oh farah.... the 'you' wasnt some friend.. but i was jst kiind of talking to myself.. so the u was infact me.....
--- Farah <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote: > 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.) > > === message truncated === __________________________________ Yahoo! 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