Hello folks! There's a magazine in America called E-Fiction and it has several branches such as E-Fiction Horror, E-Fiction Romance and so on, and now even E-Poetry, their newest branch. So E-Fiction India is an Indian branch which began around nine months ago, managed by Indian folks. It has a hard copy as well as a soft copy version but you mostly have to pay for it, though on certain dates they allow you to download it for free. E-Fiction India publishes other genres such as poetry as well.
I have a poem published in the June issue, 'Ode to Civil Lines, Delhi, October 2010'. It is elsewhere on this blog as well, but this is a slightly edited version. and so, here goes, my attempt to put my love for my beloved Civil Lines into words...
Oade to Civil Lines, Delhi, October 2010
Dusky darkness steals tiptoes softly
cradling the white fragrance
of the raat rani, shefali, frangipani.
The moon between the two tall palms
is a boat,the star is a kiss on the sea-sky.
At 7pm in the grounds of IP college
spirits and gods and trees converse
mysteries like flying insects are suspended in mid air.
A silhouette of blue smoke seems strangely kindred
At odd hours, this spirit creeps out to share this tryst.
Six years have made it a translucent omnipresence.
Then the smoky spirit glides down the street
pervading ,absorbing atmosphere
which mutates into night smells
jostling against food smells, sounds and lighted
shops, autos at the gas station
cars teeming with yellow cat-eyes
Sights, sounds, memories, smells,feelings
are brewed together, the logic of boundaries
comes undone. The spirit traverses
by-ways of winged hopes,
feathered dreams, nostalgic idylls
of rajpur road, under hill lane, sri ram road
and ram kishore road, that take me across
time and space, desires and sorrows
back to the room of my own I call home.
My five feet four inch fifty kg body
may measure acres, square miles, cities
but a whiff of smoky translucence
will always glide down bylanes of dreams
and memory at 7pm, in the IP grounds
the place that brewed and stewed and cooked
and sprouted me.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
creative writing workshop with Anjum Hasan
and yes, while mentioning some of the "literary" and poetic highlights of the past few months, I simply cannot forget Anjum Hasan's visit to Delhi, her creative writing workshop in JNU with a select group of 15 participants, her readings and other events which I either attended or had short glimpses of :-), and last but not the least, a much prized one-on-one conversation between me and Anjum in the auto and in the metro! :D
and Anjum really liked my poems. yes, she must've told me that at least 3 times. now, isn't that splendid! Thrilling, rather! oooooo!! It is Anjum Hasan after all, you know.
so life at the personal level has sort of been in the doldrums and it has been painful and it hurts and you go all angsty and you dunno how to pick yourself up and what to do, but thank heavens, there is something called writing and something called poetry which can help you heal. So you see, I've been trying to do some of it these past few months. and I mean to keep up. :-)
and Anjum really liked my poems. yes, she must've told me that at least 3 times. now, isn't that splendid! Thrilling, rather! oooooo!! It is Anjum Hasan after all, you know.
so life at the personal level has sort of been in the doldrums and it has been painful and it hurts and you go all angsty and you dunno how to pick yourself up and what to do, but thank heavens, there is something called writing and something called poetry which can help you heal. So you see, I've been trying to do some of it these past few months. and I mean to keep up. :-)
and yes, some more! I had four poems published in Brown Critique, the journal run by the well known poet, Gayatri Majumdar. So it caused much happiness to hear from Gayatri that she "really liked my poems". well, so I'm putting these ones up here, cos it's been a while now since then.
and yes, I must mention that I participated in a competition Poetry Against caste which was organised by Caste Away- a Delhi initiative in partnership with a group from Delhi university as well as Kavi-the Poetry Art Project, and this competiution was judged by another young well known poet, our dearest Meena Kandasamy. There were 2 prizes, neither of which I won, but Meena was kind enough to make a third "special mention" for my poem 'Hypocrisy' which was later published in Brown Critique. It is the last one in the poems that follow below.
Shruti Sareen 4 poems
My Heart Is a Poor Student
For perhaps the 50th time in two weeks
I pick up my heart. Open it. explain to it.
The same words I have repeated
the evening before, I have gone through
the same arguments, the same reasoning.
But my heart is stupid. It is a fool.
... It forgets it all, and I have to explain it
all over again. My heart is stubborn. It asks
too many questions. It disbelieves. It does not
accept. My heart is too soft. That is its biggest
failing. It whimpers with a scolding. It cries
when beaten with a stick. My heart
is a poor student. An easy teacher may have
felt sorry for it. But perhaps you need
to be strict with this heart to the point
of sadism. Or sadomasochism. Banish it
from the classroom. Imprison it within walls.
Sting-slap it. Make it submit. Scream at it
until it is ready to learn. Until it is
pliable. Until it admits its faults. Until
it is willing to work hard. Until it learns
strength. Then the heart will be re-admitted
back into the classroom. With weak students
like my heart, you may sometimes
have to use force.
Drama
It is dialogic like a debate. It has
two sets of choruses. They present opposing
points of view with great melodrama and
emotion. The stage of the theatre is me.
Chorus one is Guilt and Chrous two is
Desire. Chrous two speaks first, it is more
... impatient. It begins with you, it ends
with you, it seems to like talking about you
in the middle too somehow. It seems to think
it the most natural thing. It does not realise
that something is wrong. Chorus two desires
and desires and rails against its punishment,
it cannot wait for it to end. Then,
Over to Guilt, Chorus One. This one
eats into you slowly like a worm does
into an apple. It chastises and
castigates the self, it labels you wicked,
evil, criminal- and leaves you squirming
like the vile worm. It makes you regret
who you are. That is its biggest weapon.
and everything you've ever done.
