Ginny

Wait! Let me think about Ginny, or rather, visualise him, but even before I see him, I hear him. The sound resounds in the far distance and the image is a blur as he bounds towards me. It is a sound from the distant past when the sun shone lazily on bales of hay stacked after bountiful harvests near the meandering, thundering, mountainous river. We would close our eyes on those warm, lofty nests and drift far away in a blissful daze. Now, I hear him scuffling his hind paws, eyeing those errant billy goats, and threatening that they were trespassing his turf and they better beware! The puffed-up chest, short and sharp barks, the head held high—the whole spectacle of bravado—was a front for his elfish stature as a terrier replicant. But with a regalia of his creamish, tousled coat and a big, wet, shiny nose—he would dare any stranger to ever doubt that.

Ginny was a vagabond who much preferred staying with us than at our aunt's who conveniently lived somewhere a wee faraway in another neighbourhood. Her family had adopted this little furball that had stumbled into a couldron of “red ant” as a puppy. Somewhere along the way, while transitioning into the braveheart of the neighbourhood (or the rabble-rouser depending on which side of the fence you were), this pocket Sherlock Holmes had decided that he much preferred the mysteries cooked up by my mum rather than those available elsewhere. Dead-of-the-night, everyone is sound asleep... Whoof, whoof! Scratch, scrrrratcch (on the door). No one seems to be aware of his regal presence! Horizontal Zombies!!! WOOF, WOOF, I SAY!!! Till this moment a ghostly neighbourhood, now slowly stirs with his incessant, indefatigable, magical incantations that surely seems to be working towards a crescendo that gradually awakens creatures from the netherworld. A sleepy head at home would finally squeeze open the door just enough to let the dark knight amble in, all the while vainly attempting to keep away the nightly draught that would sweep open cobwebs soaked in deep slumber. Woof! Where is my bowl? Sniff, sniff... is that a red herring? Where's the marrow lurking in this bone? Now, I know why the set up is all wrong-WHOO@#$$#%$#%F—"THE BOWL IS IN THE WRONG PLACE, PEOPLE!" That's a case solved for TONIGHT... Who are you staring at? WYouuu staring at me? Yowww staring at me? Shuffle, shuffle. YOWWWWW STARING AT ME.... Well, I am the only one h'rrrrrrrrrrre!!!!

I think, it was around this time, my alter ego DennisTheMenace (aka Lil' Prof. Moriarty), decided to resurface and entrap this nightly wraith that plagued my moonlit landscape. Ha! I knew that dastard pug feet was no less wily than Mr. Harry Whoodunny, who could just as easily locate cat poo than catch our four feet in his knightly errands. I needed to rope in a trusty henchman for the Canine Conspiracy-but was he trustworthy or much rather untrustworthy. Deciding that times were difficult and there was no time for idealism, my stooge of an elder cousin would have to do. We laid our trap elaborately; as Mr. Big Teeth would wander in for his afternoon siesta, we would coil a thread around his feet and tie him to the nearest bedpost till he confessed to all his sins and rid us of his abomination self. Aha, what ingenuity! The next day, my henchman and I sprung upon the nightly crusader and wrestling him back on all his fours, we tightened the knot around his paws. But, as we searched for the nearest anchor to tie the sprightly rascal, we learnt to our distaste that this maverick was also a contortionist in disguise and just as easily pulled away with the thread trailing behind...  However much we pursued the pint-sized escape artist, he had now developed an uncanny ability to leave a trail of dust before us. Sucking in deep gulps of gravelly air, we finally decided to relent behind the smoke-screen of Ginny-dust-eat.

