Author: borderlesssg1

Categories
Poets, Poetry & Rhys Hughes

Night in Karnataka: A Play by Rhys Hughes

Photo provided by Rhys Hughes: From public domain 
NIGHT IN KARNATAKA

Night in Karnataka. And the chapatti-flat pointy faced chap taking a nap on the lap of the cool breeze, spearlike chin piercing the caps of his hard knees, finally wakes...

    My nap was nipped in the bed…
    I mean bud, he said.

And he yawns in an hour long before dawn. Soon she will return and he will sing:

    Yours were
    the tamarind tipped mammaries
    from which I sipped
             with my lips
      without pause.

Already he can hear her footsteps as she walks along the path next to the river. O! night in balmy Karnataka! Mango fandango and guava palaver. She croons the following:

   I will strip you down and kiss you 
   all over. And tickle you with my 
   sweet tongue on the sides of your 
   ribs.
          Then I’ll pluck one of your 
    ribs and make a woman. A rib-cage 
    ready-made maid.

HE: She can cook for us?
SHE: Yes, but you must pay her well.
HE: With what? I am penniless and feckless, a freckle-cheeked pointy faced chap, brow-beaten and lacking grace, who clearly hasn’t eaten for several days.
SHE: I have brought you a coconut. We will eat it together inside the hut. A rhyme will fill us up until then, will it not?

(She dances alluringly)

  Coconut husk or husky voice.
      We have no choice
  but to enjoy the coconut milk
     of human kindness.

HE: There is no tool to open it.
SHE: Crack it with your chin, O pointy faced chap!      Thwack it once or twice or even thrice and don’t be such a fool.
HE: I know that a man in love is like a glove without a hand. I am that glove and I need a hand with the gift that you bring. To crack a nut as big as that requires more than a simple chin. It would damage my heavenly head and to be well fed I am not inclined to sin. I am feckless but clearly not reckless. That shell would be hell for my infernal chin.

And then she says:

    Wary of shells
     you are. I wear
   tinkling bells on
     my ankles. Can
   you hear them from
     afar? O! pointy
   faced chap you
     should clap your
  hands and tap your
     heels to keep the
  fine timing of this
     rhyme, to keep the
  sublime rhythm
    of this auspicious,
  meretricious, quite
     delicious song.

HE: I will clap and tap as I am bid.

(An hour or two goes by)

From his rib she makes a maid but he is afraid something will go wrong. And it does. The maid has no desire to work like a slave. She plucks one of his other ribs and makes a man before they can stop her. The maid and the new man sing an amorous duet before eloping:

  Robbed of ribs he rubs
  his chest. We must
  confess that we
  would take
  any part
  of his
  body that was required for
                         us to
                       achieve    
                    our desire.
                  A ready made
             maid and her bony
        beau. Off we go to set
      up house together…

(No matter the weather, they flee.)

HE: They are eloping on a horse. There are no horses here. I don’t understand!
SHE: O! pointy faced chap. The coconut halves are hooves and this proves that nothing but nothing is an obstacle to true love.
He: Nothing but nothing? Now then. What is this second nothing of which you speak? Tell me quickly and kiss my cheek.
SHE: Pay attention then! Pay it with any amount of rupees you please. Pay with the coin-like reflections of stars on your knees.

  O!
  That is
  the nothing
  of the void that
  we must avoid for as
  long as we can. We squeak
  when we contemplate
  it, for it’s a void
  that sits on
  the chair
  of our souls. Be bold! Forget
  the ways of the old, we have
  each other. Closer than sister
  and brother, you and I. Never
  before in history has a pointy
  faced chap quite as daft been
  so truly adored….

And they embrace each other and she sinks more deeply into his chest than usual, for he is missing two ribs. Dawn has broken but love has been mended. And there will be other nights when they will sing the simple refrain:

    O! night in Karnataka!
    O! night in Karnataka!

