Monsoon Solace: A modern glance at South Asian poetry

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The eurocentricism of this division of Europe vs Asia, as an artificial construct, need not havve been carried out into this work. Within the continental sections, authors are grouped by their country of origin and by the language in which they write. On the whole though, the quality of the poetry is quite refreshing, and and the random-page test works well. Unlike Jeffrey Paine's Poetry of our World , omits English-speaking authors from North America, Great Britain, and Australia, leading to greater diversity, though most of the remaining poets are still from Europe.

Similarly, the Africa category lumps in too many disparate cultural groups. Excerpts from Introduction The basis of all poetry, said Aristotle, is metaphor. Nothing can be freshly seen in itself until it iss seen first as something else. It is not the similarity, the urge towards identity, that most intrigues us about these poems. It is the familiar sensation of strangeness. We'rre reminded, over and over, of the isolation of each individual, the aloneness of a life.

In the winter he loved stoves, in summer little birds. Sick and as indifferent to death as to us.

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Dying he did himself. Rutger Kopland : Natzweiler 3, p. James Brockway. The dead are so violently absent, as though not only I, but they too were standing here, and the landscape were folding their invisible arms around my shoulders. We need for nothing, they are saying, we have forgotten this world. But these are no arms, it is landscape.

Diatribe against the Dead: Angel Gonzalez p. Steven Ford Brown and Gutierrez Revuelta The dead are selfish: they make us cry and don't care, they stay quiet in the most inconvenient places, they refuse to walk, we have to carry them on our backs to the tomb as if they were children. What a burden! Unusually rigid, their faces accuse us of something, or warn us; they are the bad conscience, the bad example, they are the worst things in our lives always, always.

The bad thing about the dead is that there is no way you can kill them. Their constant destructive labor is for the reason incalculable. Insensitive, distant, obstinate, cold, with their insolence and their silence they don't realize what they undo. Carlos Drummond de Andrade Brazil, born in a small mining town in Minas Gerais, attended boarding school in Belo Horizonte, and was once expelled from a Jesuit high school for "mental insubordination.

The airport at Belo Horizonte is named after him. Seven-Sided Poem [tt. Be gauche in life. The houses watch the men, men who run after women.

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If the afternoon had been blue, there might have been less desire. The trolley goes by full of legs: white legs, black legs, yellow legs.

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  • My God, why all the legs? But my eyes ask nothing at all. The man behind the mustache is serious, simple, and strong.

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    He hardly ever speaks. He has a few, choice friends, the man behind the spectacle and the mustache. Universe, vast universe, if I had been named Eugene that would not be what I mean but it would go into verse faster. Universe, vast universe, my heart is vaster. Carlos Drummond de Andrade : Residue [tr.

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    • From my fear. From your disgust. From stifled cries. From the rose a little remained.

      Lekhnath Paudyal (1885-1966)

      A little remained of light caught inside the hat. In the eyes of the pimp a little remained of tenderness, very little. A little remained of the dust that covered your white shoes. Of your clothes a little remained, a few velvet rags, very very few. From everything a little remained.

      Verses from the Valley: How contemporary Kashmiri poets are leading a revival of Urdu poetry

      From the bombed-out bridge, from the two blades of grass, from the empty pack of cigarettes a little remained. So from everything a little remains. A little remains of your chin in the chin of your daughter. I come to reading poetry as a solace, after the world has exhausted me. At the end of the day, after teaching and writing, after many emails and numerous phone calls.

      Or I get there first thing in the morning, if I need a good start to what I know will be a rough day. I either read entire books slim volumes, of course in one sitting or just a few poems. There are poets like Cole Swensen, whose work I return to almost on a daily basis, so I can look at the world anew—her writing shows the implicit beauty out there.

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      My thoughts become an echo of their voices, and I like that. Each good poem is a glass of wine, really. SB: I second that! The book refers to the teachings of Ram Krishna Paramhansa as well as absorbs modern narratives of technology, film and so on… What triggered you to write the book? A part of the poems started in the US, while working at a restaurant. This was ten years ago.

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      Then I moved back to India, and came across the teachings of Sri Ramakrishna—and their connection to science. I was fascinated by what I found out, and I wanted to use some of that language. The book developed over many years, as we were getting more and more digitized. Facebook and Instagram came to being. Also, the way technology negates distance, keeps me in touch with loved ones abroad, and yet isolates and distances us from others.

      All these things seeped into my work.


      And did it come all at once? The book is divided into four sections. So, what was the process like? Did you stitch the poems together later, or did you always have the large frame in mind? The poetry scene in Kashmir is largely driven by established poets, but it has witnessed a shift of late. Syed Saddam Geelani, whose pen name is Murad, is another member of the emerging open mic poetry culture of Kashmir. Mir was a 17th century poet, who is considered to be one of the pioneers of Urdu Ghazal, and an unparalleled master in his expression of human suffering.

      Murad prefers poetry recitals over social media to share his work because he feels it is closer to a classical Mehfil, and gives him a better chance to interact with his listeners. A poetess, with the pen name Rumuz, is another active member of the poetry scene in the valley. Though she is an engineer by profession, she started translating the works of revered poets like Mahjoor and Rehman Rahi, and eventually, started writing her own poems.

      In a place like Kashmir, where unpredictability and unreliability are the only things that are certain, poets like Zeeshan, Murad, and Rumuz, are trying to use poetry and literature to make strong cultural statements and to voice their resistance. Delhi's Jamia Nagar has long been perceived as a 'Muslim ghetto' — a label new art initiatives are interrogating. Subasri Krishnan's film Sikhirini Mwsanai traces conflict-ridden Bodo identity through revival of their art.

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