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Jeet Thayil

By Indian Poetry in English: Questions on the 'State' of the 'Art' 2 Comments

Q: To quote poet and publisher P. Lal from his questionnaire sent in the 1960s to an earlier generation of Indian English poets: “What are the circumstances that led to your using the English language for the purpose of writing poetry?” And of course, is such a question relevant to today’s poets, several decades after Lal’s query?

J.T: It was a relevant question in the Sixties. Today, not so much, except among regional-language poets who will contend that those of us who write in English are somehow inauthentic. This is an obsolete notion. There’s a reason why this questionnaire is in English. It’s the only way Indians can communicate with each other. I don’t speak Hindi, or Malayalam, and hope I never have to.

Q: In addition to poets from the Anglo-American canon, has your poetry been influenced by Indian English poets of an earlier generation (whether the 19th  century pioneers like Derozio and Toru Dutt, or early 20th  century poets like Tagore and Sarojini Naidu, or those from the post-1947 generation like Nissim Ezekiel, Kamala Das, and A.K. Ramanujan)? Do you consider your poetry a part of this two-hundred-year-old tradition?

J.T: I am very much a part of the two-hundred-year-old tradition of Indian poetry written in English. I know there are poets who do not consider themselves part of this tradition, and I think it’s a pity. Even if your interest is the breaking of tradition you should know what it is, to break it better. I also consider myself part of the thirteen-hundred-year-old tradition that goes back to the first poem written in the English language, Beowulf. And there is a third tradition of which I am a part. I am an Indian poet, which makes me a modern embodiment of the tradition of Indian poetry that goes back some three thousand years to the Rig Veda,
the oldest poetic tradition of them all.

Q: What are your views on a readership/audience for Indian poetry in English? Does such a thing exist outside English classrooms and literary circles? How much of a consideration is the readership in your poetic
process?

J.T: I write for myself and the poets I admire, living and dead. Classrooms and audiences come into it later, when I take it  outside. If I want to be kind, I pick poems that might amuse, entertain or delight, always keeping in mind that there are readers who will resist delight with all their might.

Q: Do you read, write, or translate poetry in a language other than English? If yes, how does it influence your poetry in English?

J.T: I read, write, think and dream in only one language, the Indian language also known as English.

Q: Have you ever taught poetry in a class, at a workshop, or in an informal setting? If yes, which aspects of poetry do you think can be taught?

J.T: I have taught in several countries and in various settings, from the classroom lecture to the graduate workshop to the online interactive course. I’ve learned a few things over the years. You can teach students how to read a poem. By this I mean the technical side, the number of syllables in a line, the way it scans and how to scan, the metrical foot and how to identify it, the paradoxical freedom of formal verse, the uses of rhyme, and so, infinitely, on. What you can’t teach is how to write a poem.

Born in Kerala, India, Jeet Thayil is a poet, novelist, librettist, and journalist. His first novel, Narcopolis (2012), was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. His poetry collections include Collected Poems (2015) and These Errors Are Correct (2008), which won the 2013 Poetry Award from the Sahitya Akademi. He recently edited The Penguin Book of Indian Poets (2022).
Read Jeet Thayil on IWE Online
How to Be a GirlThe Other Thing

Sycorax: Prologue | Suniti Namjoshi

By Poetry No Comments
Old women do not die easily, nor 
are their deaths timely. They make a habit
of outliving men, so that, as I’m still here, 
I’m able to say clearly that when Prospero 
said he took over an uninhabited island
save for Caliban and the enslaved 
Ariel, he lied. 
     I LIVED ON THAT ISLAND. 
It was my property (at least as much 
as it was anybody else’s). He 
drove me away, made himself king, set up 
his props and bided his time. 
     Now that they’ve gone 
I may return, and ask myself, not who 
they were, but who I was and what I mourn. 
There’s greenery left, a clear stream or two, 
and Ariel, perhaps, checking his reflection 
in yet another pool. Caliban’s gone, 
went with the gods who were only men. It’s 
what he deserves. He wanted so much 
to be just like them. 
     What is my task? 
Because they’ve gone, must I go too? Take leave
of my senses one by one, or two by two? 