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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Categories
Poetry

Your Light will Break

       By John Swain

YOUR LIGHT WILL BREAK 

Then your light will break
the amber hive
upon the tree
across the path
of sky in the flowering vines,
you remain in awakening,
powdered stones shimmer
honeyed to drink
through the beaming water,
light fires around the oil jar,
I tense a canvas sheet
to refuge
the mystery of your solitude,
we unfurl the shelter door,
we watch the burnt sky turn back
into the infinite sun.
From Public Domain

John Swain lives in Le Perreux-sur-Marne, France.  His most recent chapbook, The Daymark, was published by the Origami Poems Project.

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Categories
Notes from Japan

DIY Dining in Japan

By Suzanne Kamata

“Do you want to go out to eat?” my Japanese husband asks.

“Sure,” I say. After all, I’m feeling tired from a long day at work. It’ll be nice to relax while someone other than me deals with meal preparation.

We get into the car. “So what kind of restaurant shall we go to?”

I put in a vote for a nearby Indian restaurant. Or the pork cutlet place. Or the Taiwanese restaurant, or even Sushiro, where small plates are delivered by conveyor belt. But my husband wants to go to Yaki-Niku King, an all-you-can-eat grilled meat restaurant, where you have to eat a lot to get your money’s worth, and you have to cook the food yourself.

When we arrive at the restaurant, we are ushered to a grill and the server cranks up the heat. My husband grabs the tablet and orders the first round of meat. A few minutes later, a robot delivers a plate of raw cow tongues. I sigh, take up my chopsticks, and lay them on the grill.

From Public Domain

During my North American childhood, family dinners out were a treat, especially for my mother. If we were eating in a restaurant, she – and the rest of us – didn’t have to cook or clean up. Back in the kitchen, professionals prepared our meals, another person brought them to us, and we left without tidying up after ourselves. Forgive me for my entitlement, but that was the busboy’s job.

Dining out in Japan is a slightly different experience. As the primary cook in our family, I was always slightly dismayed when, on the rare occasions we ate out, my family chose DIY dining. Although I enjoy dishes such as okonomiyaki and shabu shabu – the savory pancakes filled with vegetables, meat, and cheese, and the thinly sliced beef dipped into boiling broth – we could not sit back and bask in the attentions of the wait staff. We had to cook the meal ourselves.

For my husband and kids, who didn’t spend a lot of time in the kitchen, this might have been fun. I’m sure it was also educational. Now that our kids live on their own, they can cook for themselves.

From a culinary perspective, preparing our food as we ate insured that our meal hadn’t been microwaved or sitting under a heat lamp for ten minutes. Everything was freshly prepared. The first time I went to this kind of Japanese restaurant, I, too, thought it was fun, but sometimes I don’t want to worry about whether or not my food is sufficiently fried – or overcooked.

Nevertheless, as the robot brings us plate after plate of meat, I duly add it to the grill. At one point, my husband accidentally cranks up the heat too much, and flames shoot up at the center of the table. Nevertheless, not wanting to waste, we divvy up the charred morsels and dig in. When our stomachs are full, we stack plate upon plate, arrange the glasses neatly, and wipe the table, just as I now do even after eating out in America.

Froom Public Domain

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

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Categories
Poetry

When Oceans take to Dry & More …

By Jim Bellamy

Wood block by Michael Wolgemut (1434 – 1519).
WHEN OCEANS TAKE TO DRY


When oceans take to dry whatever the madman's rib,
Through the hollows of time, where shadows pose,
We shall levitate across the Rose, so glib.

The stars, they flicker, on this darkling crib,
As night's embrace cloaks the world's woes,
When oceans take to dry whatever the madman's rib.

Beneath the moon's pale gaze, we'll imbibe the fib,
Of a world turned upside down, where chaos grows,
We shall levitate across the Rose, so glib.

The madman laughs, his mind a twisted ad-lib,
While the sea's heart beats, slow and morose,
When oceans take to dry whatever the madman's rib.

In this dance macabre, no need to transcribe,
The silent whispers of ghosts in throes,
We shall levitate across the Rose, so glib.

So let the waters rise, no need to bribe,
The fates that spin the end's close,
When oceans take to dry whatever the madman's rib,
We shall levitate across the Rose, so glib.


FOR WHEN THE ACRID MOONSTONES GROAN ACROSS GAS


For when the acrid moonstones groan across gas,
In twilight's veil, the sirens wipe away.
Beneath the stars, where shadows dare not pass.