It makes you rot in hell. This
is the moment of anagnorisis. This
is where the hamartia turns into
peripeteia. Without the fatal flaw,
there would be no play, no hero,
no epiphany either. This is the end
of Act 4. The curtain drops.
Some day, there will be an Act 5
of peace, resolution and hope.
Birthing
A tender newborn green
they emerge from knotted nodes
and nodules that protrude a trifle
crooked from the tall, straight bark
their crown tops high in the sky. The barks,
by and large, are weathered old
... bare browns, except for the birthings.
The new from the old. It must be
so painful. It must hurt so much,
I think, for the green to emerge
from the brown. And for the green
to grow, covering the brown.
The brown would have this concealed
grief, and this submerged heartache
and so much courage, to give
birth to spring.
Hypocrisy
We are the bhadralog. We
the middle class. We, the marxists
we the elite, we the educated.
We are the leftists-ah!
We sit in AC seminar rooms and have
dalit conferences. with biscuits and cakes
and endless streaming cups of coffee.
Sitting in our armchairs, we
denounce the corporates and valourise
the proletariat. We clap, we
back-pat, we volunteer too.
We also take out time for our classic look-
my kajal, my kurta- hey, I'm not your
lip-gloss wearing girl, no way! and he?
His beard is a sign of intellect, can't you see?
The conference ends at 5pm and on our way
back home we see: a woman cleaning a toilet,
a beggar counting coins, some newspaper
flashing some dalit suicide. and we
retreat into bhadralog respectability.
We return to our cleansed and comfortable worlds
'Oh dear, oh dear, so terrible', we say
but what can we do after all? We are tired.
We have done so much all day.
and yes, I must mention that I participated in a competition Poetry Against caste which was organised by Caste Away- a Delhi initiative in partnership with a group from Delhi university as well as Kavi-the Poetry Art Project, and this competiution was judged by another young well known poet, our dearest Meena Kandasamy. There were 2 prizes, neither of which I won, but Meena was kind enough to make a third "special mention" for my poem 'Hypocrisy' which was later published in Brown Critique. It is the last one in the poems that follow below.
Shruti Sareen 4 poems
My Heart Is a Poor Student
For perhaps the 50th time in two weeks
I pick up my heart. Open it. explain to it.
The same words I have repeated
the evening before, I have gone through
the same arguments, the same reasoning.
But my heart is stupid. It is a fool.
... It forgets it all, and I have to explain it
all over again. My heart is stubborn. It asks
too many questions. It disbelieves. It does not
accept. My heart is too soft. That is its biggest
failing. It whimpers with a scolding. It cries
when beaten with a stick. My heart
is a poor student. An easy teacher may have
felt sorry for it. But perhaps you need
to be strict with this heart to the point
of sadism. Or sadomasochism. Banish it
from the classroom. Imprison it within walls.
Sting-slap it. Make it submit. Scream at it
until it is ready to learn. Until it is
pliable. Until it admits its faults. Until
it is willing to work hard. Until it learns
strength. Then the heart will be re-admitted
back into the classroom. With weak students
like my heart, you may sometimes
have to use force.
Drama
It is dialogic like a debate. It has
two sets of choruses. They present opposing
points of view with great melodrama and
emotion. The stage of the theatre is me.
Chorus one is Guilt and Chrous two is
Desire. Chrous two speaks first, it is more
... impatient. It begins with you, it ends
with you, it seems to like talking about you
in the middle too somehow. It seems to think
it the most natural thing. It does not realise
that something is wrong. Chorus two desires
and desires and rails against its punishment,
it cannot wait for it to end. Then,
Over to Guilt, Chorus One. This one
eats into you slowly like a worm does
into an apple. It chastises and
castigates the self, it labels you wicked,
evil, criminal- and leaves you squirming
like the vile worm. It makes you regret
who you are. That is its biggest weapon.
and everything you've ever done.
It makes you rot in hell. This
is the moment of anagnorisis. This
is where the hamartia turns into
peripeteia. Without the fatal flaw,
there would be no play, no hero,
no epiphany either. This is the end
of Act 4. The curtain drops.
Some day, there will be an Act 5
of peace, resolution and hope.
Birthing
A tender newborn green
they emerge from knotted nodes
and nodules that protrude a trifle
crooked from the tall, straight bark
their crown tops high in the sky. The barks,
by and large, are weathered old
... bare browns, except for the birthings.
The new from the old. It must be
so painful. It must hurt so much,
I think, for the green to emerge
from the brown. And for the green
to grow, covering the brown.
The brown would have this concealed
grief, and this submerged heartache
and so much courage, to give
birth to spring.
Hypocrisy
We are the bhadralog. We
the middle class. We, the marxists
we the elite, we the educated.
We are the leftists-ah!
We sit in AC seminar rooms and have
dalit conferences. with biscuits and cakes
and endless streaming cups of coffee.
Sitting in our armchairs, we
denounce the corporates and valourise
the proletariat. We clap, we
back-pat, we volunteer too.
We also take out time for our classic look-
my kajal, my kurta- hey, I'm not your
lip-gloss wearing girl, no way! and he?
His beard is a sign of intellect, can't you see?
The conference ends at 5pm and on our way
back home we see: a woman cleaning a toilet,
a beggar counting coins, some newspaper
flashing some dalit suicide. and we
retreat into bhadralog respectability.
We return to our cleansed and comfortable worlds
'Oh dear, oh dear, so terrible', we say
but what can we do after all? We are tired.
We have done so much all day.
Poems published in Our Private Literature and accepted for North East Review
So, it gives me much pleasure to say that 'Flowers for your Hair' has been accepted for publication by North East Review. For obvious reasons, I cannot put this up here until they have actually published it and some time has elapsed before that, but put it I will. So watch this space!
