Hello Aniruddha, Your poem was nice, very emotional and full of feeling. The title reminded me of a poem by Plath in which she talks of Mannequins. Regards, Farah
--- In [email protected], aniruddha dutta <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote: > Dear All, > It is perhaps about time I stopped being a quiet observer on this list and > came out in the open, especially after Shivam's inspiring monthly call. My > name is Aniruddha Dutta and I became a member of this list while at St. > Stephen's College, Delhi: now I have shifted base to Kolkata, and am doing > my first year of post-graduation in English at Jadavpur University. I have > also been working at Indian Express since June as a trainee-sub- editor, > though I will be giving up the job at the end of this of this month as I > find it too tough to manage both college and office. > I took to both reading and writing poetry only after I joined college: > before that, I never thought I was particularly a poetry person. It seemed > to be a too figurative a medium for me to handle (even by way of > appreciation): since then, however, I've grown to discover how much of a > precise and pungent medium it can be, maybe by paradoxically opening up the > very scope of figurative play in language: by showing the ambiguties and > fruitful multifarousness of linguistic construction itself. In general, I > tend to agree with Mallarme's position regarding the poetic art: it allows > language to speak for itself, opening itself out in a way that is precluded > by the conventions of interpretation and meaning that go with a lot of prose > and with everyday discourse. But this 'opening out' itself is not vague > ambiguity, but necessitates a keen awareness of words and the way they work. > > But that, of course, sounds too vague and academic. To give more concrete > examples, I have been affected by the work of such poets as (to give a very > dispersed range) Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson, > Adrienne Rich, Maya Angelou, A.K. Ramanujam... ah well, I see that I am > being very scatter-brained and following no chronological or geographical > pattern. Anyway. I am attaching this poem of mine with this rather than > going on forever about poetry, perhaps that will help the reader gauge > better whether he/she would have any use for me at all. > Regards, > Aniruddha > The attached poem was intended to be about a lot of things: about delhi and > the experience of its streets, about Urban experience in general, about love > and loss and loneliness, about inter-personal interactions... I leave the > executed result open to judgement. > > * > > Scarecrows and Mannequins > > I > * Lost in little streets, lanes off lanes, > Caught by jaundiced lights, lots of them > Glint among extended arms and thighs, > Between heaving plaits, sarees, bellies and talk, > Yet immaculate and still. > You squeeze through, you pass by > The others old men with > Lifetimes of flab (who yet think > They have weight requisite > To wooing the world) > Young girls huddled even in motion, > Could-be handsome young men > Where expression betrays lineaments > And sounds the insecure inside. > Why should you > But then, you do > Mistake dull arms for glinting ones > Or jump at ceramic seeming flesh: > (Even if figures differ starkly, > And clothes are fashionable or not, > In startled moments of realisation > You have lost the sense > Of the right way round.) > Till the spaces turn darker and empty > And halide lamps loom way overhead > And chaos turns cold > And you rest, tired with the maze > And certainly, slightly amazed. > In trains, a similar thing: > Fields pass by, the drowsy afternoon > Passes by slower, or stickily stands > While the coach buzzes with sleep, noise and spilled water. > Bare straw, stubbled corn and men bent low > Arrange themselves outside, should one look out, > Except for those sticks here and there, > Tall, with painted clay-pot heads > Not much interruption. > While they scare birds away > You wonder which face the last resembled > It's like watching clouds, or damp walls. > So much of use to them that use them > Here, only pegs for reflection till willed confusion > Sets in. > * > > II > > * At some point > Eerily, your > Thoughts turn and they > Line up this with that and they > Make you think of barren stumps, make > You think of bared rooms. > You think of nothing where trees should have been, > Of pitiless sun instead of tardy shifting leaves. > You think of eyes, hands and lips > That stood for nothing you thought they stood for. > And when you no longer know > If you have that ancient knowledge of telling heat and rain, > > The subtle art in sounding people > > You are alone in a very long corridor to the end, > > Like bazaars and trains > > Lighted, with glinting scarecrows and mannequins. > And trees grow, > And buzzards watch > And stones keep quiet. > > (Repeat, piano) > And > Trees grow and > Buzzards watch > And stones keep quiet. > > (Repeat, pianissimo) > And trees grow and > Buzzards watch and > Stones keep quiet. > > (Repeat, pianississimo.) ------------------------ Yahoo! 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