The madcap dance, where spirits raise their glass,
To toast the dark, where light has lost its sway.
For when the acrid moonstones groan across gas.

The night's embrace, a chilling, cold morass,
Where echoes of the lost in silence pray.
Beneath the stars, where shadows dare not pass.

The moon's pale gaze, on fields of withered grass,
A serenade for souls led far astray.
For when the acrid moonstones groan across gas.

In dreams we find the gates of alabaster brass,
Where time's cruel hand can never hold its sway.
Beneath the stars, where shadows dare not pass.

Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.

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Categories
Review

Contours of Him

Book Review by Meenakshi Malhotra

Title: Contours of Him: Poems

Edited and Introduced by Malachi Edwin Vethamani

Publisher: Hawakal Publishers

Contours of Him: Poems has been edited and introduced by Malachi Edwin Vethamani, a Malyasian academic of repute. The book has a rich assemblage of poetical voices — from both men and women — representing the contours and nuances of the many aspects and shades of masculinity. The poems explore the male body as a symbol of identity, art, and humanity, delving into themes of masculinity, strength, vulnerability, and beauty. It also examines the male body and psyche as the site of hurt and wounding. The book features poems that scrutinise the male form revealing or concealing it to explore these themes.

The focus on corporeality or the somatic coexists with the psychological in many poems in the anthology. Childhood innocence and curiosity coexist and yield to what could  be viewed as growing pains or  the challenges of maturation and understanding. There are several poems on the father-son theme, with poems  that express homage to the father. Christina Yin’s prose poem ‘To My Father’ and Gopal Lahiri’s ‘My Ideal Man’ are cases in point. Sudeep Sen in the poem, ‘Baba/Father’, captures the enormous vacuum left by the loss of the father as Sen completes the elaborate death rituals as the eldest son of his dead father, performed as per brahminical  prescriptions. In a gnomic and nuanced vein, Vethamani , the editor of the anthology, gives his take on father-son  intimacies. 

This book examines the contours of the male body and psyche at different stages of life and could be viewed as a psycho-somatic exploration of masculinity across diverse cultures. It also explores the strength and fragility of the male physique, occasionally dipping into cultural repertoires of  male archetypes, human and divine. At the same time, it acknowledges societal expectations from men and their concomitant cultural insecurities, particularly regarding their identity and the search for acceptance.

A common motif in many of the poems is about the unwitting and unwillingly borne burden and baggage of masculinity. The protagonists/personae of many of these poems seem to be conscious that masculinity is but a performance, involving the display of muscles and embodying a certain swag. Yet this definition of and  expectation from men within patriarchies, can be a cage and  straitjacket which binds, restricts and confines the human being. If patriarchies bind women, men are not exempt from it either. It is this theme that resonates(among others) in Angshuman Kar’s poem called ‘Tears’: “When mountains cry, rivers are born/From a woman’s tears, pearls have always been born/And when mothers cry, dormant volcanoes awaken…No one in the world knows/why a strong man cries/or why, when he does/he looks so sacred and beautiful.” 

The predominant focus, however, is on corporeality that has led to the exploration of its many aspects of the  body in the poems. The many facets locates the male body along a spectrum of materiality, vulnerability, relationality and the transcendental possibilities of the body. In recent years, there have been a plethora of poems by women discussing corporeality in multiple registers, exploring female subjectivity, desire and sexuality. Focus on the psychosomatic aspects of the gendered body has led to numerous explorations and analyses of femininity, on being/becoming women, on trans-identities. Many poems have been written on the human-divine aspect of the female body. Kamala Das and others (including Pakistani women poets) have written evocatively about the transgressive desires and  the many hungers of the female body .

