Poetry and Conversation

My neighbour (a remarkably astute principal of a college) periodically asks me to judge a poetry contest she conducts during their college festival.  So it was that I spent much of yesterday poring over poems, almost all reflecting teenage angst (except for one, who had written about Hitler's prowess as an artist!).  The title given to them was 'Is This Me', hard enough for anyone to think about, more so perhaps for young adults.

When I went to return the poetry filled sheets, I mentioned to my neighbour about how much angst the students seemed to have.  "Yes," she said, in a very matter of fact way.   "That's partly why I organize these contests - to give them an outlet."

We have all gone through phases of struggle; the process is familiar but the contents seem to have changed, and we discussed this for a while.  She said that the main problem students in her college voiced was not peer pressure but being unable to communicate with their parents.

I was a bit taken aback at this; I had attributed many of the problems to social media, lack of time and place for sport or creative opportunities, a sense of isolation and more.  Not to parents.  But that's not how the students seem to see it.  Reality probably lies somewhere in between but I can see that relentless pushing at home would not help a teenager who is anyway struggling to come to terms with the world around.  Something to ponder about.

The poems were free and frank and reflected more confusion and dismay than anger.

At the end of all this, I was happy to turn back to old loved poetry, to Rilke, who reminds us that every moment is precious and life changing.  I have quoted this poem before but I put it down once more for it moves me each time I read it-

A Walk

My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

Small Poems

My son seems to spend his time whirling together all the words he has heard and stringing them into unlikely verses, which sound very poetic as he says them aloud.  His world revolves around machines and motion (and food!) so these figure most often in his conversation.  Here are a few examples of the little bits of poetry-

Oh, look, that silly excavator

Is going on the escalator..

Now, the tanker sings 

A penne song

And a benne song

And a fusilli song

And a spaghetti song

And songs of all

The food he is eating

That spaghetti 

Has electricity!

Now that earth is spinning

And gravity is spinning

Like a top.

Sufi Kathak

Delhi is always nice at this time of the year, every day there are cultural events that stretch to the festival season and beyond - right upto the end of the year. Many of these are open to a general audience and it was one of these that I attended a few days ago - a new dance form called sufi kathak, that combined the spirit of sufiism with the classical dance of North India, kathak.

Sufiism, a mystical form of Islam moved towards India in the 9th century. Northern India was introduced to this form of spiritual expression through Sufi saints who preached the importance of purifying one's heart and surrendering to God at an individual level. There was no focus on attaining heaven after death as is emphasized in mainstream Islam, instead one strived to experience God in this life, through one's thoughts and actions. Nizamuddin Auliya is one of the most revered Sufi saints of Delhi; he lived in Delhi in the 13th century and his teachings were mainly about the importance of love and compassion. One of his closest disciples, a scholar, musician and royal poet called Amir Khusro, composed a large number of verses in various languages, some of these were set to a distinctive kind of music that he developed (called qawwali) in praise of the teacher, Nizamuddin Auliya or Mehboob e Ilahi (Beloved of God), and his spiritual teachings.

The programme I attended was at the Bahai temple - a beautiful lotus bud structure in white marble with lush lawns and clumps of trees stretching all round. The dance was indoors, but walking past the temple and its picturesque surroundings towards evening, when all colours are altered by the setting sun, with a breeze in the background, was wonderful.

The dance, conceived and arranged by Manjari Chaturvedi (who has begun this new style), was very moving, partly because of her innate grace and partly due to the powerful qawwals from Lucknow, who, through their music, seemed to be beseeching God himself to come down upon the stage. Kathak lends itself well to this form of expression because it naturally has a lot of whirling, akin to that done by Sufi dervishes.

Apparently, this annual programme began last year and it attempts to continue for 22 years, to celebrate the 22 Sufi saints of Delhi. This year, they were focussing on Nizamuddin Aulia (through Amir Khusro's compositions), which was an added treat for me because I love the poetry of Khusro - it is simple and striking (often misleadingly simple) - accessible to all but containing deep spiritual reminders for those who choose to probe beneath the surface. One of my favourites is a two line composition -

Khusrau darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,
Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar.