In the meantime, 'Sad Ootin' was published in another newbie journal that is published from North east India. This issue centred around "Protest". Okay, so I'll leave you with Sad Ootin!
In the meantime, 'Sad Ootin' was published in another newbie journal that is published from North east India. This issue centred around "Protest". Okay, so I'll leave you with Sad Ootin!
Sad Ootin
Ootin is an elf
With a Piglet face
Pixie ears, needle
Eyes and nose.
A flick of my wand
And Ootin appears
Bowing low to the ground
From his waist. Thy wish,
He says, is my command.
Ootin has a fractured soul
A split face, and creaky arms
That need oiling. He also has
A cracked tongue.
Ootin slaves hard night
And day, catering to my whims
He cleans, cooks, washes, sweeps
And sometimes, he brings stolen
Honey from bees, or nectar
From butterflies. Ootin
Does my shopping
So I stay home. He also
Does my work.
I need to keep Ootin busy,
Very busy. Ootin, you see
Is under a curse
When he finishes work
He does mischief, he sticks things.
Yes, he sticks doors and windows
So I can’t open them. He sticks holes
In clothes, so I can’t wear them.
He sticks pots and pans,makes
A mountain of them. He once stuck
A child’s mouth, so it wouldn’t open.
For this, he is punished, yes
of course he is punished.
He is burnt in the fireplace
And beaten with a stick.
Poor Ootin. Sad Ootin.
His is a sad life. Ootin,you see,
Can stick things, but he cannot
Stick his fractured soul, his cracked
Tongue, or his creaking arms.
Otherwise
He could have been free.
Hello folks! It has been a long break, which is shameful and unforgiveable considering that I promised around New Year's to be regular. Well, so this is a week well past the 23rd of May, when this blog turned 5. Heck, whatever. Not in a very celebratory mood. The blog is hardly alive anymore. anyway, we'll keep you running for a couple of years more, Heartstrings, I promise.Then errrm well, we have become sorta ambitious here and we have other plans from life, so we might make Heartstrings a bit more professional and give it a new name, a new look, and a new home. :-)
hmmm... here's a few short updates:
I am now enrolled in Delhi University for a PhD on "Emerging Feminist Trends in Indian Poetry in English". Looking at mostly all the delightful women who have been writing poetry around gender issues in the past 15 years. :-)
I presented a paper in JNU in the Indian World(s) of Indian English Literature seminar on the topic- "Frontiers- Dividing and Connecting Places: in the poetry of Arundhathi Subramaniam, Anjum Hasan, CP Surendran, and Tabish Khair" (14-15 March 2013)
Presented another paper at Jamia Millia Islamia in the seminar 'Food for Thought' on 18th April 2013 entitled " Food, Love, and Self in Indian Women's Poetry in English" This one will probably be published a little way down the line as well.
and yes, besides presenting papers for the first time in my life in places besides IP College (oh heck, Indraprastha college for Women, there you go!) and Mphil seminars, I have also begun proper formal teaching for the first time in my life. :D
oh well, we start small, it's not a fairytale world, so I taught in 3 different Delhi University colleges all within 3-4 months, filling up for other teachers who were on leave! well, may the job hunt continue and may more opportunities reveal themselves!
and yes, the "real" poetry bit comes up in another post rightaway. :-)
hmmm... here's a few short updates:
I am now enrolled in Delhi University for a PhD on "Emerging Feminist Trends in Indian Poetry in English". Looking at mostly all the delightful women who have been writing poetry around gender issues in the past 15 years. :-)
I presented a paper in JNU in the Indian World(s) of Indian English Literature seminar on the topic- "Frontiers- Dividing and Connecting Places: in the poetry of Arundhathi Subramaniam, Anjum Hasan, CP Surendran, and Tabish Khair" (14-15 March 2013)
Presented another paper at Jamia Millia Islamia in the seminar 'Food for Thought' on 18th April 2013 entitled " Food, Love, and Self in Indian Women's Poetry in English" This one will probably be published a little way down the line as well.
and yes, besides presenting papers for the first time in my life in places besides IP College (oh heck, Indraprastha college for Women, there you go!) and Mphil seminars, I have also begun proper formal teaching for the first time in my life. :D
oh well, we start small, it's not a fairytale world, so I taught in 3 different Delhi University colleges all within 3-4 months, filling up for other teachers who were on leave! well, may the job hunt continue and may more opportunities reveal themselves!
and yes, the "real" poetry bit comes up in another post rightaway. :-)
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Paper on Anjum Hasan's poetry published in Muse India!
Hello folks!
And a happy new year!
I am surprised to find that I have shamefully neglected this blog of late, my last post is almost 5-6 months ago! I will definitely take it as a new year resolution to be more regular with this blog, even if I am no longer putting up every poem that I write!
Hmmm... amidst much upsetting upheaval in my "personal" life, and an ongoing fruitless (and hopefully not hopeless!) job hunt in my "academic and professional" life, I just got some good news which will do just as well as some other kind of cheer to begin the new year with.
I have a paper on Anjum Hasan's poetry collection Street on the Hill published in Muse India. Issue Jan-Feb 2013. First time I'm getting a real paper published that feels satisfying! oh well, not such a big deal either, really. This paper has been culled from my Mphil dissertation on "The Imagined and the Inhabited City in the poetry of Arundhathi Subramaniam, Anjum Hasan, C.P.Surendran and Tabish Khair". This issue of Muse India focusses on Indian Poetry in English, as well as on the Marginalised Literature of the North East. My paper is in the latter section. To read it as well as other interesting stuff (and there IS real interesting stuff in BOTH the sections), just follow this link.
