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Silver Jubilee &
Other Poems (June 2008) By Nirmaldasan 1. Silver Jubilee: A Quatern Five and twenty years with the Muse Have I sung inspired melodies. The silver sphere its light renews Kindling the stars of memories. I sang of Nature and its health, Five and twenty years with the Muse; I sang of Culture and its wealth, I sang of Deity — and the deuce! Eternal themes mine heart pursues: Nature, Culture and the Divine! Five and twenty years with the Muse, A purple toast of brimming wine!
Come dance with me and sing with glee On any theme the Muse may choose. Ah, sing this silver jubilee — Five and twenty years with the Muse! 2. Diwali Villanelle Everyday to me a Diwali is, Full of happiness, ecstasy and peace, Till mistress Death seals mine eyes with a kiss. Time hastens away but flows not amiss; It fills Life with sparkling wine to the lees. Everyday to me a Diwali is. Each morn harbingers a day such as this, And I at ease sail like a flock of geese Till mistress Death seals mine eyes with a kiss. Each day is meant to bang as well to fizz! With fragrance of flowers and hum of bees Everyday to me a Diwali is. Dove-like I coo and serpent-wise I hiss, That none my wooly self may chance to fleece Till mistress Death seals mine eyes with a kiss. Wherefore is this Life if not full of bliss? I’ll smile like the morn and blow like the breeze. Everyday to me a Diwali is, Till mistress Death seals mine eyes with a kiss. 3. Psalm Of Love The river’s nature is to flow, The creeper’s to twine; The wind’s nature is to blow — And what is that of mine? The cuckoo’s nature is to sing, The golden sphere’s to shine; The bell’s nature is to ring — And what is that of thine? To let to thee my feelings flow, Mine arms around thee to twine; To touch thy lips and kisses blow Is that nature of mine. With voice divine to me to sing, Those lovely eyes with love to shine; And make mine heart in melodies ring Is that nature of thine. 4. Testament Of Love No painter am I, no painter am I! Ask me why, my love, ask me why. For whence can I thy self’s proper hue find — Thy beauty on canvas to bind?
No poet am I, no poet am I! Ask me why, my love, ask me why. For sought I in truth for apt words in vain — Thy virtues in sweet songs to chain. But a lover am I, thy lover am I! Do I lie, my love, do I lie? Nay, in mine heart its truth thou canst read — True love no testament doth need. 5. Farewell To — The mighty winds may cease to blow, The shining stars may cease to glow, The rivers swift may cease to flow — But mine heart shalt never, never cease to love. The winds, stars and rivers (so quaint!) Blow, glow and flow for sinner and saint — But mine heart’s beat, though very faint, Echoes my love for thee alone, O my dove! Farewell, farewell, ’tis time to part; And though we be miles and miles apart, Shalt near remain, linked heart to heart, With bounteous blessings from the One above. 6. A Farewell Song If I must sing A farewell song, The song of farewell My lips shall prolong; And this song I sing, In thine heart shall ring Forever, in melodies sweet, In melodies sweet, in melodies sweet. No song of farewell This night I sing, For to these moments I hope to cling. This song sad and sweet I’ll leave incomplete And sing it all when we next meet, When we next meet, when we next meet. 7. Rain When clouds clash in the skies, There’s lightning, thunder and rain. Some may not see the lightning, Some may not hear the thunder. But when clouds clash in the skies, There’s lightning, thunder and rain. I missed the morning rain. Never slept like this before. The grass is wet and I bend And steal a drop of rain. How it glistens on fingertip! I missed the morning rain. I have always loved the Neem, A green sky beneath the blue. Two squirrels chase each other And shake the leafy boughs. The rain I missed this morning, The Neem had saved for me. 8. Grains Of Thought a. The Haiku Haiku … a grain of thought Transformed in a dew of verse By Oyster into pearl. b. Envy “I envy you,” she said. From her hand the mirror slipped And broke into smithereens. c. Bliss Little snow-white moths Flit about the room, like bits Of paper from terrace dropped. d. Metamorphosis The glutton is dead. With intoxicating drink The butterfly breaks his fast. e. Realisation I crush the mosquito; The whitest wall is stained With my blood … 9. Pedestrian’s Complaint On either side the broad road, mounted on metal posts, were an array of sodium vapour lamps dispelling the darkness. On the long road, men and women in flashy robes plied their vehicles at freak-out speeds. On the pavement was seen a solitary man wearing leather sandals, grey pants, light-green jibba and rectangular specs, sporting