Voices from the global south recording the voices of men was perhaps the need of the moment. The anthology includes a few poems on masculinity as a construct, especially focusing on the male body through various lenses — vulnerability, performance, shame, violence, and transformation. These poems offer a critical lens rather than idealising masculinity, exposing its social constructions and internal contradictions. They also highlight the relational nature of masculinity which are often traditionally embedded within family structures in South Asia. There are glimpses of guilt in Arthur Neong’s poem, “At this juncture of age, I feel like a teenager again,” where the persona/speaker seems keen to shed and slough off the burdens of masculinity and be in an escapist mode. He writes “At times I go to my wife for a little reprieve/Yet eyes open, think of ways to cheat”. Some of the poems read like love poems, like David C.E. Tneh’s poem, ‘Crossings’, that memorialises his dead friend. Tneh writes: “between the shared spaces and/ private moments come a synergy of collective memories/that I have  of you.”

 A writer writing on the  female body once referred to it as  a story discussed by men. Similarly, the anthology at hand discusses the contours of male corporeality and affect. The anxieties of masculinity, of literally not measuring up, pepper these poems and forms one of the vital themes of this anthology. Occasionally, a kind of narcissism creeps in, often giving way to musing or self-introspection. After voicing the common masculine concerns(and anxieties) of corporeal self-consciousness, the poet Kiriti Sengupta declares:

“I don’t look at veiled people anymore. 
It is either my age or my hormones.
I now look beyond the flesh, bone and keratin.”

In the last revelatory line, there is a movement towards transcendence: “I have been told /the finer body dwells undressed.”

In a different context but similar vein, Sandeep Kumar Mishra in ‘The Canvas of Form’ writes, “The naked body, stripped of all pretence,/Breathes honesty, raw beauty, fragile strength.” The profundity of the closing lines is inescapable: “The body, bared, is neither shame nor pride/But speaks of histories, of fears ,of love. It tells  of burdens carried, joys embraced/And in its stillness, whispers human truth.”

Much canonical poetry, including that of the famed  icon of modernist poetry, T.S.Eliot, writing a century ago, display a preoccupation with masculine anxieties in his iconic ‘The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock’. The effete personae/protagonist , immortalised in the eponymous poem, Felix Cheong writes of ‘Middling Age’ that it’s “So unbecoming to have become so old? You’d sooner wear the ends of your frailty rolled”, lines echoing   T.S.Eliot’s The Love Song of Alfred J Prufock, “I will wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

From Justin Baldoni’s Man Enough to Shyam Selvadurai’s Funny Boy, there are many coming of age stories  in our cultural landscape-on book lists and bestseller lists. While the sociology of sex and gender has long been a part of sociology and social psychology, the growth and development of a field of knowledge –gender studies– in the last four decades or so, has thrown into relief the fact that if femininity is a construct, so is masculinity.

Meenakshi Malhotra is Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition  to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory.  Her most recent publication is The Gendered Body: Negotiation, Resistance, Struggle.

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Categories
Poetry

A Sip of a Fermented Hope

By Ahmad Al-Khatat

Karen Warner Fine Arts: From Public Domain 
A SIP OF FERMENTED HOPE

I wish my mental health were a language
that the world could understand and respect.
I investigate the clouds and the lake up north,
I feel I, somehow, belong between them.

On the other side of the world, I see myself
in the sobbing misplaced children from countries
like my own, where we question our humanity
as if we are the only ones alive while others live joyfully.

My parents were always against my way
of drinking liquor until I end up drunk and aggressive.
Who cares about me anymore? I only hold a sip
of a fermented hope, where I dance and sing alone.

If she ever comes back, tell her he’s not interested
to walk with her or to give her what she wishes.
My depression has conquered me. Congratulations, sorrows!
I am now the man banned from falling in love again.

I cannot say I did not miss staring at women near me.
I cannot say I did not feel some healing in my wounds.
I cannot say I did not enjoy speaking to a woman like you.
I wish to know that I am truly yours, but if not,

let me fall asleep with a bullet…

Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian poet and writer. His poetry has been translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and online magazines abroad. He resides in Montreal.

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Categories
Stories

The Wise Words of the Sun

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

Once upon a time, the Rain God and the Wind God had an argument.

“I am greater than you,” said the Rain God.

“No, I am greater,” replied the Wind God.

To decide who was truly greater, they made a deal: “Whoever can trouble the people of Earth more, will be the greatest,” they agreed.