And watch out for more blog posts soon... I promise!
And a happy new year!
I am surprised to find that I have shamefully neglected this blog of late, my last post is almost 5-6 months ago! I will definitely take it as a new year resolution to be more regular with this blog, even if I am no longer putting up every poem that I write!
Hmmm... amidst much upsetting upheaval in my "personal" life, and an ongoing fruitless (and hopefully not hopeless!) job hunt in my "academic and professional" life, I just got some good news which will do just as well as some other kind of cheer to begin the new year with.
I have a paper on Anjum Hasan's poetry collection Street on the Hill published in Muse India. Issue Jan-Feb 2013. First time I'm getting a real paper published that feels satisfying! oh well, not such a big deal either, really. This paper has been culled from my Mphil dissertation on "The Imagined and the Inhabited City in the poetry of Arundhathi Subramaniam, Anjum Hasan, C.P.Surendran and Tabish Khair". This issue of Muse India focusses on Indian Poetry in English, as well as on the Marginalised Literature of the North East. My paper is in the latter section. To read it as well as other interesting stuff (and there IS real interesting stuff in BOTH the sections), just follow this link.
And watch out for more blog posts soon... I promise!
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Two poems in Vayavya
Vayavya, a literary journal, is an initiative of Mihir Vatsa, a young Delhi University literature student. I am glad he asked me to send my poems for this issue, which happens to be the fourth. The journal is creditable, do check it (and my poems) out here. (delighted at my newly acquired skill of putting hyperlinks, I like to show off :-) )
I am also putting the poems below. Old ones, these, but old favourites :-)
Jealous-green
From a sober olive green
dark, sombre, brooding jealousy
to bright emerald which screams
its insecurities to your face
to jade- moss- parrot green
to the sickly green pallor
of vomiting food or
unpalatable emotions.
I have turned all
greened all, screamed
from the pain of burning
a yellow-red-orange flame
which I try to simmer down,
swallow down, green-it-down
before it rages and runs amuck.
I wonder what's green about
Envy.
How to Make a Juda
A wealth of hair
wound around my hand
twisted, just so
with a flip movement, there.
And then there's the inner filling
the stuffing
which must be put in
just right, neither caving in
nor protruding
ouch! That was tricky!
A cautious patting of the bun
to affirm its roundness
its smoothness, neatness
And the wooden stick
with its carved, crowning head
is now inserted
at just the right angle.
Or a pencil or a paintbrush
would do as well
if sticks are few.
Holding up a mass of hair
with a single stick
and grace
that comes from minimalism
The art of juda making
like the art of poetry
is of delicate precision
I am also putting the poems below. Old ones, these, but old favourites :-)
Jealous-green
From a sober olive green
dark, sombre, brooding jealousy
to bright emerald which screams
its insecurities to your face
to jade- moss- parrot green
to the sickly green pallor
of vomiting food or
unpalatable emotions.
I have turned all
greened all, screamed
from the pain of burning
a yellow-red-orange flame
which I try to simmer down,
swallow down, green-it-down
before it rages and runs amuck.
I wonder what's green about
Envy.
How to Make a Juda
A wealth of hair
wound around my hand
twisted, just so
with a flip movement, there.
And then there's the inner filling
the stuffing
which must be put in
just right, neither caving in
nor protruding
ouch! That was tricky!
A cautious patting of the bun
to affirm its roundness
its smoothness, neatness
And the wooden stick
with its carved, crowning head
is now inserted
at just the right angle.
Or a pencil or a paintbrush
would do as well
if sticks are few.
Holding up a mass of hair
with a single stick
and grace
that comes from minimalism
The art of juda making
like the art of poetry
is of delicate precision
Three Poems in Muse India
Three poems are up in the July-August issue of Muse India which deals with the theme of Monsoon- 'Varsha Ritu'. You can see them here. (let me mention here that I am vastly proud of my newly acquired skills in putting hyperlinks and on top of the world)
I am also putting the poems below :-)
SUMMER RAIN
The amaltas in the distance glows yellow
The newly washed world is sparkling and clean
The rain has clothed it with a rainbow hued sheen
Splashing and tweeting in puddles flock sparrows.
Parakeets stick their heads from tree hollows
The gulmohur leaves laugh verdant green
Forming a feathery, whispery screen
The orange melons in the fields dream mellow.
Here and there you can spy ripe mangoes
I wish a blue throated peacock would preen
That would be a splendid sight to have seen
Eagerly pecking at the fruits crowd crows.
With the stormy winds I want to dance
Filling each pore with a touch of romance.
LANDOUR DAYS
It was a gift
To lose myself in Landour greens
In the june heat
A gift of blue purple rain clouds
Raintrees rain birds in the mountains
And rivers making love to the sky
It was a gift of song and laughter
Ruskined epiphanies
Bonding unsullied Garhwal beauty
It was a mother’s gift
To her daughter at sixteen.
Years later I was to know
Of your Landour trips
And to treasure the fact
Landour desires oozing out of me.
RAIN
Music of the aeolian harp
melody of flute and lyre
It is the sound of heavens laughing
the thunder is the tabla beating
destroying habit
enforced freedom from routine
I tune in with the rhythms of this dance
to be set free.
I am also putting the poems below :-)
SUMMER RAIN
The amaltas in the distance glows yellow
The newly washed world is sparkling and clean
The rain has clothed it with a rainbow hued sheen
Splashing and tweeting in puddles flock sparrows.
Parakeets stick their heads from tree hollows
The gulmohur leaves laugh verdant green
Forming a feathery, whispery screen
The orange melons in the fields dream mellow.