A few days later, I observed the Dust Devil running as fast but on three legs. I was wonderstruck till I realised that our attempts to pin down the escape artist had evidently left behind tell-tale signs. The thread, still stuck behind, had cut a welt in his skin. His gait was now more of a hop, skip and jump, and a cold realization slowly tingled up my back—everything I didn’t want to know about life as dad’s punching bag but was afraid to ask—seemed as much a possibility as the now moonwalking, canine Michael Jackson. Cold sweat breaking on my chattering teeth, I convened a hasty meeting with my now frantic henchman. Catching our furry nemesis and reversing his dancing habits was the only way from us becoming pirouetting marionette to my big fella’s tune. At lunch, we waited for Ginny Kelly to make his singing-in-the-rain entrance. As Genie-of-our-salvation made his exit, (awaiting till then behind the door), we surreptitiously crept behind and flung ourselves at him. My henchman was to pin him down while I removed the errant thread which would absolve us of our inevitable dreaded destiny. POOF! Whodunny had other plans and just as easily disappeared under the cavern of big fella’s resting place. Try as we might with all the charms we could muster: juicy bones, tender meat, grandpa’s socks, threats, cajoles, pleas, and even my precious stuffed Goofy—he seemed to be chuckling and reveling in the corner at our discomfiture. Just then big fella stomped in and we could see the flashback of the dangling punchback. Looking quizzically at us, he inquired what held our fascination with the world of undersides. WHOOF! WHOOF, WHOOOOF!!! came the answer. Before I could blink, my trusty henchman bawled—He made me do it, he did itttttttttttttt. And off he slipped… With perfect timing, now even Whodunny crawled out displaying his new found wobble. THWAAAACK!!! landed a halo of stars around my head, and with tears streaming I ran out vowing never to return again. Running away with blurry vision and a heart that had broken asunder to thousands of hopping, skipping and jumping wobbly pieces, I thought I heard a familiar pitter-patter of footsteps behind. I turned around to find a four-legged angel with a slight hobble following and beckoning me back with short, sharp barks.

In everyday life, drama as a word has many connotations to many people. When a recalcitrant student tries to make a scene, a teacher might refrain, "No Dramas!" Likewise, we talk about the dramatic episode in "House" when the protagonist Dr. House has to confront his inner demons. Similarly when bogged down by life's uncertainties, we solemnly state—all's life a stage and all men and women merely players.

What has been agreed about drama through the ages from Sophocles to Arthur Miller is that performance plays a key role in defining drama. Yes, Byron and Shelly wrote closet plays but then it has been argued that drama's role is to "hold as 'twere the mirror up to nature." In the words of Shakespeare, yes, drama begins with words which then correlate with actions but then what it finally upholds is the very reflection of the world we live in. It is in the immediacy that the complexities of drama juxtapose in its myriad hues: what is reality? how can we define it? how do we know real is actually real? are realities the same for all of us? is reality important?... the list of questions are unending.

Undoubtedly, all drama forms comprise script, actor and audience. Here also the nature of drama is debated. Bernard Shaw mulled over the importance of script stating that "talk" was the raison d'être of the dramatist whereas David Mamet would rather have the characterization develop by what they did. Moreover, Brecht envisioned his characters enacting a "social being" to alienate the audience from the characterizations. Whatever the nature of drama adopted, the structure that is adopted usually veers towards Exposition-Development-Climax-Conclusion that classifies a drama form broadly into comedy or tragedy. And in this, the drama form that has been most championed is tragedy with comedy originally conceived as relief in between plays. Nietzsche himself stated that a tragedy could excite, purify and release the entire life of people. However, Moliere in his satirical plays begs to differ providing not only comic relief but also some soul-searching into societal mores.

Personally, the nature of drama that I have understood goes back to my grand-uncle who is a theatre artist. In a supposedly "uncultured household", my tomboy grandmother fascinated with the theatrics and spectacle on stage would often visit plays carrying my uncle in-tow. While growing up, he forayed into theatre and enacted major roles in many local productions which provided him opportunities to act in movies too. He would often bring along passes for plays which allowed the whole family to attend the grand spectacle. This allowed the house to be steeped in a foreign culture that had been non-existent till then. Many years later, while being interviewed, my uncle paid homage to his sister for inculcating him with a life-long passion. Only now when looking back do I realise what Drama can bring into your live—sharing of life's experiences, bonding with loved ones and old wistful memories...

Eviscerating the grittiness of a battle scene, Wilfred Owen lays bare the deathly throes that envelope a battlefield. Having experienced war first-hand in WWI, the poem explores the glorified aphorism that "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country." Using harsh-sounding assonance and similes—Bent double, like old beggars under sacks—the poem unravels the supposed glory in dying in the battlefield for one's motherland. 