Oh Khusrau, the river of love
Runs in strange directions.
One who enters it drowns,
And one who drowns, gets across.

This was not sung, but many of his other well known verses were, and by the end of the evening we were all inundated with the music and dance, and walked out rather thoughtfully, past the temple which was now lit up against the dark sky.

Reading 'Letters to a Young Poet'

I am going through, very slowly, translations of Rainer Maria Rilke's letters to an aspiring poet, Franz Xaver Kappus, in the early twentieth century; these have been translated and bundled together in a book 'Letters to a Young Poet'. As the introduction aptly reminds us, they could as well be titled 'Letters from a Young Poet' for the poet Rilke had a tremendous impact on German poetry.

The letters, reflections of some of his poems, are at times dark and disturbing, at other moments, revealing and spiritually profound. He talks of writing, life, the essential creativity of the spirit, the inevitability of solitude and how to accept it, and more. The words seems to spring right from his heart and flow out in a compelling torrent - this is what makes the book haunting and thought provoking. He writes at the end of the first letter:

"What else should I say to you? I think everything has been emphasized as it should be; and all I wanted to do in the end was advise you to go through your development quietly and seriously; you cannot disrupt it more than by looking outwards and expecting answers from without to questions that only your innermost instinct in your quietest moments will perhaps be able to answer."

And, later-

"Make use of whatever you find about you to express yourself, the images from your dreams and the things in your memory. If your everyday life seems to lack material, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; for there is no lack for him who creates and no poor, trivial place."

We have only to read some of Rilke's poems to see this (though something is probably lost in translation)-

A Walk

My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-

and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave...
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.

(Translated by Robert Bly)

The Lorax

Yesterday, at a book sale I happened to choose
A book called 'The Lorax', by Dr. Seuss
Written in super-fantabulous style
It brought a small tear, a hint of a smile
Seeing the Lorax's world, uncannily true
And so I quote a few of the lines to you...

"But those trees!  Those trees!
Those Truffula Trees!
All my life I'd been searching
for trees such as these.
The touch of their tufts
was much softer than silk.
And they had the sweet smell
of fresh butterfly milk

I felt a great leaping
of joy in my heart.
I knew just what I'd do!
I unloaded my cart.
In no time at all, I had built a small shop.
Then I chopped down a Truffula Tree with one chop.
And with great skillful skill and with great speedy speed,
I took the soft tuft.  And I knitted a Thneed!

The instant I'd finished, I heard a ga-Zump!
I looked.
I saw something pop out of the stump
of the tree I'd chopped down.  It was sort of a man.
Describe him?... That's hard.  I don't know if I can.

He was shortish.  And oldish.
And brownish.  And mossy.
And he spoke with a voice
that was sharpish and bossy.

"Mister!" he said with a sawdusty sneeze,
"I am the Lorax.  I speak for the trees.
I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues.
And I'm asking you, sir, at the top of my lungs"-
he was very upset as he shouted and puffed-
"What's that THING you've made out of my Truffula tuft?"

"I repeat," cried the Lorax,
"I speak for the trees!"
"I'm busy," I told him.
"Shut up, if you please."....

But the next week
he knocked
on my new office door.

He snapped,"I'm the Lorax who speaks for the trees
which you seem to be chopping as fast as you please.
But I'm also in charge of the Brown Bar-ba-loots
who played in the shade in their Bar-ba-loot suits
and happily lived, eating Truffula Fruits.

"NOW...thanks to your hacking my trees to the ground,
There's not enough Truffula fruit to go 'round.
And my poor Bar-ba-loots are all getting the crummies
because they have gas, and no food, in their tummies!

"They loved living here.  But I can't let them stay.
They'll have to find food.  And I hope that they may.
Good luck, boys," he cried.  And he sent them away...."


What happens next to the Truffula fruit?
And the brown Bar-ba-loots
in their Bar-ba-loot suits?
Ah! I'm afraid
That I can't say
You must ask the Lorax
When he comes your way.