Title: The White Shirts of Summer: New and Selected Poems
Author: Mamang Dai
Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books
Hello, Mountain Every morning when the forest wakes The canopy goes for a walk Hailing the sun, courting the wind Discussing fruit and weather The idle moss turns into velvet Branches make signs. Who says there is no time? The only thing we are given is Time. Chattering life high above, Babel of tree dwellers. For a seed falling so far down To rise again, time is a given. A foothold for the hunger of a weed, Colour, scent, camouflage And the grass that never sleeps Shooting up to meet the gaze of the mountain. How are you, mountain? Is everything all right? Is the earth growing old, Birds flying away, trees falling? After Gabo No one can say it like you said it, about love and magic, solitude and growing old. Here it’s white butterflies whirling around in the garden and the scent of bitter almond is the scent of orange blossom. You know, love is a virus too, jumping ship, landing up in ports and cities so eager, enchanted by the banks of another river in the time of quarantine. There are lines and lines of communication jostling through a virtual pandemic, a sadness named, unnamed. Fermina Daza, is it true: Everything is in our hands? Outside my window red hibiscus, red. If the aim is to survive, it’s time to weigh anchor again. For how long? Who knows. Our old life is gone. It’s another summer and the pages are turning in a chronicle of things foretold. One battered flag in a time of lockdown. Despite contrary winds a battered flag is fluttering, you’ll see it here and there pointing in the direction of the future. Salt water, caresses, buoyant as the hearts of old lovers young enough to believe in forever.
(Extracted from The White Shirts of Summer: New and Selected Poems by Mamang Dai. Published by Speaking Tiger Books, 2023.)
About the Book:
‘A major voice in Indian English literature, and literature from North East India…[Her] poems are like a race of butterflies bargaining with the night.’
‘Dai’s poetic world is one of river, forest and mountain, a limpid and lyrical reflection of the terrain of her home state. Nature here is mysterious, verdant with myth, dense with sacred memory. There is magic to be found everywhere…But as you read closer, you [also] sense a more sinister undertow: this paradisiacal landscape is also one of “guns and gulls”, punctuated by “the footfall of soldiers”. You also realize that the simplicity of Dai’s verse is not without guile. It possesses a gentle persuasive riverine tug that can lead you to moments of heart-stopping surprise.
‘For all its simplicity, Dai’s poetry does not arrive at easy conclusions. There is no dishonest sense of anchor here, no blissful pastoral idyll. The poet describes her people as “foragers for a destiny” and her work is pervaded by a deep unease about erased histories and an uncertain future. And yet, implicit in her poetics is the refusal to divorce protest from love. This seems to translate into a commitment to a poetry of quiet surges and eddies rather than gritty textures and edges…[and] a tone that is hushed, wondering, thoughtful, reflective. The strength of this poetry is its unforced beauty and clarity, its ability to steer clear of easy flamboyance.’
About the Author
Mamang Dai, poet and novelist, was born in Pasighat, Arunachal Pradesh. A former journalist and a Padma Shri awardee, Dai is the author of a short story collection, The Legends of Pensam, and the novels Stupid Cupid, The Black Hill (winner of the Sahitya Akademi Award) and Escaping the Land (longlisted for the JCB Prize). Dai lives in Itanagar, Arunachal Pradesh.
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