Owen presents the poem as the battle scenes unfold with canon shells severing off body parts as fatigued soldiers trudge their way towards their eventual bloody demise. The poet uses the imagery of dying, death and destruction to paint a bleak and brutal picture of war wherein he underlines the futility of this mindless human venture. Painting the gruesome nature of war, he confronts and questions the conventional acceptance of war as a path to glory in this didactic poem. 

When reading this poem, I explored a bit about Wilfred Owen and WW1. While researching, it was shocking to find that more than 20 million people died (almost the whole of present day Australian population) as a result of petty politics. Furthermore, Owen had a deep love for the language which is evident in this poem which he used in good measure to depict War in its futile glory. It was truly tragic that such talent was wasted as Owen himself was killed during the war. This tragedy is relived in his own words when he says, " My subject is War, and the pity of War. The poetry is in the  pity."

Reading Janice Mirikitani's Breaking Tradition filled me with sadness. Even though written in 1970s, the inability to communicate between generations is as valid now as it was then. To a mother, perhaps the cruellest words are a child denying she is her progeny. She hears that familiar refrain and then is reminded of her own relationship with her mother. She uses the metaphors of three different rooms to lay bare the nature of their relationships: her mum’s neat and silent room steeped in tradition, her empty room filled with pettiness, and her daughter’s filled with smoke and haze. Yet, she was the one who wanted to break the traditions of otonashii and walk into the room of poetical madness and the miracle of survival. And yet, when her daughter does exactly that when breaking free—Mirikitani ironically finds herself far removed from the world of her daughter’s.

 
In this poem, Mirikitani draws words from both Japanese and contemporary American usage to contrast the lives of woman as experienced by her mum and her own daughter. Using words such as otonashi and obi, she paints the picture of her docile mother whose sense of individuality is silenced by the rigors of an ancient tradition, while in her daughter's life the room reverberates with the contemporary movements of salsa to the tunes of Madonna and the Stones. As she experiences lives within three generations, she herself finds her room filled with the sad melody of shakuhachi as well as music from aging guitars. In this manner, she finds herself torn between two worlds through the choice of words that define the rooms.

Woman throughout the ages have often had to live a life that is dictated and subjugated by tradition and social mores. This poem explores the pain and dilemma that woman undergoes whenever they suffer silently or break free from it. The poet acknowledges that there are no easy solutions for woman's emancipation and either way there is estrangement to experience which is reflected in her lines: "She (her daughter) mirrors my aging." In doing this, she underlines the perpetual double life that woman lives when trying to live life as "the second sex."

Stopping by a Café on a Cold Afternoon

Whose Café is this, I think I know.

His penthouse is in the city, though;

He will not see me stopping here

To sip his dark coffee once more.

The Barista must think it queer

To find me once more at his door

Between the mochas and the lattes

The darkest one of the year.

He gives his jug a shake

To see if froths a mistake.

The only other sight that greets

Is creamy crests and wispy flakes.

The Ethiopian is delicate, dark and deep,

But I have deadlines to meet,

And long to go before I sleep,

And long to go before I sleep.

(With apologies to Mr. Frostee)

Live to Find Something to Die For

Empty vacant spaces

brings lust to my eyes

or is it my mind?

I don't know

All I see is vacant spaces

Pouring out in nothingness

In front of timelessness

Doubting the step forward

I almost stop the move

Before it can express itself

as an imprint is left behind

a new space, unexplored

fills the vacuum non-existent

till then

I think there’s something to

live to find

Something to Die For.

Oftentimes, we relegate people to the backwaters of pervading belief-systems by terming oneself the high-priest/ess of modern "isms." Defining ourselves by positioning on the shifting compasses of what is of current-fancy, we forge our identities and lay claim to the universal emptinesses. In such hegemonic landscape, Reader Response Criticism carves out an idiosyncratic diorama where life still remains defined by what is personally unsaid. The single voice still resounds and given credence in such a vale. In such a disjointed and myopic world, Chekov paints such a picture in "The Lady with the Dog". His world is not of obfuscation and shadows but delineates the truth that borders the world teeming in vagueness and obscurity. His themes, characters and narrative delves in the murky shadows that lie at the heart of human existence and draws forth slivers of light which till then were non-existent. In a post-modern world where cognizance is fluid and formless almost into oblivion, Chekov still harbours in his art-form to draw those lines that have been cast astray to define timelessness.

