Collected Poems in English -- Arun Kolatkar

Okay, here's the first notable thing about this book.

Its a Bloodaxe.

I know that may not ring a bell in a lot of heads (and not necessarily in the heads of those who don't read poetry -- considering that a lot of people who read poetry, just read it online), so let me clarify.

Bloodaxe is probably the world's most premier publisher of poetry books and if they publish someone's poetry, that someone could consider that he / she has arrived.

I don't know if I am being irreverent here, or if I am being mock irreverent -- in a way what I said above is a fact.

Then again, Bloodaxe probably commissioned this book around the time that they came to know that Arun Kolatkar is leaving (as opposed to having arrived) when he was diagnosed with cancer and counting his days.

Then again, I am not blaming Bloodaxe for this either, Arun being Arun and legendarily famous for not signing contracts, wanting total control on his books, wanting to design them, choose the paper, etc, etc.

All of which is neither here nor there, all of us are mortal and poets are more so -- since they die a thousand deaths even when they live -- what matters is that this book is probably the only such collection of Arun Kolatkar's oeuvre and yes, it has Jejuri in it (try buying it), it has Kala Ghoda Poems in it (try buying it), it has Sarpa Satra in it (TRY buying it) and it has many a poem that you never heard of (even if you are a dyed in wool Arun Kolatkar acolyte) like the poems presented under "Translations" and those presented under "Words for Music", poems that seem totally alien to Arun Kolatkar's laconic and very pithy voice.

But then, this is a collection of all his life's writings and while many a poet struggles to find one voice, someone like Arun could probably manage a lot more :-)

All of which is neither here nor there; I am not reviewing this book here, nor am I asking you to buy it. Or whatever.

As people say on FB, "Arun Kolatkar in the house".

And to think that I have been denying myself this pleasure for more than three years -- years during which I have gifted his books to some "special" others and also introduced some close friends and all and sundry to him.

Yes, to think that I was indulging in social service all this while, instead of enjoying his poetry again and again.

But then, I had promises to keep.

And bring out my own three books of poetry.

Somehow I have the feeling that up there, asking for another Chhai and Bun Maska in the cafe where dead poets sit and while away their time, Arun Kolatkar would chuckle to know that I have his life's work with me. And that I am nonplussed -- unable to decide if a book that weighs half a kg is all that someone as prolific as him leaves behind, unable to decide if that is less or more, for a poet that is.

All of which is neither here nor there... 

See Paris for me

For more than a month now I have interacted on and off with Priti through Facebook and also read some of her "tightly drawn, poignant with immediacy" poems. Here's one,

'Tied my word-boat...'

Tied my
word-boat
to an imaginary anchor
in your silence.

Now
The word-boat
shallow
Your silence
a distant shore
The thought-crafted anchor
as flimsy
as the shadows
that throng the mind

Time to set
the word-boat adrift
Will it capsize?
Will it find
real resting place?
In a more
accepting silence?

All these days, Priti's first book has been getting ready and now its finally available in bookstores! Published by Penguin, "See Paris for me" is Set in Paris, Budapest and Hyderabad, this is a story about Sadhavi, a married woman, who finds herself intensely attracted to Kanav, a scholar and teacher, whom she meets in Paris. An intelligent woman with a traditional upbringing, a modern liberal education, married into an orthodox Brahmin family, Sadhavi had not actively thought about or pursued that which would fulfil her as an individual - till she comes to Paris and, away from her familiar surroundings, finds herself somewhat alone, emotionally vulnerable and intangibly connected to Kanav.

Sadhavi's yearning for an elusive fulfilment - and her struggle to let go of it - forms the core of the narrative, shaping the finely nuanced, contemplative contours of this quietly told but deeply felt novel.

Here's an excerpt of the book (the first page in fact) shared by Priti -


30 September 2004
An image followed me relentlessly today. It was part of a dream. And I can make no sense of it. I must have fallen asleep briefly – there is no other explanation for it - while reading in the afternoon.

I’m waiting for a concert, perhaps it is part of a Carnatic Music Festival here in Paris. I have great expectations from it as if it will mean something significant for me in an intensely personal way. The evening comes. Almost everybody is seated in the concert hall. I’m nearly the last one to enter. The musicians are introduced; they tune their instruments - a benign assurance of something splendid to follow or the usual preface to the recital. There is near perfect silence and the stillness of anticipation. The vocalist mentions the ragam and the talam. It is Ritigowla—one of my favourite ragams—it’s going to be a beautiful evening, perhaps one of those rare lustrous moments that leaves its lingering glow on the humdrum ones that follow, making them easier to accept.

And then, soon after, I hear nothing. I’m slightly perplexed. I wait patiently for the silence to melt away. It remains. It is too complete, absolute and unremitting to be real. I look at the musicians: the singer, the tambura player behind him, the mridangist and the violinist. They are all performing but I hear nothing. I focus on the vocalist. From the expressions on his face, his lip movements, his shake of the head, his absorption, his keeping of the talam with his right hand by thumping on his thigh, I know that he is singing the composition. I look at the people around me, watch them. I know they can hear and seem to be enjoying the music. Why can’t I hear anything? What’s wrong with me? I stuff my index fingers into my ears, pull them out and repeat the act several times in order to clear my ears. No sound enters. I discreetly clap my hands before me but the clap is a mute gesture. I clap a little harder. I hear nothing. My neighbours glare at me. I look at them bewildered.

I shrink into my chair and press hard against its back to contain the incipient panic. Then I close my eyes hoping that if I shut my eyes my ears will open up. Guardedly, I thump the right armrest of my chair with the open palm of my hand and, as I do so, I incline my head to the right to catch the sound. Silence—thick, seamless. At first there is confused fear, then agony, anger and gut-wrenching frustration with each passing silent desolate moment. I sit there petrified in my soundproof, soul-negating world. Delirious panic seizes me as I realize that something that can make me feel exquisitely fulfilled can never be mine even for a moment.

The memory of this horrible dream circled inside my head the rest of the day, potent and untiring. Leaving me as enervated as the other one I keep having where I am ceaselessly engraving a script on invisible walls. Why? Because I want to record and save memories but that is not the way to do it. The nervy etchings that a sense of loss makes cannot nurture future moments. I know that, yet I persist.

Intrigued? Buy the book :-) If you are from Hyderabad you can get it at Landmark, Walden or Crossword.

Priti blogs at www.somethinginpassing.blogspot.com