Moving On to Ink Dries and beyond

When I decided to take the plunge and bring out my first collection
of English poetry I wasn't one of the "poets" belonging to a clique
or a group, or someone with an established "voice" / reputation,
academic credentials / blog, etc.

Nor was I -- for that matter -- someone established in prose or
any other genre, a name out in the market and known to readers.

In other words, I was out and out obscure and unknown. In other
words, expecting any mainline publisher to show interest in my book
would have been a bit like wishing for a lottery.

As such, I decided to go it alone and self-publish my poetry. And I
put up Coucal Books to do the same. With the objective of bringing
out other poetry books; of poets as obscure as me.

But then, this and that has resulted in the last two years being a
bit choppy on the personal and professional front; which meant I
couldn't really do much about scouting out for other poets looking
at getting their books out.

Besides, in these two years there hasn't been an earth-shattering
awakening of interest for poetry in the minds of readers. And
though it is a bit easier to find out the "niches" of poetry lovers
thanks to the burgeoning numbers of online groups, poetry books
are still risky propositions, slow starters, etc.

So, the sum total of books brought out by Coucal in the last 2 years
is one. Mine.

And the next book that Coucal's bringing out is also mine.

In the eyes of a lot of discerning or opinionated or plain cynical
people out there this would look like vanity publishing.

I wouldn't know; I am as vain about my poetry as any poet out there
but I certainly don't write to get famous or to show you my best side
or to see my name in print.

Nor do I write poetry (or bring out poetry books) to become rich,
for that matter.

So I would like to see what I do as self-publishing, that too in the
great tradition of senior Indian poets like Nissim Ezekiel, Jayanta
Mahapatra, Arun Kolatkar, etc.

For those who can't make out the difference between vanity publishing
and self-publishing, I have nothing much to say.

For those who are interested in poetry; specifically those interested
in bringing out their poetry -- hey, Coucal is here, drop me a mail,
(or message me on FB) and we will take it ahead!

Speaking of "Moving On", I still think it was one of the best things
to have happened to me, one of the most important things I have done
in life. Since then, I have learned a lot about poetry, poets and
publishing, but I am happy to say that my passion for poetry still
stays un-quenched and I will keep at it. And as far as poetry books
go, Moving On has garnered a fair amount of readership and been pretty
well received with many readers writing in to me appreciating this poem
or liking that poem.

Since I haven't done this elsewhere ever, a big thank you to all my
readers.

Yes, I promise to keep at it and write and publish more poetry,
even as the ink dries.

December Dilemmas and drying ink

I have a peculiar relationship with December, for all of five or
more years now. I love December since it is the high-point of the
Indian winter, the weather is bracingly cool and ( I can say this
as have done a fair bit of touring) the landscapes and the vistas
when you are out on the road and in the interiors can be stunningly
breath-taking. And yet, December also means the end of an year;
and the onset of another that comes with its own attendant worries.
This December has been no different; and has added the gravitas
of bringing a lot of memories to do with Orissa (about which there
are quite a few poems in my forthcoming book)to the visual feast
that I have been enjoying in the wilderness I ramble in -- near my
place -- for birding. Significantly, in a throwaback to my childhood
days, I have yet again "bonded" with the outdoors, felt the same way
I used to when I was 11 years old and just learning what my self means
while rambling over the hills that comprise the Durgapur Range.

I may have aged in the interim but somehow the outdoors seem the same;
I could be sitting besides a Pokhuri in Orissa instead of a disused
quarry out here in Hyderabad. I could be rambling over the hills and
rice fields of my childhood, instead of these acres that flank a
military installation (and are left wild to serve as a perimeter)
here in Hyderabad. Its not the mind playing tricks, its an overpowering
surge of memories, a flood of poetry.

As such it has been bloody tough; to collect all finished poems,
rework on them, run edits and simultaneously finding time and
mindspace to write this month's, this season's. Oh well, maybe
its a good problem to have after all.

But the biggest dilemma of December has been what to call the book
and what cover image to run with. Revisiting all that I have gone
through and typing it all out here could end up splaying my fingers
even further; so let me suffice to say that it wasn't easy to decide
on the name Ink Dries. Nor was it to decide on the cover visual,
but then as I say in one of the poems in the book, "if you are ____,
there will always be time".

So there, the cover is decided and bit by bit the book's taking shape
too. And expected to be out in January 2012.



More updates to follow; for now some trivia -- yes, the photograph has
been taken by me and yes, the book has a number of poems dealing with
the "word" and with the most important tool of the writing trade, ink.

Hospital Diary

Truth be told, I worry a lot about "where the money will
come from" for this and that, these days. Blame it on being
bypassed in the employment scheme of things by phone-obsessed,
assumption happy recruiters, blame it on the increasing
realization that I will always be penny wise and pound shy,
blame it on the rising costs of living -- of things even as
plain as Idlis (that cost Rs. 15 for four!) and this and that.

And oh, yes blame it on the fact that writing poetry is not a
profession at all, unless one is looking at a payout very late
in life, when a "matured" poet like Tomas Tranströmer. Whatever
it be, the worry has ridden me hard. And as is bound to happen
when you are family, I am sure much of this has been generously
borrowed by my father, who at 67 is a retiree and has a wealth
of own monetary and other worries.

Stress and worry are the most major triggers for a heart
condition, so in all those lengthy vigils at the hospital,
I was mentally flogging myself for being a bad son, in
addition to feeling old and poor by turns.

Oh, the pain!

#######

The hospital concerned was a corporate hospital with a
who's who of empaneled and consultant specialists. While I am
no stranger to hospitals (being the chosen one to accompany
my father on his weekly visits to a sprawling PSU run hospital
in Rourkela and being the chosen one, the attendant who is
allowed to stay with the patient when my parents were
hospitalized at the afore-mentioned hospital and being
admitted myself for a minor surgery) this one was
overwhelming in its concrete, steel and glass glitter.
As also in its level of image consciousness and
presentation (from a marketing viewpoint). My father
(as a retiree from a PSU) was entitled to insurance
reimbursement, but I still wondered all through, how much
less expensive this hospital's services would be, without
all that glitter -- of the reception and front office staff
(on every floor), the men among them dressed in suits,
the women draped in designer sarees and fancy high backed
blouses, the lift attendants and so on...
But then again, when you are at a hospital that is taking
good care of your father, you count your blessings.

####

This hospital is a stone's throw from Secunderabad
Railway Station and has come up behind what used to
be the legendary Sangeet Cinema Hall and is now an
under construction behemoth of concrete, all of 6
floors high with a big crane / hoist towering over it
all, on which most of the time, I could see at least one
Black Kite. Which meant that whenever I felt like feeling
like a bird, I would walk to the window of father's room
and look out. To see either a dogfight among the kites
in the skies, or a fight for the most favoured perch
(the weighed end) of the crane / hoist or (at least thrice)
the peculiarly carnival sight of a black kite sitting
on the crane / hoist totally unconcerned (and in all
probability enjoying) while the crane / hoist did
a complete swivel of 180 degrees and then back again.
Almost like a merry go round. One more reason to respect
these majestic creatures -- the Black Kites; they don't
seem to have queasy guts unlike me, when it comes to merry
go rounds.