On Poetry

As regards poetry, I have always believed,

That I could’nt write, but could well read,

For to write words that would rhyme,

Was as alien to me as dance or mime.

Then I chanced upon Ogden Nash,

He, with his rhymes, nouns n verbs all mish mash,

And yet there always was a fine poem,

Child, adult or beast, it had some’fin for all of ‘em.

Here at last was simple poetry,

That had done so well. Yippee!!

So did that mean, there was a chance?

For poetry even from me, a simple dunce?

But then, I began to wonder,

If I hadn’t made a blunder,

What if, and not vise-verse,

But ‘Ogden Nash’ had made the verse?

And then, for me there was no hope,

And all I could do was sit and mope.

The Wombat

The wombat lives across the seas,

Among the far Antipodes.

He may exist on nuts and berries,

Or then again, on missionaries;

His distant habitat precludes

Conclusive knowledge of his moods,

But I would not engage the wombat

In any form of mortal combat.

-- Ogden Nash
For the uninitiated, Wombat means, "Waste of Money, Brains and Time". This poem reminds me of this post I read recently. :)

बस एक बार और...

Reproduced below is a wonderful poem I found here. It captures exactly what I was trying to say yesterday and why it is that I'm so upset that I'm flying through Bombay now and not Kolkata:

बस एक बार वापस लौटने का मन करता है
आज हर वो दिन जीने को मन करता है.
कुछ बुरी बातें जो अब अच्छी लगती हैं
कुछ बातें जो कल की ही बातें लगती हैं.
एक बार और क्लास Attend करने का मन करता है
दोपहर की क्लास में आखें बंद करने को मन करता है.
दोस्तों के रूम की वो बातें याद आती है
Exam के टाइम पे वो हसी मजाक याद आती है,
कॉलेज के पास 'काकी के ढाबे' की याद आती है
तब की बेकार लगने वाली फोटोस चेहरे पे हसी लाती है.
अपनी गलतियों पे तुमसे डाट खाना याद आता है.
पर तुम्हारी गलती देखने का अब भी मन करता है.
एक ऐसी सुबह उठने का मन करता है
बस एक बार वापस लौटने का मन करता है.
बस एक बार और
वापस लौटने का मन करता है.

From A Railway Carriage

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!

- R.L. Stevenson

Seasons

They served us Aloo-Matar for lunch in the mess today. A perfectly fine meal, well cooked, tasty too. So what is the problem? The ‘problem’ is the matar (peas). Matar in summer/monsoons? I always thought that matar was a winter vegetable. But now matar (both of the ready to eat, frozen as well as the ‘fresh’ variety) is available all throughout the year. So are gobi and carrot and so many other vegetables that I had been told and knew to be available only in a particular season.

The same with fruits. I was in Bombay recently and there I came across ‘American’ apples. Huge, and brilliantly red (every last one of them, down to the very last speck). Now first of all, again, isn’t apple supposed to be a ‘winter’ fruit? And there it was sitting nice and pretty on the fruits vendor’s thela bang in the middle of the summer (and brilliantly red to boot!) Also, what was special about that apple apparently was that it didn’t rot at all… for days on end. It was always fresh and ready to eat and remained like that for atleast a week. Atleast that was how long I kept it to test his claim and nope, it hadn’t rotted at all…. Infact it wasn’t even over-ripe (ofcourse I had to keep it in the fridge – but still!)

Then ofcourse there is the curious incident of the litchis in Calcutta. For those of you not in the know, Litchis are extremely delicious fruits (my favourite). They are also very delicate (they rot very easily) and do not grow many parts of India. Infact, the best litchis are said to be available only in Bihar and Jharkhand and even if they are available in a few other eastern parts, they are not half as fresh or delicious (since they have already undertaken a long journey in their surprisingly short lives). Also, the true litchi skin is supposed to be thin (but not too thin) and red on the outside, colourless on the inside and the litchi itself is deliciously white and juicy. Now, till about two years ago, it used to break my heart to leave home and come to Calcutta in June since litchis were either not available in Calcutta, or even the small quantities that were, used to be exorbitantly priced, rotting and basically not a patch on the litchis available back home. Now suddenly, since the past two years, Calcutta is flush with bright (and deceptively) red litchis, whose skins are way too thin, and are pink! on the inside, and the litchi is not rotting, but is pretty tasteless and does not justify the bright red colour that the skin exhibits! Other fruits and vegetable too are available out of turn and out of place and season e.g. green grapes (they are now available at all times except the monsoons) and bhutta (corn). Others exist I’m sure, but they do not strike me at present.

