25 January 2015

Poets: Mohan Ramanan (Chair), Menka Shivdasani, Meena Kandasami, Semeen Ali, Usha Akella

Brief report by Bhavesh Kumar

The poetry reading session presented female poets who mainly recited their poems from both new and old collections. Prof Mohan Ramanan (only male poet) chaired the session and took opportunities to recite his poems intermittently. His two poems “Seminar” and “Dog” were sensitive and deep in meaning. Menka’s established recognition was emblem for her excellent poetic sense and her descriptions of the household imagery made the audience feel home. Meena’s poems were of feminist nature and her recitation was very energetic and seamless. Her poem on the Delhi rape victim Nirbhaya was much appreciated. Semeen Ali’s personal experiences were reflected in her poetry as she portrayed women caged in the household. Her poetry advocated the freedom of women from patriarchy and social evils. Usha Akella revealed her association with Hyderabad and mourned the death of her grandmother through her poem. Her cry was the strong evidence of the bond between her and her grandmother that was dextrously woven in the sense of her long poem. In short, the poetry reading session elevated the audience to another plain and touched their heart. Presented below are the poems read by Usha Akella, Semeen Ali and Menka Shivdasani.

   1. USHA AKELLA

Jerusalem

Jerusalem shall I dare say your tales
with this foreign tongue
as I spin like a top in your streets?
Shall I enter your gates as you lie
under the fingertips of a golden menorah,
what badge shall I show your armed men keeping peace,
When I listen to a mother calling for her children
in fields of invisible ears and tongueless tongues,
and old walls tremble with secrets, flags and burdens
and Time the deathless watchman, prowls your streets,
when the mint in your tea refreshes my tongue,
and bread fills my stomach and I walk, walk
the walk of Via Dolorosa on the palm of the city
pointing different directions
with more than one minotaur at its center,
When I climb Mt. Olives and see dead men waiting
like chocolates in boxes to be opened,
when I see the patience and the impatience of waiting,
and prophets names, too many to remember
cast shadows on your streets, shall I ask for permission,
to enter, shall I dare stand by a wall, join lines
of people in eternal mourning, yearning, shall I join
my grief to theirs and ask for temples to be built,
idol of idols, how shall I gain entry?
You, the navel of this earth, where people rooted
to salt, faith, loyalty, three times over,
like three rivers flowing separately,
between your messianic apocalyptic banks,
What message can I bring as balm for your wounds?
All messages are known to you, they are coded
in your stones in the cursive of prophets,
city of walls, stones, earth, restoration, air,
light, sky, blood, hope, tears, wail, lament,
city of streets wagging many languages,
where past present future coexist as solemn triplets,
Shall I dare change the cartography of religion,
stand under the golden dome and let fly
a new litany longing to be rewritten.


Love is Fertile, Love is Fallen Leaves

Arrival

The night opened an eyelid and looked at us,
an ancient monster viewing its citizens;
in this night, love yawned, covered her mouth,
yawned again; the car turned as a key
in the streets of night, dawn lay on the other side,
morning was the room beyond, there are many suns,
and many sunrises, in the horizon there are
many dancing suns one for each of us on earth,
In this night there was the smell of eternal garbage and
slumbering dreams; the moon had the look of a dog slinking
away with a cowardly tail; we awakened from one
dream in mid air to one on earth.

In Hyderabad parents wait for their children to come,
wait eternally, the knit and purl of arrival and departure
clicking, clicking, clicking in their minds; the hours
here are like gardens with mirrors in which people
come and go, and sow memories that sprout like
entangled weeds covering ground.

The gates open like the covers of a book,
the house waits as an hourglass,
the plot all too familiar:
Love is taken for granted, stoic,
the offer of coffees, teas under smothered sleep,
set unaltered routines, no pleases and thank yous,
no excesses of banal commonalities, no Hallmark realities.

(News
I could not have sat still.
A neem leaf however bitter belongs to the neem tree.
Fingers curl back to a palm,
wings lie close to our body,

"Do not come," she said, "listen to me. Do not come.
Do not trouble yourself to come."

The trip was long. There were miles and midnight meals,
There was the Atlantic, the endless sky,
boarding passes, security checks, scrutiny, scans,
aching arms, luggage, tired capture of empty seats
and strained sleep in fetal positions. There was gold in Qatar,
in the duty free shops, cosmetics, chocolates,
watches, perfumes, crystals and Arabs,
inconvenient rest room stops with carry ons and child,
the jumble of time, senses, meals; the matrixes, the matrixes.
"We are coming," I said. "We are coming.")

Visit

In the hospital the ayahs wore red
like the spittle of Goddess Kali,
squatting in corridors, belching,
squelching, clanging bedpans and curses,
bed clothes hung from railings, in her room
no family feuds ceased, weddings were fixed,
visitors sang their poems, a scene from pandemonium,
she so old that desires were like torn kites,
wishing for her death that did not come
with the broken hip, grandkids and American accents
foot-diving for blessings, the doctor, old patriarch,
like an aged bull dog took his readings,
aunts hobbled in and out, my father’s earnest
manner belying incomprehension.

Departure

She sat up in bed,
skin, sad parchment; white hair,
petal soft, like a lily rising out of the earth;
in her eyes pale milk
of a faded motherhood;
her palms like withered autumn leaves;
she held me as she would a new born,
What crawls in her blood crawls in mine,
This blood, the sentence it pronounces-
the last light in which to see myself.

Note:
[Love is fertile, Love is fallen leaves, the title
is a line from the poem, Moonlight and a Doorstep
in the collection, The Women Carry River Water
Poems by Nguyen Quang Thieu
Translated and edited by Martha Collins and Nguyen Quang Thieu
University of Massachusetts Press, Amherst]