a lovely beard. On his shoulder hung a shoulder-bag. On one hand he wore a watch, and on the other he held Thirukkural, rightly called the Universal Veda. Awhile he hummed some carnatic tune as he walked along, and then casting his eyes on the traffic, he thus pondered: “Wheel: that great invention … without which no chariots for the kings of old, and no bullock carts for the common man. “Wheel: versatile? Perhaps, but now grossly misused. Buses, scooters, lorries, motorbikes … ejecting smoke (O, how unlike the air we exhale!), and whose throbbing engines creating sounds (O, how unlike the rattle of chariot wheels!). “Will this traffic continue to flow? Will bipedalism be a forgotten art? And I — the last of the bipedalists?” As he thus mused he neared the zebra-crossing. The signal flashed green for him to cross the road. Traffic came to a halt. And as he slowly crossed, his thoughts ran thus: “Ah, traffic has ceased to flow! Would it would remain thus forever! O, vain is my wish. They only wait for me to cross the road. “Alone I cross the road; and
alone, all alone must I, the last of the bipedalists,
cross the road of l Musing thus he crossed the road and sighed … 10. Second Childhood Part I Grandma’s Desire The festival season is over. All the sweetmeats have been eaten. Only a milksweet remains in the box. Grandson wants it. But grandma wants it too. The last sweet is the sweetest. This the grandson knows. And so does grandma, having eaten many a sweet in four-score years. “I want it!” cries the four-year-old. “I want it!” mimics the four-score-old. “I am young,” says grandson. “I am old,” says grandma. “Yes, you are old and have eaten enough in all these years,” he says. “But you are young and will eat more than enough after I die,” she says. “No grandma, you should not die. Take this sweet.” “No, little fellow, I am just joking. Let’s share it.” And grandson leaped upon grandma’s lap and they both enjoyed the sweet. Part II Grandpa’s Fear Grandpa feared the crocodile. Ten years ago, when I was a little fellow, he narrated to me with much humour how he feared the crocodile. “When I was a kid like you,” he would say, “I saw a crocodile in every shape. I couldn’t write A to Z, lest the C, U and V jump out of the page and swallow me.” “You must be joking, grandpa,” I would say. “Now it sounds like a joke. But then I was afraid of chairs. Every chair to me was a crocodile in disguise. Even at school I used to sit on the floor. And at home I would wet my shorts. I never dared to enter the loo where the john with open jaws was ready to gobble me up.” I burst into laughter. “O grandpa, say that again.” “I would wet my shorts,” grandpa would oblige. And like all kids, I would hold my sides and roll in laughter. But grandpa never told me how he overcame the crocodile fears. Maybe it wasn’t that interesting. Ten years ago I laughed like a child at his childish fears. But yesterday? How he screamed! As he lay reclined on the ease-chair in an afternoon siesta, his crocodile fears were back. The ease-chair was a crocodile in disguise. It swallowed him up for ever. 11. Weariness O river, how weary must you be! Onward flowing, resting never, Flowing on forever and ever, O river, how weary must you be! O breeze, how weary must you be! Making music ever in the trees, Blowing always for all to please, O breeze, how weary must you be! O cloud, how weary must you be! Pushed forever by wind so proud To pass in silence or thunder loud, O cloud, how weary must you be! Ah me, how weary must I be! Thinking ever that I am free, Yet pursued by thoughts that haunt me, Ah me, how weary must I be! 12. Robotical Me: A Retourne Work and home, to and fro, Everyday I come and go. And though I chose the direct way, I wonder how I went astray. Everyday I come and go Like a swing, fast and slow; The first few swings surely thrill And then — a monotonous drill! And though I chose the direct way For loads of cash and double pay — Night and day, day and night, Helpless I swing for dumb delight. I wonder how I went astray; Better still to starve and pray Than swing along, night and day, For loads of cash and double pay. 13. Song Of Quarry
Workers We brought gravel for the highway And ballast for the railway track. Our hands are free this holiday, No load we bear on head or back. We sing a song of joy with pride, For all our tools are laid aside. We sing a song of joy with pride, For all our tools are laid aside. The hills we broke, now plains are they; The plains we mined are now a vale. Our hands are free this holiday, We hammer neither stone nor nail. We sing a song of joy with pride, For all our tools are laid aside. We sing a song of joy with pride, For all our tools are laid aside.