The next day, the Rain God started the round. It started with light showers but soon turned into heavy rain. It rained non-stop for an entire week! Crops were drowned. Farmers cried over their year-long hard work being washed away. Poor people’s small huts were destroyed. Some people died under collapsing walls. Animals were washed away in floods. Birds shivered in the cold. Rivers and lakes overflowed. Roads were flooded.

For seven days, the Sun didn’t shine, and people were very worried.

They prayed to the Rain God, “Please stop the rain!”

Hearing their cries, the Rain God finally stopped.

He proudly asked the Wind God, “Now do you agree I am the greatest?”

The Wind God replied, “Wait till you see my power. Then we’ll talk.”

Suddenly, the Wind God blew with all his strength.

Dust flew everywhere. Nothing was visible.

Roofs of huts flew away. People and animals were picked up and thrown down by the strong wind. Trees broke and fell. Even cattle tied in the yard broke their ropes and ran away. People were terrified. They prayed, “Wind God, please calm down!”

Hearing this, the Wind God smiled and stopped.

He told the Rain God proudly, “Look! People couldn’t handle even one day of my power. If I continued, imagine what would’ve happened.”

The Rain God was about to agree when suddenly they heard a voice: “No, you are both wrong!”

Surprised, they looked around. It was the Sun God speaking from the sky.

The Wind God asked, “Are you saying I’m not the greatest?”

The Sun said, “What’s so great about scaring people? If I shine too bright all day, even I can make people suffer. But that’s not our purpose. We exist to help people, not to trouble them.”

The Rain God said, “We just wanted to know who is greater.”

The Sun replied, “If you want to know that, ask Indra or the sages—not the people. You made people cry and suffer. Is that fair?”

Both gods asked, “Then what should we do?”

The Sun said, “Rain God, bring rain when it’s needed—during the rainy season or when the water level is low. Then people will worship you with love and gratitude. Wind God, blow cool breeze during summer. In winter, be gentle. During rains, guide the clouds to where rain is needed. Then people will respect and pray to you. Look at Mother Earth. She gives and serves without asking anything in return. Be like her. Don’t make people suffer just to prove who is better.”

The Rain God and Wind God nodded.

“You are right, Sun God. We agree. We will never make that mistake again.”

And with that, they left peacefully.

From Public Domain

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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Categories
Poetry

Found in Translation: Hrushikesh Mallick’s Poems

Five poems by Hrushikesh Mallick have been translated from Odia by Snehaprava Das

AFTER THEY LEAVE     
        
After they leave,
The tree in the midst of a bare field
Stands forlorn.
Not a single bird, 
Nor the sound of chirping anywhere 
Not a leaf flutters in the breeze,
No one speaks a word
After they leave.

The world is a meaningless void
When they are not there.
Flowers bloom and wither aimlessly.
Festive seasons come and depart.
The privileged and the poor come and go 
Without making an impact.
Silence reigns everywhere and around 
When they are not there.

Living in a pattern,
Like, in every moth-hour 
‘Chhatu bhai’ riding back  
From the village market, ringing the bicycle bell,
Or, farmers sitting on a platform in the evenings
And deciding which patch of the land
Would be plowed next morning,
Like, the moon coming up routinely 
At measured intervals,
And discussions centering around 
How ‘Gaya-bhai’
Escaped the wrath of the village-goddess
Last night by a sheer miracle.
Routine life continues  
Like rice cooking tender in the kitchen-hearth
While cow-dung cakes are put
To smoulder in the cowsheds.
The regular pattern of living
Is dull and cheerless
In their absence.
Who are they, then? Who indeed?
They are the fragrance of the paddy-buds 
In the farmlands by the hillside,
They are the Siju bushes that
Grow under the eaves in the backyard,
They are the sound of the clearing of throat
That inspires courage in a fearful heart
 On a dark pathway,
They are the drumbeats floating in
In gentle waves from the neighbouring village,
They are the pallbearers that twine ropes 
 To make a pyre;
And, after they leave life loses its meaning!

