाया

गिरी पर न कलसी!

इसी हार को पा,

हिलाई न सरसों,

झुलाई न सरसों,

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(not for a moment, but for moments eternal, I dwelt here. Then the wind eyes yet another mischief - tried to budge the splashing earthen pot from its hold, but it did not fall! Raw from this defeat, did not sway or shake the mustard, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I ) 

मुझे देखते ही

अरहरी लजाई,

मनाया-बनाया,

न मानी, न मानी;

उसे भी न छोड़ा -

पथिक आ रहा था,

उसी पर ढकेला;

हँसी ज़ोर से मैं,

हँसी सब दिशाएँ,

हँसे लहलहाते

हरे खेत सारे,

हँसी चमचमाती

भरी धूप प्यारी;

बसंती हवा में

हँसी सृष्टि सारी!

हवा हूँ, हवा मैं

बसंती हवा हूँ!

(the pulses shied away on seeing me, I tried to charm, but she didn't yield...I didn't spare him too - a traveler was coming, I lunged at him, I laughed aloud, laughed all directions, laughed all swaying fields, laughed the sparkling lovely sunlight, in the spring wind all creation laughed, wind am, wind I, spring wind am I)      

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

(First edit - 20/5/2013

Second edit - 17/6/2020)

Poetry Reads: When I Dance by James Berry

The second-hand book market in Pune has its share of hidden treasures. All one needs to do is linger in such surroundings, engage in some scouring, back-bending, explore untouched stacks and dusty corners, and who knows what you may come across?

It was on one such lingering expedition that I happened to grab a copy of the (now puzzlingly out of print) James Berry poetry collection - When I Dance. 

Swinging in Caribbean rhythms of endearing broken, accented English and emanating in addictive visions of Britain's city interiors, the poems are a celebration of the exuberance, vitality, energy, bruises, dates, bicycle rides, love, toothless grannies and the impossible, innocent fantasies that childhood conjures.

 

In its congregation of illustrations, meter, rhyme and celebration these are poems that cheerfully exude everything that youth is in its follies and grandeur. Extracts will tell you more, here are scraps from the title poem: 

When I dance it isn't merely

That music absorbs my shyness 

My laughter settles in my eyes, 

My swings of arms convert my frills 

As timing tunes my feet with floor 

As if I never just looked on 

It is that when I dance 

O music expands my hearing 

And it wants no mathematics, 

It wants no thinking, no speaking, 

It only wants all my feeling

In with animation of place. 

Bear-hug cosiness is apparent in poems such as Seeing Granny. The extract follows: 

Toothless, she kisses

with fleshy lips 

rounded, like mouth

of a bottle, all wet. 

She bruises your face

almost, with two

loving tree-root hands.

Sample this perspective of a father, the criticism is not biting, it is more like a family reaction to overheard adult dialogue. The extract is from the poem Girls Can We Educate We Dads?: 

Listn the male chauvinist in mi dad ---

a girl walkin night street mus be bad. 

He dohn sey, the world's a free place

for a girl to keep her unmolested space.

Instead he sey --- a girl is a girl. 

Finally I conclude with a paragraph that tells of a bubble-making childhood of soap lather dreams from What We Said Sitting Making Fantasies:

I 

I want a talking dog wearing a cap

who can put on gloves 

and go to my mum when I'm playing 

and she wants a job done. 

A winner of the 1989 Signal Poetry Award, When I Dance is a 59-poem gem that is begging for a reissue. Are the people at Puffin Books listening?   


(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Poetry Reads: Leisure by WH Davies

This is a poem I love quoting to the busy bodies of the world, especially the first two lines, and on its utterance, the effect is usually of silent agreement or a sigh of resignation. I am yet to witness an iota of protest on its rendering, understandably so, for the lines of WH Davies stand out more noticeably than they ever did before. 

Scour you eyes a little over the urban landscape. People seem to be always on the run, the instruments of distraction are manifold now - the television screen is passe, we have cell phones, laptops, iPads, gaming consoles, social networking sites, unreasonably expensive shopping malls, choked-up traffic and mayhem. Not one lingering moment, no simple singularity of pleasure and in such blind, floating conditions the words stand out sparkling and true.   

Leisure

by WH Davies

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs,

And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)

Poetry Reads: Movement by Tobias Biancone

Ahoy, Wolf here. For some years now I have maintained a notebook where I write down whatever little snatches of poetry, song and quotes that catch my eye. The book title is scrawled in uppercase, ball point ink on the cover: THE CAPRICIOUS LITERARY POETRY AND QUOTE COLLECTION.

Of the many select things listed here, is a poem written by Tobias Biancone. In these days of superficial Internet research, I discover that Biancone is a poet-playwright of Swiss-Italian descent and little else. Anyway, without much ado, here is the poem.