Talk not to us of work, we pray; Tomorrow we do what you bid. Our hands are free this holiday, Our hearts are not in what we did. We sing a song of joy with pride, For all our tools are laid aside. We sing a song of joy with pride, For all our tools are laid aside. 14. Piece Of Advice: A Kyrielle To lend advice I may be bold As I am young and you are old. Never utter this thoughtless line, “That’s your problem, not mine!” Idols never wipe a tear But always lend a patient ear And never parrot this callous line, “That’s your problem, not mine!” All pangs and pains that you may feel, Sometimes to me you do reveal. I am tempted quite to echo your line, “That’s your problem, not mine!” 15. Epistle To Shalom Dearest Shalom, of thoughts profound In verse to thee I sought to sound — Thoughts, which henceforth I shall dispense, For truly now I feel my sense. Am I not a poet? Art not thou? Yes: thou wert, and thy shady brow Bid the Muse adieu. Or did she? And broke the chains to fly to me? Oft I wish’d that Melancholy — Never hoped I — would dwell in me! And oft, so to resemblance find With Such thoughts issue from a poet’s brain,— How foolish they seem, how vain! And oft do we our thoughts alter, And think we have for the better. Now I mine attention direct — Yours too, of course! — to a subject On which thy thoughts and mine contend. Not in offence I condescend To set in ink the quality Of my faith. Do not me pity, Though ’tis true my faith is weaker, Yet strong enough for a seeker: Faith, not void of reason founded, And not by argument bounded. What is idolatry? A sin? In this I never indulged in, Nor ever will, but still I feel What I think is best to conceal. Prahlad’s father to his dismay found His folly, when he smote to the ground That stony pillar wherein he denied God’s presence could ever be espied. Tagore found in the inmost shrine Of his heart God’s countenance shine. Did not that great bard Bharati See in various forms his deity? Did not Wordsworth in nature’s bower Feel God’s presence and healing power? In the spirit of innocence I feel a part of His essence. Now, my friend, in this present mood I would thou wouldst let me allude To the blind men who came to see How the elephant’s shape might be. They came, they saw with feeling hands, And fixed its shape as sense commands. —No more on this I time shall spend, For well you know the story’s end. And, O my friend! Like these blind men A part of the Lord’s form we ken: And then the other’s faith we curse, When our own faiths we ought to nurse. 16. Psalm Of Death Men have I heard say “Dying swans are known to sing.” So let me sing, I pray, Ere to thee my soul takes wing. Let me, O Lord, to thee Sing venial songs awhile: Not here for long to be, But Death to greet with a smile. Though yet a youth am I, The draught of life bringeth pain: Let my breath to thee fly, Never to return again. Save singing songs to thee, Only seeming joys are here, And true Melancholy Which holds mine heart too dear. I long, O Lord, for thee! All my gordian knots untie; And have me, Lord, have me Sing songs to thee till I die.
17. Voices In Hell Voice: Where am I? In heaven or hell? Echo: Hell. Voice: Who art thou? Art thou Satan? Echo: Say ten. Voice: The ten old commands, forgotten since … Echo: Ten sins. Voice: What are they? Tell me now and here. Echo: Hear. Voice: I will hear, but who art thou? Echo: Who art thou? Voice: A preacher, a man of God. Echo: Odd. Voice: What do you mean? Reply. Echo: Eye. Voice: And then? Let me hear. Echo: Ear. Voice: Eye and ear and— Echo: Hand. Voice: Devilish hand and heavenly nose? Echo: He only knows. Voice: But all my sins you claim to know. Echo: Aim to know. Voice: I drink only the drink divine. Echo: Wine. Voice: Love nuts and raisins too. Echo: Sins too. Voice: Besides sins nothing you know? Echo: No. Voice: But I have sinned with none. Echo: Sinned with nun. Voice: She loved me dearly as a seeker. Echo: Seek her. Voice: Is she too in hell? Echo: Two in hell. Voice: Only me and her? Echo: Meander. Voice: Thoughts do meander, of course. Echo: Off course. Voice: So what? God’s in me and God’s in her. Echo: Sinner. Voice: Okay, I confess. What’s your advice? Echo: Add vice. Voice: I shall sin with her in hell. Echo: Wither in hell. 18. Echo On Avarice Voice: The vales are full of marigold. Echo: Gold. Voice: Else why should Ted and I be here? Echo: Be here. Voice: We have come not to stay. Echo: Eh—! Voice: We’ll take away the gold. Echo: Old. Voice: But not too old to hunt for gold. Echo: Hunt for gold. Voice: I’ll take all the gold. Echo: All the gold? Voice: If I can brave the cold or Ted. Echo: Cold-hearted. Voice: The winner takes all is my creed. Echo: Greed. Voice: Ted will be left in the cold. Echo: Gold. Voice: The gold is mine. Echo: Gold is mine. Voice: Looks like Ted talking. Echo: Ted talking. Voice: Ted, Ted, don’t press the trigger. Echo: Press the trigger. Voice: False Echo, is he your Ted? Echo: You’re dead. Voice: !? (gunshot) Echo: Bang! 19. Hammer Lost (A mock epic) For ages unsung, this song full of spice, More heroic than the war of frogs and mice — Which Homer blind sang in mellow rhyme — Or the rape of Belinda’s locks sublime, I sing inspired by the celestial nine 5 Who promise to grace every line of mine. Say, Sisters, what the theme may chance to be? The hammer, its loss and recovery. Not the hammer with which you beat the gong Shall be the theme of this my mockic song; 10 But the thundering weapon which Thor commands, That boomerangs back right into his hands, That makes the bravest heart to quake with fear Shall my fancy engage and my heart steer. Weary were the gods, returned from the hunt; 15 Down they sat, the wild boars now to confront With forks and knives; the goddesses too sat To sup and as wonted with them to chat. The hall of Valhalla with candles lit Echoes their laughter and eke their wit. 20 The boars apart they tear and quaff the wine: Such revelry belongs to those who dine! The feasting done, all to their rooms retire To dally with dreams in Sleep’s sweet empire Until morrow morn returns as before 25 For them to trek the woods and hunt the boar! Freya the mother, Odin the sire, To know well the spouse each with joy aspire; And so do every pair. But mighty Thor Preferred to be a solitary star. 30 His brownish beard seemed as a comet’s tail; And his breath gave signs of a stormy gale. Oft distant thunder resembled his snore, And at times waves beating upon the shore. As wings to a bird, as light to a star, 35 As fins to fish, so the hammer to Thor. As kids with dolls, as kings with concubine — I swear O as much as cats’ lives are nine — Lay he asleep with his thunder weapon, And so will till the sands of life art run! 40 Though the immortal gods in heaven dwell, At times feel they as though they art in hell, Differing from us only in degree And not in kind as ye shall presently see. Even their minds are in a fluxion state; 45 As fervent their love is, so deep their hate. Twice ten times they laugh and twice as much rue, And longings have they and attachment too. And though seem the gods as we mortals are, None to us more akin than mighty Thor! 50 But return we shall to flow with the tide: Awake sprung Thor in midnight’s other side And seemed as though a nightmare struck him blind, For him beside the tool he could not find. He shook his half-brother Loki awake 55 And felt as though his heart in twain would break. Loki frowned at his brother angerly, For who would not at this hour annoyed be To be awakened thus from teeming dreams That charm the inward sense with sensuous themes? 60 But soon anger gave way to concern large, His bosom heaved up as a lightsome barge When Thor made known, after a tedious pause, Made known to him of the hammer’s loss. Great is he who this mystery unlocks: 65 A mystery or perchance a paradox! When none can from the ocean steal its waves, Or ever-crowding darkness from the caves; When none can filch sweetness from manna, What power then has dared to break nature’s law? 70 Who can the weapon lift that weighs a ton? Excepting Thor none the deed could have done. But what about the king of Jotunheim, Whom the giants adore and strongest deem? At length sprung an idea in Loki’s head, 75 And he with Thor to the divine stables sped. “Ere daybreak back I will!” said he to Thor And away he went like a shooting star Riding Sleipnir, his father’s nimble steed. Not Araby contains so fine a breed. 80 As Sleipnir sped across the milky way, Stars began to shake and twinkle away! Note: Hammer Lost was inspired by a ballad in the Henry Adams Bellows translation of The Poetic Edda. 20. Hammer Regained Odin: So Thrym has stolen the hammer. Loki: And intends to keep it unless— Odin: Unless? Loki: Unless Freya marries him. Odin: What? She is my spouse and has mothered you, Thor and many a god. Loki: What do we do? Thor: Let’s take Freya with us to Jotunheim. And when I get back my hammer, we’ll massacre the giants. Freya: No way! I’ll not come to Jotunheim. Most lustful would I look if I go with you to that simpleton. Odin: Now, now, Freya, you need not go. I wouldn’t let you go. Thor, how irresponsible you are. First you lose the hammer and then you come up with such a stupid idea! Thor: Now what did I say? Loki: Cool. Let’s not fight. Here comes Heimdall. He’ll know what must be done. Heimdall: Has Thor lost the hammer? Odin: You well know the past, present and future. Just tell us how to tackle Thrym. Heimdall (shuts his eyes, seems