WHEN THERE IS NO GOD

Once you join your palms 
sitting on the bed
while going to sleep 
or, as you wake up, 
worries stop disturbing 
your calm.
You are assured of the presence
of someone called God
who might break your fall.
But these are the bleak days
of God’s absence,
these days the headless bodies 
saunter down the streets of the night
whispering to one another.
The dogs howl in a chorus.
The sounds of sermons or devotional songs
do not float in from the mandapa,
the air throbs instead with the siren  
of ambulances.    
As such belief is that 
the God that holds 
the trident and the mace
is omnipotent.
 Why does that God stand dull 
 and lifeless in the temple now?
Does an idol in any temple 
have the power now
even to chase away the stray dogs?
Is there a God in any shrine
who can hold open 
its closed doors and by some miracle 
turn auspicious 
all that is ominous? 
In these dark days when
God is not there,
if we take a fall,
we have to get up on our own.
We have to lean on our own mettle 
and our own merit
in the moments of death or survival.
In the absence of God, 
we have to commit ourselves 
to the service of the distressed,
to feed the hungry
and nurse the sick,
give shelter to the homeless.
It’s time we repented our indulgences 
without religious extravaganza.
It’s time we stopped 
pinning blind faith in 
the figures of stone.  

THE LONE GIRL 
 
The lone girl has nowhere to go,
She sits alone lamenting her loss;
Once upon a time she had 
 a country like we all have,
it was called Syria.
Its lofty national flag
soared to the clouds.
It had a national anthem that 
sparked the spirit of martyrdom 
in its people!

In the evenings, 
perched on the shoulders 
of her babajaan,
she watched the moon 
in the sky of her homeland;
heard stories from her mother
that set her eyes rolling in wonder;
that country, her homeland is now in ruins
a vast, barren expanse,
littered with severed limbs. 
Its air is sick with the smell of 
tons and tons of explosives
there lay piles of disfigured childhood
in pathetic abandon
to tell the tale of a country that was! 

No one had ever warned the girl
that her tomorrows will be spent
in makeshift shelters under the tents,
nor did she know that 
her palms would join to make begging bowl,
and there would be merchants 
to trade on 
the perfumed void in her.
No one predicted that she would grow up 
believing in hatred instead of love!
And when she would learn to ask 
the whereabouts of her parents
the whole civilized world will 
keep mute. 

EYES

Just as I believed that all poems 
which could have been written on ‘eyes’
are already written
your ‘eyes’ flashed before me
and what an amazing lot of trees
laden with fruits and flowers
 and birds, they held!
I wondered where did you flick
your deep, boundless glance
from the corridors of the hospital
like a handful of floral offerings.
The anguish that glance held
was like the lost look in the eyes of a kid 
who was rudely denied a father’s lap, 
 like a fresh bloom shying away 
from the eyes of a honeybee
or, a streak of lightning flashing
in the overcast noon-sky 
like a poor man’s last hope.
Your eyes are like the lines of a poem
that unfold a new meaning 
at every other reading.
Your eyes,
like a strange horizon captures 
the crimson of the dawn 
and the gleam of a red silk sari
in a perfect balance!
Your eyes could transform a waste land
to a paddy field in luxuriant green, 
at times they are moist with muffled sobs,  
or, like a spear smeared in blood, at others!
What is more beautiful --
the bright loquacity in your eyes
or the rain-washed sunshine,
the mysterious mutter in your eyes
or a village enveloped in a wispy darkness? 

THE HONEYBEE DOES NOT KNOW

The son writes poems.
His mother does not know.
‘You are rotting yourself through writing,’
She complains,
‘Did you write them?’ 
A girl-friend, looks at him in wonder,
‘Can you swear to that?’ she asks.
The boy writes poems 
The street where he lives does not know it, 
Nor does the village! 
His young face does not sport a beard, 
Nor have the creases appeared on his forehead.
There was not that distant look 
Like the faraway stars in the eyes,
How could then he be a poet?
Who would believe that?
A man who picks up a quarrel with the fisherwoman
Could recite the brajabuli,  
Or, the fellow weaving clothes at the loom
Can sing lines from Tapaswini
 
A poet is not supposed to have a home.
He sits under the trees
Amidst the anthills. 
A poet hacks off the branch he sits on.
He does not have that worldly intelligence.
A poet is not pragmatic.
He begins a line at the wrong point 
And ends it at a wrong one too.
A good poet forgets the right way of chanting 
The mantra that would protect him from dangers
While actually facing them. 