Here and there you can spy ripe mangoes
I wish a blue throated peacock would preen
That would be a splendid sight to have seen
Eagerly pecking at the fruits crowd crows.
With the stormy winds I want to dance
Filling each pore with a touch of romance.
LANDOUR DAYS
It was a gift
To lose myself in Landour greens
In the june heat
A gift of blue purple rain clouds
Raintrees rain birds in the mountains
And rivers making love to the sky
It was a gift of song and laughter
Ruskined epiphanies
Bonding unsullied Garhwal beauty
It was a mother’s gift
To her daughter at sixteen.
Years later I was to know
Of your Landour trips
And to treasure the fact
Landour desires oozing out of me.
RAIN
Music of the aeolian harp
melody of flute and lyre
It is the sound of heavens laughing
the thunder is the tabla beating
destroying habit
enforced freedom from routine
I tune in with the rhythms of this dance
to be set free.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
a 'found text' poem in hindi
Wanting to try my hand at writing a poem in Hindi, my mother tongue. Again something for which TAM gave me the opportunity. This poem was written using the words of an interview. There were a set of questions and we interviewed each other and wrote down the other person's answers. Then we chose interesting words from these answers and created a poem out of it. My found text poem in hindi is about found text itself. This one is purely for laughs and is not meant to be taken seriously! :-)
‘Found text” poem in hindi written by using words from interview answers
Yeh kavita doosron ke likhe shabdon
Ko apna banati hai, punah parakh kar
Naye raaston se jaanti hai, aur unke
Zyaada karib aa jati hai.
Yeh puranay shabd kuchh naye kapde, kuchh
Naye arth pehen lete hain, jaise
Ek girgit apna rang badalti hai.
Jakde hue shabdon ko khula
Chhod deti hai aur ve shabd
Chand tak udaan bhar lete hain.
Shabdon ko sunkar rang
Dikhayi dene lagte hain, aur naye ghar,
Ek naya sheher bunate hain.
‘Found text” poem in hindi written by using words from interview answers
Yeh kavita doosron ke likhe shabdon
Ko apna banati hai, punah parakh kar
Naye raaston se jaanti hai, aur unke
Zyaada karib aa jati hai.
Yeh puranay shabd kuchh naye kapde, kuchh
Naye arth pehen lete hain, jaise
Ek girgit apna rang badalti hai.
Jakde hue shabdon ko khula
Chhod deti hai aur ve shabd
Chand tak udaan bhar lete hain.
Shabdon ko sunkar rang
Dikhayi dene lagte hain, aur naye ghar,
Ek naya sheher bunate hain.
translating Neeraj's hindi poem into english
This is purely informal and just for fun! Trying out my hand at translating from hindi to english, for the first time! again, something I have long wanted to learn how to do. TAM just gave me the opportunity to experiment. :-)
Translation of ‘Jab teri yaad aayi’ by Gopaldas Saxena Neeraj, from Phir Deep Jalega, pg 140
The original hindi poem follows after my translation
When I remembered you
I wrote a song for your tresses, for your fierce glances,
and the ghazal composed itself, when I remembered you.
Sleep fled my eyes at night
Flew away like a scent
When the wind kissed
The henna on your hands
It rained from every direction- when I remembered you.
Like a yogi chanting prayers
I began to sing with every breath
A face coming and going
In front of my eyes
Home became a palace- when I remembered you.
When I uttered your name
Diyas lit up my heart
When I found you near me
The blackest of days turned fair
My world changed- when I remembered you.
Jab teri yaad aayi
Zulf par geet likha, sher nazaron pai kaha
Ban gayi khud hi ghazal- jab teri yaad aayi
Khushboo ban banke uri
Neend raaton ki meri
Jab hava choom gayi
Mehendi haathon ki teri
Barse har simta keval- jab teri yaad aayi
Ek jogin ki tarah
Saans har gaane lagi
Shakl nazaron mein koi
Aane aur jaane lagi
Ghar bana rajmahal- jab teri yaad aayi
Naam jab tera liya
Jal uthey dil mein diye
Paas jab paya tujhe
Kale din gorey hue
Gayi duniya hi badal – jab teri yaad aayi
Translation of ‘Jab teri yaad aayi’ by Gopaldas Saxena Neeraj, from Phir Deep Jalega, pg 140
The original hindi poem follows after my translation
When I remembered you
I wrote a song for your tresses, for your fierce glances,
and the ghazal composed itself, when I remembered you.
Sleep fled my eyes at night
Flew away like a scent
When the wind kissed
The henna on your hands
It rained from every direction- when I remembered you.
Like a yogi chanting prayers
I began to sing with every breath
A face coming and going
In front of my eyes
Home became a palace- when I remembered you.
When I uttered your name
Diyas lit up my heart
When I found you near me
The blackest of days turned fair
My world changed- when I remembered you.
Jab teri yaad aayi
Zulf par geet likha, sher nazaron pai kaha
Ban gayi khud hi ghazal- jab teri yaad aayi
Khushboo ban banke uri
Neend raaton ki meri
Jab hava choom gayi
Mehendi haathon ki teri
Barse har simta keval- jab teri yaad aayi
Ek jogin ki tarah
Saans har gaane lagi
Shakl nazaron mein koi
Aane aur jaane lagi
Ghar bana rajmahal- jab teri yaad aayi
Naam jab tera liya
Jal uthey dil mein diye
Paas jab paya tujhe
Kale din gorey hue
Gayi duniya hi badal – jab teri yaad aayi
Visual for a Spanish poem on artichokes
This was a visual made during the TAM workshops. There was a Spanish poem on artichokes. We heard an English translation of it once. and then we had to make our own varied adaptations, translations, transcreations of the poem in whichever manner we wanted to. I decided to take this as an opportunity to experiment with the visual medium, something I've always wanted to do, but never had the courage, really. This is a visual translation of the Spanish poem. ideally, it should have included a gun too, something I conveniently chose to do without. :-)
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
TAM poetry workshops, and Happy 4th Birthday, blog!