You, the Unicorn, a Pendant, a Mall and some flies in the eternity of an hour

Tiles like Horned Unicorn:

Sitting in a cafe you find yourself deep within thought when a couple sits next to you. As they settle down and without so-much-as-a-notice, talk nonchalantly as to whether to try the newest shot of caffeine to hit this part of town, you cannot help but eavesdrop on their publicly-aired conversation. The girl makes small-talk trying to clear the air of silence that has apparently been hovering uneasily around them for a while. The girl likens the mosaic created by the floor tiles to that mythical "horned unicorn." The guy airs his frustration while tersely outlining her attempts as nonsensical enterprise with no bearings to real life whatsoever. As he does so, the girl stung by the comment loses her desperate attempts at normalcy and recoils sullenly into her morose shell. Instantly recognising her slipping away from his distant self, her paramour then justifies that happiness is not just a figment of one's imagination but very much a happenstance if only there was no third-party between them. A murky brown puddle idles on the cups' bottom as the couple walk past the coffee-sodden throng. Suddenly, hit with the caffeine-buzz, you wake up from your suspended stupor with a heavy heart and then walk away as the fly on the wall makes its way towards your half-drunk coffee cup.
 

The Lady with a Pendant:
Walking aimlessly amongst the shoals of people darting past by, you unconsciously walk into the local mall as if funneled by a resident vortex you had previously no inkling of. Feet inextricably drawn by the ascending stairs, you end up viewing a glass-case showcasing attractions for those love-lorn. Next to you, a lady draws her partner towards the case and stand alongside. In her eyes, you can see the sad gleam to posses the gilded ring as she glances askance into his eyes. With a conflicted look, he almost seems to shrug—but was it just you imagining… In a fleeting reflection on the glass showcase, you see both their eyes converge on the encased ring within. As they hand-in-hand ponderously disappear into the crowd, you hear the hapless buzz of an entraped fly in the case frantically flipping up-and-down for an escape route that was non-existent.

The Shopping Mall:
Trying to get a closer look at the ring, you step forward only to find something probing beneath your feet. Curious, you move your foot aside to reveal the errant object—an antique pendant with two cut-out photos on each reverse side that had accidentally been prised open by your curious step. Picking it up, you immediately turn around and hurtle in the direction of the couple who have now been enveloped by the bustle in the mall. Shoppers gaze furtively when you try to make past them; while at the same time you unsuccessfully try to shout above the reverberating din. After about an hour, just as you had almost given up hope, for a brief second you see the back of the man's head and chase after him once more. Finally catching up with him, you tug back his hand while dangling the pendant towards him. The man apologetically excuses himself and declines ownership while it slowly dawns upon you that his companion this time around is no longer the one previously encountered. 

An Hour:
Embarrassed and visibly confused, you now amble towards the mall's entrance. A mocking drone teases your ears and as you attempt to flick the bug away, your eyes remain transfixed on the insolent stare of a stranger within the pendant alongside the familiar gaze of the lady’s.

Reading from Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, David set Blake’s metaphysical thoughts as a prelude to writing The Great World. Laying the premise of accidental (destiny) and choice (free-will) in his two central character Vic and Digger, he presented the book as an exploration into the prospects of adopting any of these two seemingly contradictory approaches towards life. However, while doing so, the very nature of these approaches also brought into focus the inherent ambiguities: Vic ultimately revisiting his childhood ideas about life when he thought he could go beyond what was possible and Digger, who although accepting life unquestionably, is profoundly affected by Vic.  In presenting the paradox that lies at the heart of existence, I thought, David was not only questioning the nature of good and bad (Kane and Abel), acceptance and questioning (Blake’s poems), life’s inherent ambiguities (East of Eden) but foremost the relevance of the question in a world where gray seems to be more predominant than black and white.