The mother does not know that 
Her son is a poet; nor does the father.
The owner of the hut where the poet takes shelter 
Does not know his tenant to be a poet.
The poet’s voice does not know 
It belongs to a poet.
The reflection has no idea it is the poet’s image.
The lizard exploring the shelves 
Does not know the ‘Award of Padmashree’ 
Carefully preserved there,
Was won by the poet.
The honeybee that circles the graves
Does not know that   
The lines engraved on the tomb
 Were the epitaph for the poet.

Glossary:
Mandapa is a pavilion.
Brajabuli is a dialect based on Maithali that was popularised for poetry by the medieval poet Vidyapati.
Tapaswini: A famous long poem by the 19th century Odia poet Gangadhar Meher.

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Dr Hrushikesh Mallick is a reputed Odia poet and writer. He has 13 Poetry collections. His first book in 1987 heralded a new era in Odia poetry. He has received Odisha Sahitya Akademi Award (1988), Sarala Award (2016) and Central Sahitya Akademi Award (2021).He is also an eminent literary critic and fiction writer. He served as President of Odisha Sahitya Akademi (2021-2024). He has been a professor of Odia language and literature from 2012.

Dr.Snehaprava Das, is a noted writer and a translator from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has five books of poems, three of stories and thirteen collections of translated texts (from Odia to English), to her credit. 

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Categories
Essay

Peddling Progress?

By Jun A. Alindogan

I grew up in a town where fish, shellfish, and seafood are abundant, so the specialty dishes are related to its topography. The location is humble, yet it boasts special delicacies such as noodles, porridge, tofu, duck eggs, and rice cakes. Many stores line the town’s main street, serving these types of morning and afternoon snacks that I was quite fond of. I particularly remember a store famous for its huge burgers with generous slices of cucumber, tomatoes, and onions on a tangy mayo-ketchup dressing — also popular for its all-day breakfast meals. Despite its marine resources, my hometown has no particular brand associated with it.

A Philippine-based fast-food chain was recently established in the area, and residents claim that development has now been put in place. Consumption is erroneously classified as development. A former English language student mistakenly believed that the Philippines was a wealthy nation because of the abundance of malls, only to realise later that poverty is widespread behind these malls. Consumption is peddled as a sign of progress.

This also happened during my university years when I had to take the elevated rail system to go to school. At the north end point of the train system stood a central grade school on a sprawling campus, which has now been transferred to a much smaller space but is still referred to as a central school. All central schools in our country are located on large campuses. Its original location is now part of a nationwide mall chain. Is going to the mall productive?

Years ago, my younger brother moved to the southernmost province of Luzon Island, which was our father’s hometown. In the past, I would spend holidays at my brother’s residence with some very close friends. The roads are well-paved, and in the city half an hour away, there are small commercial shops and a local fast-food chain unique to the area. The province is well-known for its “pili” nuts and handicrafts.

Pili nuts
Jewellery from pili nuts
From Public Domain

According to my brother, the city’s landscape has drastically changed with the addition of a big mall chain and a Roman-inspired colosseum. My nephew recently informed me that the provincial projects mainly consist of community-based gymnasiums. “Progress” seems to be selective and does not necessarily foster a strong culture of creativity and productivity in each household.

In my current municipality, the main issue is the lack of social infrastructure to support entrepreneurship. The prevailing norm is consumption, whether physical or digital. Bureaucratic red tape makes business mechanisms inaccessible, discouraging newcomers from starting any kind of enterprise.

Perhaps another reason for this lack of visitors is the municipality’s location. Being the last town in the province, only residents and haulers typically come to the area. It is isolated from the main arterial road that traverses the entire province.

The town does not have a specific product to boast of, unlike other cities and municipalities known for their specialties like shoemaking, salted and duck eggs, fish sauce, specialty noodle dishes, and slippers made from water lilies.