From October 2011 to April 2012, I was fortunate enough to be part of a series of Text-as-Material poetry workshops organised by the poet, Vivek Narayanan at CSDS, Sarai. These workshops have truly done what they set out to do, that is, taught me to see texts, all kind of texts, as materials for more work. We experimented a lot with "found text". Found text is text taken from anywhere, newspaper reports, interviews, other people's emails, advertisements, finding words from there which, as Vivek says, "do something to you", and seeing how these words written by another can actually be used by you to express something that you might have otherwise found hard to express. Again, as Vivek says, in poetry, discipline can lead to more freedom. For example, writing in form with a specific rhyme scheme and metre can at times help a lot of things emerge which otherwise perhaps may not have. Similarly, found text, as another way of disciplining that helps one find freedom. :-)
Over the course of these workshops, I have begun to see the inter-relationship of all art, of a photograph, a painting, a poem, an advertisement, an email... a poem can emerge out of just about anything. I can translate/adapt a poem into a pictorial visual representation. Experimenting with art work, hindi poetry, translation, in the immensely freeing, creative, and non-judgemental space of the sarai basement was a beautiful experience. and plus, I got to know the loveliest of interesting people, thanks to these workshops, oh so many of them! :-) Looking forward now to the chapbook publication we hope to have in a month or so, although formally TAM is at an end...
And yes, Happy Fourth Birthday, beloved blog! :-) You have survived through many stages of my writing, and I hope you will live to see many more. Amen!
Over the course of these workshops, I have begun to see the inter-relationship of all art, of a photograph, a painting, a poem, an advertisement, an email... a poem can emerge out of just about anything. I can translate/adapt a poem into a pictorial visual representation. Experimenting with art work, hindi poetry, translation, in the immensely freeing, creative, and non-judgemental space of the sarai basement was a beautiful experience. and plus, I got to know the loveliest of interesting people, thanks to these workshops, oh so many of them! :-) Looking forward now to the chapbook publication we hope to have in a month or so, although formally TAM is at an end...
And yes, Happy Fourth Birthday, beloved blog! :-) You have survived through many stages of my writing, and I hope you will live to see many more. Amen!
Sunday, April 8, 2012
CaPoWriMo 2012
Hello folks!
I am doing the Caferati Poetry Writing Month CaPoWriMo this April for the third time running. to see the Caferati cues for each day, you can visit http://www.caferati.blogspot.com/
To see my April CaPoWriMo 2012 poems, you can add me as a friend on facebook and read my notes there. If you're not on facebook and you still want to read them, of course you can always email me at shrutanne@gmail.com and ask me for them. :-)
Sorry blog, but this is the way it's going to be, it seems!
I am doing the Caferati Poetry Writing Month CaPoWriMo this April for the third time running. to see the Caferati cues for each day, you can visit http://www.caferati.blogspot.com/
To see my April CaPoWriMo 2012 poems, you can add me as a friend on facebook and read my notes there. If you're not on facebook and you still want to read them, of course you can always email me at shrutanne@gmail.com and ask me for them. :-)
Sorry blog, but this is the way it's going to be, it seems!
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Two Poems in the Seven Sisters Post :-)
Two poems appeared in the Literary Supplement, 'Postcript', of the Assamese Newspaper, 'The Seven Sisters Post' on sunday, 18th March 2012. These poems focus, as does the entire newspaper, upon North-East India. You can see the scanned paper here http:// http://%20http//sevensisterspost.com/epaper/SUNDAY_8198381803/
You can also see them at http:// http://%20http//www.nelitreview.com/2012/03/ipen-poems-by-shruti-sareen.html, though this site is under maintenance till about 25th March 2012. They're okay-ish poems, but I'm glad they found a happy home... :-)
Here are the poems below... :-)
This poem is about the Indian bullet.
It is about Naga tribes in Manipur
and the Meghalaya which was
... a part of Assam. This poem
is about the island of Majuli.
This poem is about the fertility of guns
and the orality of bullets.
It is about the reality of the unknown.
It is about you, and me, and them.
It is about us. This poem
is also about flowers.
In the Tea garden of Tebhaga
I don't have even two bighas of land
I work in a tea garden
as a labourer.
I don't have money, it's the famine na
There is nothing to eat, so
I eat khichdi everyday.
There are three daughters, a family
They don't have clothes, so
After washing them they wait
for the clothes to dry.
The zamindar's men come to sell water
I tell them "no money.
don't want water."
The bastards, they pour the water on the ground
and ask me for payment.
You can also see them at http:// http://%20http//www.nelitreview.com/2012/03/ipen-poems-by-shruti-sareen.html, though this site is under maintenance till about 25th March 2012. They're okay-ish poems, but I'm glad they found a happy home... :-)
Here are the poems below... :-)
This poem is about the Indian bullet.
It is about Naga tribes in Manipur
and the Meghalaya which was
... a part of Assam. This poem
is about the island of Majuli.
This poem is about the fertility of guns
and the orality of bullets.
It is about the reality of the unknown.
It is about you, and me, and them.
It is about us. This poem
is also about flowers.
In the Tea garden of Tebhaga
I don't have even two bighas of land
I work in a tea garden
as a labourer.
I don't have money, it's the famine na
There is nothing to eat, so
I eat khichdi everyday.
There are three daughters, a family
They don't have clothes, so
After washing them they wait
for the clothes to dry.
The zamindar's men come to sell water
I tell them "no money.
don't want water."