The good witch Sycorax has bright blue eyes 
and now she’s on her own she may fantasise.
Namjoshi, Suniti. “Sycorax: Prologue,” Sycorax: New Fables and Poems, Penguin, 2006.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.

Emigrant | Ranjit Hoskote

By Poetry No Comments
Leaving, he looks out of the window,
skirting the edge of the silver wing:
a tear widens in the quilt of clouds,
through which he sees (or thinks he can)

miles below, traffic lights blinking
their green and amber arrows
as rain smears the windscreens of cars
and soldiers jump down from dented tanks.

He clutches his passport. There's no room
for back numbers in his baggage.
The clouds stitch back the widening tear
but he gropes for a towel,

feeling the cabin temperature rise
as though, miles below,
the city of his birth were burning.
Ranjit Hoskote, “Emigrant.” Vanishing Acts: New and Selected Poems, 1985-2005, Penguin Books India, 2006, p. 166.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.

The Ghana Scholar Reflects on His Thesis | Keki N. Daruwalla

By Poetry No Comments
The ghost train moves in
during the blackest phase of night –
on some battlement in Cyprus,
in the days of Othello, a sentry
would have called it the second watch.
Black visages gaze at me, eyeless;
a chain clanks somewhere
in a lost corner
of a dungeon dream.


The night’s distemper which I have to face,
night after night, started
even as I wrote my thesis.
A harmless piece it was:
‘The History of Cocoa in Ghana.’
Who would have thought
it could land me in this soup?
In this city of spires and shabby scholars
in worn-out tweeds,
squeaking away on worn-out bicycles,
guys don’t know where it is!
You’ve got to say ‘Gold Coast, now Ghana’.

Friends suddenly become vocal, the slobs:
‘Should be ships making slave-runs
between de lines here.
Should be slave stations
on dis brown cocoa-coloured page of yours,
stations with names like Elmina and Ouidah,
Komenda and Akwida. De word “slavery”
doesn’t figure in your friggin paper!'

I could’ve told them a thing or two about slavery –
after all I was born in the bloody place!
Gold Coast slaves were preferred,
because the ones from Biafra
was stubborn and prone to suicide.
Slaves actually believed
that at the other end of the Atlantic
white savages would be waiting to eat them up!
I could have passed on these nuggets,
but all they were keen on was settling old scores,
with black ram tupping white ewe once again.

I shook my head, I wanted
that doctorate from Oxford real bad.
Now this: apparitions
surfacing from nightscapes –
black visages with bloodstains
where the eyes should have been.
Daruwalla, Keki. N. “The Ghana Scholar Reflects on His Thesis.” Collected Poems 1970-2005, Penguin, 2006, pp. 325-26.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.
A pair of feet with white sneakers, dressed in jeans, with flowers growing out of the shoes with an air of mystical transformation

How to Be a Girl | Jeet Thayil

By Poetry One Comment
Tiny cherubs of joy paddle the air.
Must I mention their preposterous wings?
No: I sit. I pull the door shut,
the cubicle expands like feathers.

The girl walks in, hesitates.
I watch her stop her shoes next door,
the bottoms of her frayed blue jeans.
(I’m trying not to make a sound.)

She bends down, places paper
on the seat, carefully sits.
Her shoes face forward,
the jeans fall to her feet.

I listen, then, to the sound
of fabric falling down
to the floor of the stall.
The girl is gone.

I pull on her jeans,
shoes, underwear. Again,
the sound of God’s snake hissing:
sudden breasts on my chest.

Outwards I soften.
Stubble falls from my face.
A cleft of African violet
swells with the sea.