So I ask… are these the fruits (quite literally) of plant biotechnology? In other words, are they the result of genetic tinkering? I do not presume to pass judgment on whether such use of technology is good or bad for human health etc etc. Lawyers will tell you that it is a sticky issue and I do not like sticky. All that I have a problem with is the fact that all this ‘development’ has robbed each season and each place of it’s unique speciality and personality. I like the fact that you get different vegetables at different times of the year, I like that some places have certain delicacies (of the fruit and vegetable kinds) that are not available elsewhere. I also like my fruits and vegetables to behave normally and ripen when they have to and rot when they ought to.

All else is like deceiving nature. It reminds me of what Wordsworth once said,
‘If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?’

- From ‘Lines Written in Early Spring’.

Waiting for the Barbarians

I'm back after a long hiatus (not that anybody would have noticed) and the come-back post is again poetry. There is a lot to write about - I made another trip to another part of Kerala, read quite a few new books, and in general have quite a few things to write about. Am at home and jobless for the next one week or so and therefore hope to clear a lot of posting-backlog within this time.
In the meanwhile, I came across this poem while trawling randomly through 'Wondering Minstrels'. It's been written by Constantine Cavafy and has been translated by Edmund Keely. It is meant to portray the ultimate hollowness for tyranny. I ask, how different is our Democracy? See if you agree too.

What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?

The barbarians are due here today.

Why isn't anything happening in the senate?
Why do the senators sit there without legislating?

Because the barbarians are coming today.

What laws can the senators make now?
Once the barbarians are here, they'll do the legislating.

Why did our emperor get up so early,and why is he sitting at the city's main gate
on his throne, in state, wearing the crown?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and the emperor is waiting to receive their leader.
He has even prepared a scroll to give him,
replete with titles, with imposing names.

Why have our two consuls and praetors come out today
wearing their embroidered, their scarlet togas?
Why have they put on bracelets with so many amethysts,
and rings sparkling with magnificent emeralds?
Why are they carrying elegant canes
beautifully worked in silver and gold?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and things like that dazzle the barbarians.

Why don't our distinguished orators come forward as usual
to make their speeches, say what they have to say?

Because the barbarians are coming today
and they're bored by rhetoric and public speaking.

Why this sudden restlessness, this confusion?
(How serious people's faces have become.)
Why are the streets and squares emptying so rapidly,
everyone going home so lost in thought?

Because night has fallen and the barbarians have not come.
And some who have just returned from the border say
there are no barbarians any longer.

And now, what's going to happen to us without barbarians?
They were, those people, a kind of solution.

A Riddle!!!

Here is a beautiful riddle set within a poem.... see if you can unravel it. It's a Poem by Edgar Allan Poe and is called - A Valentine

For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
Search narrowly the lines! -- they hold a treasure
Divine -- a talisman -- an amulet
That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure --
The words -- the syllables! Do not forget
The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot
Which one might not undo without a sabre,
If one could merely comprehend the plot.
Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
Eyes scintillating soul, there lie perdus
Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
Of poets, by poets -- as the name is a poet's, too.
Its letters, although naturally lying
Like the knight Pinto -- Mendez Ferdinando --
Still form a synonym for Truth -- Cease trying!
You will not read the riddle, though you do the best you can do

I could not unravel the said name or the three words..... if you do... please let me know!

Some more poetry.

I recently found this wonderful site full of poetry called "The Wondering Minstrels". For those interested, I have added this site to my list of "I also Visit" sites. It was while I was trawling through their site, that I came across this excellent poem by W.H. Auden about the partition of India and the nature of the 'task' that radcliffe was assigned. The poem is a wonderful description of the situation then and the role that, I believe this poem proves, the British played in the whole saga, either by omission or commission. The Poem is called 'Partition' and I have reproduced it here: -

"Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you.
"Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.

The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot."

- W.H. Auden.

Law in Poetry - I

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

- Portia's 'Mercy Speech' in "Merchant of Venice" - Act IV, Scene I.

The Law That Lawyers Know About!!!
(copied from http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1392.html)

The law the lawyers know about
Is property and land;
But why the leaves are on the trees,
And why the wind disturbs the seas,
Why honey is the food of bees,
Why horses have such tender knees,
Why winters come and rivers freeze,
Why Faith is more than what one sees,
And Hope survives the worst disease,
And Charity is more than these,
They do not understand.

- H.D.C. Pepler.

Both these poems reflect two different views about the law and the lawyers. While the first portrays a lawyer who understands the 'soft law' as it were and feels free to use concepts other than strictly legal ones such as religion and morality to try and achieve the ultimate aim of justice, the other one condemns the law and lawyers as being mainly positivistic in their approach and being insensitive to ethics, morality and the natural laws.

It is for each to decide which version to accept. All that I say is, lawyers do what they can to achieve the best for their clients. Just as members of any other profession do.

They that have the power to hurt and will do none...

They that have the power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;

They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.

The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
the basest weed outbraves his dignity.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

- William Shakespeare