The bastards, they pour the water on the ground
and ask me for payment.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
On blogging, publishing and naivete
Dear Heartstrings and dear blog-readers,
I haven't been posting poems here lately. I just wanted to say that that really doesn't mean that I haven't been writing. It's just that I have woken up to dangers and threats and norms, and, quoting the title of Nitoo Das' once-upon-a-time blog post 'Blogging and Naivete' have realised that it's high time to stop being naive. Now, my reasons for being naive may be similar or may be completely different from the ones mentioned in that post.
My reason for choosing not to put up unpublished poems on this blog anymore is because many magazines and journals consider blog-publishing as real "publishing" and everybody wants only unpublished stuff as submissions and contributions. Once, twice, thrice, I can bend and twist the rule, but not the fourth time. To be ethically correct, and to play by the rules and norms, I decided not to put up unpublished stuff here. I am not very worried about plagiarism because I do not yet think my poems are good enough yet for anyone to want to plagiarise them. However, it's a two-in-one thing, if I don't put up unpublished stuff on the blog, it acts as a deterrent to plagiarism as well. and published stuff is always copyrighted. beyond that, if someone wants to copy, they can copy from just about anywhere, why just the blog, heck!
I delayed putting up this post quite a bit. Two months ago, it almost broke my heart to desert my beloved blog. But I didn't want to "close" this blog just now and to keep it only for a few "invited readers". I'd rather not do that just yet. A lot of people visit this blog, and I really value and appreciate that, and I can't build an identity roll or list! So I ultimately decided to keep this blog public, as it is, but to put up poems only after they have been published.
I can always diversify and put up other things besides poetry! Though I do hope that the poetry will keep running alongside intermittently too! :-)
I haven't been posting poems here lately. I just wanted to say that that really doesn't mean that I haven't been writing. It's just that I have woken up to dangers and threats and norms, and, quoting the title of Nitoo Das' once-upon-a-time blog post 'Blogging and Naivete' have realised that it's high time to stop being naive. Now, my reasons for being naive may be similar or may be completely different from the ones mentioned in that post.
My reason for choosing not to put up unpublished poems on this blog anymore is because many magazines and journals consider blog-publishing as real "publishing" and everybody wants only unpublished stuff as submissions and contributions. Once, twice, thrice, I can bend and twist the rule, but not the fourth time. To be ethically correct, and to play by the rules and norms, I decided not to put up unpublished stuff here. I am not very worried about plagiarism because I do not yet think my poems are good enough yet for anyone to want to plagiarise them. However, it's a two-in-one thing, if I don't put up unpublished stuff on the blog, it acts as a deterrent to plagiarism as well. and published stuff is always copyrighted. beyond that, if someone wants to copy, they can copy from just about anywhere, why just the blog, heck!
I delayed putting up this post quite a bit. Two months ago, it almost broke my heart to desert my beloved blog. But I didn't want to "close" this blog just now and to keep it only for a few "invited readers". I'd rather not do that just yet. A lot of people visit this blog, and I really value and appreciate that, and I can't build an identity roll or list! So I ultimately decided to keep this blog public, as it is, but to put up poems only after they have been published.
I can always diversify and put up other things besides poetry! Though I do hope that the poetry will keep running alongside intermittently too! :-)
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Four poems in Muse India (Jan-Feb 2012 issue)
Four poems out in the Jan-Feb 2012 issue of Muse India. The annual issue edited by Prof GJV Prasad. The poems are 'Making Love', 'Red: a sonnet', 'Nasturtiums', and 'Lost in your House'. The poems are elsewhere on this blog. 'Nasturtiums isn't, so I am putting it here.
Do check out the Muse India issue at Four poems out in the Jan-Feb 2012 issue of Muse India. The annual issue edited by Prof GJV Prasad. The poems are 'Making Love', 'Red: a sonnet', 'Nasturtiums', and 'Lost in your House'. The poems are elsewhere on this blog. 'Nasturtiums isn't, so I am putting it here. Do check out the Muse India issue at http://www.museindia.com/featurecontent.asp?issid=41&id=3082 It has, among others, Priti Aisola, Uddipana Goswami, Temsula Ao, and Tabish Khair. :-)
Nasturtiums
The curves of your leaves
ache
for ripples of water to reflect them
... They contemplate escape from pots
They dream of the memory of the pool
they must have surrounded
when Narcissus looked into its mirror
and fell in love.
They wait eagerly
for the orange laugh of blossoms
Do check out the Muse India issue at Four poems out in the Jan-Feb 2012 issue of Muse India. The annual issue edited by Prof GJV Prasad. The poems are 'Making Love', 'Red: a sonnet', 'Nasturtiums', and 'Lost in your House'. The poems are elsewhere on this blog. 'Nasturtiums isn't, so I am putting it here. Do check out the Muse India issue at http://www.museindia.com/featurecontent.asp?issid=41&id=3082 It has, among others, Priti Aisola, Uddipana Goswami, Temsula Ao, and Tabish Khair. :-)
Nasturtiums
The curves of your leaves
ache
for ripples of water to reflect them
... They contemplate escape from pots
They dream of the memory of the pool
they must have surrounded
when Narcissus looked into its mirror
and fell in love.
They wait eagerly
for the orange laugh of blossoms
Monday, January 16, 2012
Two poems in Reading Hour and some news!
Two poems published in Reading Hour-Jan-Feb issue. I am copy-pasting the two poems below so that you can read them here. :-) 'Home' and 'The Weft and the Warp'. The Weft and the Warp is a sort of love poem, how poetry can connect and unite two people, and Home was written for Civil Lines, Delhi.