The town’s main products are concrete and sand, extracted through continuous quarrying activities that are detrimental to both human health and the environment. Agricultural produce — such as bananas, mangoes, tomatoes, okra, and eggplants — is limited due to the town’s rocky terrain. During a visit to an upland village, I met a caretaker of a small property that was supposed to be organic, but I discovered during our conversation that it was merely a facade by a large mobile phone provider for its social enterprise project.  Additionally, the population of native tilapia[1] is low due to murky waters caused by silt and mud. Despite having numerous hiking sites that also cater to consumerist interests, the municipality lacks a distinct specialty dish for people to enjoy and remember as part of its commercial offerings.

According to my sister-in-law’s brother, the main source of income for their island-province is remittances from Overseas Filipino Workers (OFWs) [2] .He also claims that the province is an ideal place to retire and spend money, boasting beaches, volcanic hot springs, coconut plantations, rice farms, nature resorts, and rivers. Despite having a root-crop based delicacy and an abundance of dried fish, the province lacks production or manufacturing facilities, with the exception of mining, which unfortunately led to one of the worst environmental disasters in the country’s history. As a result, consumption is the prevailing norm on the island. Isn’t it ironic that the ex-girlfriend of a close friend pursued a degree in BS Entrepreneurship but currently works as a Customer Engagement Manager at a global fast-food chain?  She should have considered starting her own business, no matter how small. She is actually promoting a perpetual cycle of consumerism, rather than entrepreneurship.

Based on online sources[3], there are only ten small manufacturing firms in my current area, Montalban (Rodriguez), which covers a total land area of   172.65 km 2 (66.66 sq mi) [4]. This implies that a culture of production is not the town’s priority when it should have been the first step to economic and social progress, alongside environmental protection and sustainability.

In hindsight, society generally encourages individuals to consume the latest gadgets, trends, food, technology, shoes, fashion, apps, make-up, and hairstyles. We are therefore told to consume and discard in a never-ending cycle of consumption and waste. Creativity in building enterprise is relegated in favor of a consumerist culture. To move forward, communities must do the reverse, so wealth is neutralized. Not everyone has the business acumen to succeed. However, production must still exceed consumption.

One main reason for the failure of production to establish a strong foothold in our communities could be attributed to the lack of practical and relevant entrepreneurial courses that are accessible to everyone in terms of fees, range, and distance. These courses are not tailored to the specific needs of each locality, as businesses tend to be similar in one area, causing most enterprises to struggle to take off without offering anything unique to attract patrons. Creativity and productivity go hand in hand.

To create a more sustainable society, we need to move away from consumerism and focus on increasing production through manual, mechanical, automated, or digital means. A thriving community relies on its ability to expand and improve production capabilities.

[1] Fish

[2] https://psa.gov.ph/statistics/survey/labor-and-employment/survey-overseas-filipinos/node/1684600

[3] https://www.dnb.com/business-directory/company-information.manufacturing.ph.rizal.rodriguez_%28montalban%29.html

[4] https://www.philatlas.com/luzon/r04a/rizal/rodriguez.html

Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specialises in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).

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Categories
Poetry

The Solitary Tempest

By Pramod Rastogi

O clouds of loneliness,
I beckon your shadowed embrace.
Drift gently into the seams of my heart,
And rain, soft as whispered sorrows.
 
Sweep away the filth and dust,
The clinging residue of ceaseless strife,
Etched by life's restless tumult,
And leave behind a moment's quiet clarity.
 
But, O clouds, be but a fleeting guest,
Do not settle as my abiding home.
The deeper you linger,
The heavier grows your weight.
 
You threaten to rend from me
The final thread of self,
A fragile anchor to light and hope,
Swept away in torrents of despair.

Pramod Rastogi is an Emeritus Professor at the EPFL, Switzerland. He is a poet, academician, researcher, author of nine scientific books, and a former Editor-in-chief (1999-2019) of the international scientific journal “Optics and Lasers in Engineering”. He was an honorary Professor at the IIT Delhi between 2000 and 2004. He was a guest Professor at the IIT Gandhinagar between 2019 and 2023. He is presently an honorary adjunct Professor at the IIT Jammu.

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