Interestingly, David’s visit brought back a flood of memories from my school days. In the class, one of my teachers had once read The Tyger and The Lamb which had made me ponder on the contexts of these poems. Growing up as a teen, the questions intrigued and troubled me for at the heart of these questions is the key to existence itself—are we accidents on the third rock from the sun or pre-destined creatures designed to inherit the earth. As I revisited the possibilities and reflected on David’s thoughts on acceptance and change wherein the latter approach seem to make more sense in a world where total self-annihilation is just a hair-trigger away. As his visit too slowly slips into the folds of my memories, I am drawn to his lines in The Great World: … giving shape to what we too have experienced and did not till then have words for, though as soon as they are spoken we know them as our own.

Twisting and turning on the throes of life’s conundrums, one day the following lines flowed from somewhere deep within…


Everyday

Everyday we wake up with the fact that this might be our last day.

Everyday we prepare for work without which there will be no food on the table.

Everyday we hurt someone down the line for it is a part of our work.

Everyday we get hurt for no fault of ours for just being in the way.

Everyday we fall down, but get up to work another day.

Everyday we are the gazelle running away from destiny’s intentions.

Everyday we are the lion hoarding the spoils of war.

Everyday we see struggle lines drawn in our faces in the mirror.

Everyday we feel our hearts break to see what we have become.

Everyday we turn away knowing that the mirror does not lie.

Everyday we see sun going down and the moon coming up.

Everyday we see the birds flying knowing where it wants to soar.

Everyday we see the tree cloaking the earth with its richness.

Everyday we see us tearing the earth apart to burn it up in smoke.

Everyday we know our destiny, and do nothing about it.

I don’t know why Judith Wright is regarded as Australia’s greatest poet, but perhaps I can attempt to understand why she is regarded so. I cannot profess to fathom all the depths she subjects us for—I likewise find the ‘word’ eluding me. In the poems Gum-trees Stripping and The Forest, her affinity and empathy for nature and the roots from which it grows slowly weave their lyrical magic around us. We find her tracing the roots and searching the workings of the universe deeper using the truth that exists in nature as her Rosetta stone. Even when she does revisit something as frivolous as love, she comes away chastising that such passing fancies of youth has more meaning than serious repentance that age has to offer.

The poems The Pool and the Star, Brevity from Notes at Edge and Patterns reveal her in her mystical depths. One can observe the intensification of her spiritual quest and inexorably move towards perpetual truths that have always vexed humanity. Whether it is simplicity in form or structure or the obscurity of metaphysics, she delves in them all in her relentless pursuit of the mysterious. Each time I read the lines especially in Patterns, a paralysing sense of despair overwhelms me as her prophetic words proclaim against the backdrop of Hiroshima and Nagasaki: Perhaps the dark itself is the source of meaning.

Poignancy perhaps finds her best in the poems Two Dreamtimes, Woman to Child and Naked Girl and Mirror where as a woman and a mother she dwells on life, creation and human condition. Judith, in the shared maternal loss, converses with Oodgeroo Noonunccal, her native sister, of the senselessness that plagues humanity irrespective of the colour of the skin—as two mothers bonded by the common knowledge that the drought in humanity will soon parch both their wombs.

In light of Judith Wright…

A shooting star streaks the darkness

with light contouring  its nudity.

I in an instance miss the despot darkness.

What is that within us that makes us paint or write or for that matter pursue any form of art? In our early days as stone age primevals, the visceral experience perhaps must have been burnished by our "conscious" giving vent to our imagination, awe and wonder in the ritual of creation: the cave paintings illustrating the mamoths and hunting scenes. I wonder if they ever realised that not only were they manifesting their thoughts, feelings and experiences but also documenting “life” for ages to come. In early days, surely the motivation wasn’t material gratification, fame or success but perhaps more to do with the connection with the “living process” that we call “life.”

In our quest towards civilization, the progress of art increasingly reflect us being conscious of being “us”whether it be in the pageantry of kings, whimsical everyday articles in still-works, celebrities of the day, and hardships of the “common man.” And in the process, art has evolved from a sensory experience to evolve into a highly introspective psychological one. In all these impressions the common thread that joins them by all is perhaps an attempt to understand the human condition. It seems no matter how advanced our sense of perception—we seem to be fixated and intoxicated by this enigma that is forever unyielding.