Home
There are floating roots and
aerial roots, but I
prefer under-the-ground ones.
Cold winds may blow and tempests
may rage, I may
be hungry and broken
But in Emily Bronte-ish fashion
“Nothing drear can move me
I will not, cannot go”
faith may seem to totter and
angst may seem to win
But, in the words of a childhood
'Chapni' tale
“The world is big, it's fun to roam
But the nicest, nicest place is home”
The Weft and the Warp
Snip. Snip. Click. Swish.
A whisking metallic sound
breaks silence with a tone of finality
scissors cut cleanly through cloth.
Hearts too are torn and ripped
like cloth, mine has frayed edges
jagged threads stick out.
the knit is lost without the purl, the weft
goes in search of the warp.
A new thread can stitch them
into a patchwork compromise
Poetry can sew hearts and
my warped lines
woven with doubt, hope and insecurity
the head bent in prayer
ardently long to find
the weft of yours.
And the news? Just the possibility of being invited by Toto Funds the Arts to bangalore for a poetry reading sometime this year. if that would happen, it would be my very first! and so exciting! :-))
And yes, Happy New Year and all that!
Home
There are floating roots and
aerial roots, but I
prefer under-the-ground ones.
Cold winds may blow and tempests
may rage, I may
be hungry and broken
But in Emily Bronte-ish fashion
“Nothing drear can move me
I will not, cannot go”
faith may seem to totter and
angst may seem to win
But, in the words of a childhood
'Chapni' tale
“The world is big, it's fun to roam
But the nicest, nicest place is home”
The Weft and the Warp
Snip. Snip. Click. Swish.
A whisking metallic sound
breaks silence with a tone of finality
scissors cut cleanly through cloth.
Hearts too are torn and ripped
like cloth, mine has frayed edges
jagged threads stick out.
the knit is lost without the purl, the weft
goes in search of the warp.
A new thread can stitch them
into a patchwork compromise
Poetry can sew hearts and
my warped lines
woven with doubt, hope and insecurity
the head bent in prayer
ardently long to find
the weft of yours.
And the news? Just the possibility of being invited by Toto Funds the Arts to bangalore for a poetry reading sometime this year. if that would happen, it would be my very first! and so exciting! :-))
And yes, Happy New Year and all that!
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Viewerscope/ Solipsism
Viewerscope / Solipsism
In a flash, I can turn
Darkness into light.
In a zooming jiffy, people
Become larger than life.
All I do is change the metaphor,
Really. I mix a tinge of black
With the red to make it maroon.
I can make a big tree and
A small boy. Or vice-versa. I can make
Moons fly, I can make men stand
On their heads, I can overturn
Buildings. Perhaps empires too.
I can turn that frown
Into a smile. Just a concave
And a convex difference, really.
I can make things blurry, I can
Make ‘em clear, I can make
The merry go round go faster
And faster. I just need
To change the lens, really.
In a flash, I can turn
Darkness into light.
In a zooming jiffy, people
Become larger than life.
All I do is change the metaphor,
Really. I mix a tinge of black
With the red to make it maroon.
I can make a big tree and
A small boy. Or vice-versa. I can make
Moons fly, I can make men stand
On their heads, I can overturn
Buildings. Perhaps empires too.
I can turn that frown
Into a smile. Just a concave
And a convex difference, really.
I can make things blurry, I can
Make ‘em clear, I can make
The merry go round go faster
And faster. I just need
To change the lens, really.
Metempsychosis: a poem for Virginia Woolf
Metempsychosis: a poem for Virginia Woolf
Me-tem-psy-cho-sis
Said Joyce, is transmigration
Of souls.
If a soul from any earthly body
Flew into me, it was your own.
Perhaps it was made of fire and dew
In a rainbow. I have a spirit
Fashioned of your spirit.
You unearthed dormant rage in me
And let it live. You made me see
Myself in a mirror, fashioned out of
The clear depths of a river.
You helped me accept
This image in the river, you led
Me by the hand, whispering softly
Oh, ever so softly!, you lifted me
To ecstasy, you made me plunge
Into deep pain, you played
Havoc with my soul. I am a half-full
Cup of grief
And you make me whole to the brim
As you lead me
To ever-widening
Moments of being.
Me-tem-psy-cho-sis
Said Joyce, is transmigration
Of souls.
If a soul from any earthly body
Flew into me, it was your own.
Perhaps it was made of fire and dew
In a rainbow. I have a spirit
Fashioned of your spirit.
You unearthed dormant rage in me
And let it live. You made me see
Myself in a mirror, fashioned out of
The clear depths of a river.
You helped me accept
This image in the river, you led
Me by the hand, whispering softly
Oh, ever so softly!, you lifted me
To ecstasy, you made me plunge
Into deep pain, you played
Havoc with my soul. I am a half-full
Cup of grief
And you make me whole to the brim
As you lead me
To ever-widening
Moments of being.
Parrot Parody
Parrot Parody
You hear them chattering
in the hidden green, long before
the red of its curved mithu-parrot beak
comes into view.
Leaf green, parrot green
Bright emerald green.
Tai-tai-tai-chai-chai-to-ta-to-ta
Preening, pirouetting
Prancing, dancing, proudly pecking
Strutting they seem to parody
A bunch of noisy women.
I fly with them to my favourite places
To you, and you, ..... and you.
You hear them chattering
in the hidden green, long before
the red of its curved mithu-parrot beak
comes into view.
Leaf green, parrot green
Bright emerald green.
Tai-tai-tai-chai-chai-to-ta-to-ta
Preening, pirouetting
Prancing, dancing, proudly pecking
Strutting they seem to parody
A bunch of noisy women.
I fly with them to my favourite places
To you, and you, ..... and you.
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