Movement

by Tobias Biancone 

Alone

like a wave

propelling oneself

above the trifles of life. 

Together

like a flock of birds

rising above

all limitations.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Poetry Reads: The Arrow and the Song by HW Longfellow

It was at school that I had my first nervous, stumbling brush with this ageless Longfellow poem. I was in third grade then and the teacher had, much to my displeasure, singled me out for reading aloud. The timid, unsure boy that I was, it was not long before the good-hearted teacher remarked in the middle of my halting rendition,"Relax, nobody is shooting any arrow at you." (Laughter in class)

Many years have since passed, a tingling pleasure arises now, whenever I read this one line after line, mimicking that long lost child in me. He was a lot more afraid, but hey, he was me.

At the time that it was published (1845), the industrial revolution had arrived in America, but was yet to stampede through with its cacophony. For the poem echoes of open spaces, clearings, quiet woods, idle time and leisurely pursuits.  Almost two centuries past, an old world charm persists in the lines, apart from a celebration of singularity.

Yes, we must also concede - It is most unlikely that someone somewhere in the English-speaking world (at least) would be looking for a lost arrow - a practicing archer would probably buy one online. As for the song, the refrain would be typed into the ever ready Google search box (In the Internet-crazy regions at least) and lo and behold, simultaneously downloaded. Yet, there is a mystery that remains, of discovery, friendship and curiosity. So here it is, this little time-travel of a song-poem:   

               

                           

The Arrow and the Song 

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Poetry Reads: A Standing Meditation by AK Ramanujan

AK Ramanujan (1929-1993) was quite simply, a man of many talents. An Indian literature scholar, Ramanujan was a bilingual poet, writer, translator, playwright, folklorist...we cease to catch our breath and zero in on the poetry. So here's a minute bit of his oeuvre. You will note how much design is critical to the poem's effectiveness even as words form the appropriate attire.     

A Standing Meditation

by AK Ramanujan

a spinning top

motionless and still

spinning on one leg

at top speed like

a crane at rest

awake now

and then

likely to

topple

if

t
o

u

c

h

e
d

.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Poetry Reads: The Wolf on Poetry

Howwwwwwl. More precisely, Wolf here. 

In the human world, especially on moonless nights and sun-filled days, I moon about as a promising writer, poet, and lyricist who has been promising for several centuries now. Why, I even had a set of thousand visiting cards made for distribution that would lure the female of the species, well...into visiting. Anyway, I have to type these words fast, the clouds are just beginning to scatter and a light gleam of silver spreads in the firmament. My fingers have already turned to claws, thus facilitating immensely in typing any number of words in as much time as lightning strikes. Kaboom.     

This is how I see it. Poetry is a free bird's melody, uttered so, for it sprouts from the heart, and is similarly written down. Having a writing device on the ready is a handy habit, for words may rush in anytime. A common feature of a poem is its flow and spontaneity. The first draft is usually the crux of it. Polish, in the form of attention to meter, rhyme, paragraphing, punctuation, grammar, spelling and an appropriate title usually follow in subsequent drafts. While I mentioned grammar in the last sentence, a poem can have its own language. Unlike prose, a poem may not be bound to any structure.

There is no end to the themes that poets have chosen to write on over the centuries. Now, if we were to encapsulate all the poems ever written into two sections, what would they be? Here we trail Urdu poetry and its branching out into two - there is the ghazal where poets tend to self-reflect and look inwardly. Then there is the nazm where observation of the surrounding world is the central theme. This division can be applied to poems in general, if only for the purpose of differentiation and documentation.

Enough talk, to conclude here is the poem that was first published in Reading Hour Magazine's September-October 2011 issue, with the title ‘Pang’. It is presented here with my edits:

Fragrance
by Snehith Kumbla

the music of a drizzle,
wet smell of earth

a sun scattered face,
some winter morning

the moonlight walks
with me, at dusk

sleep glows in
a deep cave

I dwell on you...

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla) 

Poetry Reads: Witchcraft for Attracting a Man by Xpetra Ernandes

Incantations is a collection of illustrations, 'spells' and poems, all created by 150 Mayan women. Ambar Past collected these drawings and poems, even as she resided with them in 1970's Mexico. She has vivid memories of an epidemic bringing death to the village. "They live with no comfort," As Ms. Past has said in an interview to The New York Times. "Yet poetry is an essential part of their daily life." Here is one poem from this acclaimed collection: 

Witchcraft for attracting a man
by Xpetra Ernándes

I want him to come with flowers in his heart.
With all his heart,
I want him to talk to my body.
I want his blood to ache for me
when he sees me on the way to the market.

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(Article by Snehith Kumbla)