Maragaret Preston in all her works represented, to me, this eternal quest. In reaching out to the past and highlighting where we’ve come from, she represents the “past” as the basis of our understanding for our “future” and also lays bare the eternal conundrum of being a human being. She, in her endeavour, does not delve into the complexities of the creative process but rather on the stark simplicity that lets us glimpse the essense of us being ourselves as in putting the mirror in front of us and letting us see what we are for ourselves.

This poem was composed as last minute goodbyes were being exchanged—with friends who gave so freely of their good cheer and company.

Whiffs of Memories of Time Gone Long By

Barren scarecrow trees held low their heads

as cold chill buried deep within their hearts,

White puffs of flakes dappled the air

in cold cheer to bid adieu feathered friends.

Life giving emerald broke open pallid ground

as virgin color blushed the thawing landscape,

Drops of dew hung on captive’s gallows

—proclaiming that freedom was but just a leap away.

Azure skylines ranted with earthly smells

as butterflies flitted through carnal delights,

Promise burst forth in riotous landscape;

drenching afar with maternal sweat.

Crying skies wept on awaiting shoulders

as unspoken past lay unburdened in her lover’s ears.

Easy heaved her heart once more

as naked remnants of torrents laid all asunder.

Gusts of gale flew tawny blades

away from friends one had hung so dear.

Departing wails seem to fade away

as distance receded familiar outlines in the cruel distance.

Silver veil once more cast her spell

in the dreary bleakness of her vigil,

Mists swirled around in wild abandon casting footmarks

—to mark its passage towards the blurry horizon… 

-0-x-o-x-0-x-o-x-0-x-o-x-0-x-o-x

The poem that left a strong impression on me was ‘Rockface’ from The Shadow of Fire: Ghazals by Judith Wright. The spiritual essence of Ghazals comes to the fore in this simple and profound poem. Nature as embodied in the elements such as rocks and mountains touch us to our core when we are able to glimpse the grandeur, beauty and mystery that is inherent in nature. Many a times, we forget these timeless qualities and attempt to create and equate it with our monstrosities only to see them crumbling down through time and fate. The replacements we create turn out poor substitutes as the potent forces of nature stand tall even through the passage of age and upheavals: chastening the ignorant and illuminating the wise. The poet says that once we realise the qualities of a human being, we find no need to twist and distort to find meaning for the truth is ever present in things as they essentially are.

Inspired by the poems and stories read this week. I drifted back to my birthplace: Darjeeling and the poetry is basically a reflection on the course of life-changing events that took place in my/our lives. I've also dedicated this poem to my mum without whom I would not have made it so far. So, here's to you mum!

Living Memories…

As I close my eyes and visit the land of my ancestors,

Conjured is a land that aspires to the skies.

A place where the heaven’s blues embrace its life-hued cousins

as they reach out from abysses below to look into each other’s eyes.

Aromatic smell of pines and firs suffuse the air

with playful bounty of nature’s promised delights. 

Weathered trails wrought along insurmountable steeps

talks of indomitable spirits who roamed in search of life.

As tops of hills come into view after mountains of sweat,

airy chowtharas welcome the weary but irrepressible souls

to a world that is one with the earth and the sky.

And laid to rest is the day’s offerings collected along the way

in the quest to find one’s soul within the view’s serenity.

And then the clouds come into view

with trains spewing loud the black plumes,

which zig-zag over those lost trails and

thump the earth into manacled submission.

And tears flow from cornered rivers atop those steeps

turning the unrelenting wheels of greed and power. 

 

Warm beacons of light that shone

across in the stillness of the moonlight,

blinded they are as gaudy grounds dazzle

to look upwards and mock the muted firmament.

Travel weary strangers greeted previously

by hearts and smiles wide open

contemptuously conceal the joy they once had in giving.

 

Semblance of people now flowed in and

divided nooks and crannies with flags and wires.

Sisters and brothers forgot their common wombs

-severed bloods now seeped in

to fill the abscess left by wrenched love.

And my dear mother witness to macabre humanity

cast adrift us away to the hopeful mountain breeze. 

Reborn spirits recast in fledgling guises

float now away to lands unknown buoyed by ancient roots,

where soils are unfamiliar and water untasted

in far distances to find the hearth they once had known.

And in the walkabout find the voices that once had nurtured

from long lost siblings cast adrift by our mother to find the way home.