My lifeline lengthens.
My seat fills out.
I feel my smell change – spicy,
mysterious, so sweet I gag for fear.
Thayil, Jeet. “How to be a girl.” English. Penguin, 2003, pp. 17-18.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.
Read Jeet Thayil on IWE Online
Questions of the 'State' of the 'Art'

Language Games | Agha Shahid Ali

By Poetry One Comment

I went mad in your house of words,
purposely mad, so you would
give me asylum.

I went mad to undergo
a therapy of syllables.

But you prescribed crosswords,
anagrams for sleeping pills.
That didn’t work.

You bought a Scrabble game.
I juggled the white pieces,
maybe a hundred times.
But my seven letters
were all vowels.

When you spoke again,
my sorrow turned deaf:
I couldn’t hear you smile.

Words never evade you,
you can build anything.
You can build a whole hour
with only seven seconds.

Framed with consonants,
we resumed play, no vowels
in my seven letters.
I saw you do wonders without vowels.

Let’s give up, I said,
but you cried: Truth AND Consequences!
I rocked shut to sounds.

You challenged me to Charades.
I agreed. This
would be my syllable-cure.

Tableau One: I licked a saucer of milk.
You cried: CAT!
Tableau Two: I was stubborn as a mule.
You cried: ASS!
Tableau Three: I gave you my smile, like a prize.
You cried: TROPHY!

You cried: CAT-ASS-TROPHY?
You cried: CATASTROPHE!

Ali, Agha Shahid, “Language Games,” The Veiled Suite: The Collected Poems, Penguin Books Limited, 2010.
Published with permission from Penguin Random House India.

The Harp of India | Henry Louis Vivian Derozio

By Poetry No Comments

Why hang’st thou lonely on yon withered bough?
Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain;
Thy music once was sweet – who hears it now?
Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain?
Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain;
Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou,
Like ruined monument on desert plain:
O! many a hand more worthy far than mine
Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave,
And many a wreath for them did Fame entwine
Of flowers still blooming on the minstrel’s grave:
Those hands are cold – but if thy notes divine
May be by mortal wakened once again,
Harp of my country, let me strike the strain!

March, 1827

Derozio, Henry Louis Vivian, “The Harp of India.” Poems of Henry Louis Vivian Derozio. Humphrey Milford Oxford University Press, 1923, p. 1.

Finding the Way | Mamang Dai

By Poetry, Reading One Comment

We ate the words. We were hungry.

We ate the words.

 

In the cave of our ancestors

we drank the wine of ritual,

sprinkled blood on the ground.

Who knows if it rained or snowed –

entangled in a myth

finding the way was hard

when we swallowed the sunrise and the sunset.

 

All the words were eaten.

What were the words, what was written?

 

In a dream the great hunter made a speech.

Come, he said, let us leave this torment of darkness

water and mist.

and sing for the river flowing east.

Undying on the wild way we followed

carrying the wind and waters,

the flying sky.

and the stag on the horizon

dancing amongst the stars.

 

Tomorrow –

would we reach tomorrow?

 

From the cave of our ancestors

the void continues to fill.

The letters to earth and sky

written in the outline of the hills

a sun seed in the backbone,

the tenacity of grass;

root strength

and the fragrance of fleeting things,

the purpose of growing corn

and living mud

feeding breath with fire and bones

in the silence of our hills, the fury of our skies.

 

Dai is a poet and novelist from Pasighat, Arunachal Pradesh. A former journalist, Dai also worked with World Wide Fund for nature in the Eastern Himalaya Biodiversity Hotspots programme.
In 2003 she received the state Verrier Elwin Award for her book Arunachal Pradesh- the hidden land featuring the culture, folklore and customs of Arunachal’s different communities. A Padma Shri awardee, Dai is a recipient of the Sahitya Akademi Award 2017, for her novel The Black Hill, in English.
Dai lives in Itanagar, Arunachal Pradesh, India.
Published in Divining Dante, Recent Works Press, Canberra 2021.
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