to look into the future): All will be well. Put on Thor the bridal veil and Freya’s necklace. Thor: What do you mean? Heimdall: Just listen. Let a woman’s dress hang down to his knees with gems full broad upon his breast. And place a pretty cap to crown his head. And let Loki be dressed as the bridesmaid. Thor: The gods would laugh at me if I wear the bridal veil. I would rather lose the hammer than my manliness. Loki: Come on, Thor, the hammer is already lost and so is your manliness. Now, look, if we don’t recover the hammer, the giants will dwell in Asgard and we in Jotunheim. Odin: Yes, Thor, you will do as you are told. Scene II. Thrym’s home. Enter Thor as Freya and Loki as the bridesmaid. Thrym: Welcome to Jotunheim. I knew you would come. I have gold-horned cattle and jet-black oxen. Many are my gems and many my jewels. Only you I lacked. But now you also are mine. Maid: Yes, she is thine. Thrym: Freya, wouldn’t you speak? Maid: She is shy. Thrym: That may be the case. Come on, giants, drink and be merry for Freya is mine today. Sister: Thrym, Thrym, I will have the bridal fee. Thrym: Dear sister, Freya will give you whatever you ask. Maid: Anything for Thrym and the hammer. Thrym: Ah, yes, the hammer. Now let us feast. Sister: I’ll bring the hammer. (Thor eats an ox and eight salmon, all the dainties as well that were set for the women and drank all the wine.) Thrym: I never saw a bride with broader bite, nor a maiden who drank more mead than this! Maid: Freya’s longing for Jotunheim was so hot that she fasted for eight nights. Thrym: Oh … (looks under the veil to steal a kiss but leaps back) Why are Freya’s eyes so fearful? There are, there are fire in her eyes! Maid: Her longing for Jotunheim was so hot that she didn’t sleep while she fasted. Thrym: Oh … (to sister) bring the hammer to hallow the bride. Sister: Here it is. But first I would have the bridal fee. (Thor seized the hammer and what followed was the promised massacre.) Note: Hammer Regained was adapted from a ballad in the Henry Adams Bellows translation of The Poetic Edda. 21. A Dramatic Ballad Odin: Welcome back, welcome back, my sons, Welcome back to Asgard! So soon returned have ye, my sons; How fared ye in Utgard? Swell-headed went ye forth, my sons — O beat the drum, O beat the drum! — Swell-headed went ye forth, my sons; And art thou likewise come? Loki: Nay, nay, father, not as we went Return we to thy kingdom, But with a shattered pride we three Humbler to thee art come. I challenged Logi to a match To see who would eat the quickest! A trough of meat was set before us, And he shewed I wasn’t the best. Odin: O glad am I to hear ye say Humbler come ye to thy Sire! But sorrow not, for none can beat Logi the gluttonous Fire! Thialfi: I challenged Hugi to a race, And ran swifter than the wind! And hardly had the race begun, He left me far behind! Odin: O grieve not that thou lost the race; None can beat him for aught! Though thou art swifter than the wind, He is none other than Thought! Thor: I was handed a drinking horn With water to the brim fraught; I was to drain the drinking horn In a single draught! I drew in all the ambient air Which my lungs twain could store; And though I took a deeper draught, The horn brimmed as before. Then was I to a wrestling match Challenged by Elli the old maid! We wrestled, and she raised me high And by her feet me-laid. Odin: O sorrow not, my mighty son, For not even in draughts three Canst thou empty the horn whose end Lies in the boundless sea! As for Elli, that good old maid, None can with her a battle wage; For she indeed, you needs must know, Is none other than Age! So, sorrow not, my mighty sons, Mighty still are ye — O beat the drum! — And glad am I to hear ye say Humbler to me ye come! 22. The Nocturnal Ride On the winding road lit by the light of the moon Came a happy man humming a melodious tune: Came he riding on his cart with a load of hay, By strong bullocks drawn which were subject to his sway. He held a whip in his hand that never lay still, And oft and oft he used it at his own free will. Sometimes the sore whip he used on the bullock pair, Sometimes he raised it to whip the surrounding air. No cold fears had he to ride on this winding road That winds through the woods for miles; nor strove he to goad The bullocks to speed up,— around whose necks were hung Glistering bells which were on silken ribbons strung. The stars in the firmament were all a-twinkling, And the bells of the bullocks were all a-tinkling; The lantern — hung beneath the cart — sway’d to and fro, And the breeze was a-blowing as ’twas wont to blow. “Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!” — the hooting of the owls he heard, And saw vampire bats flying so eerie and weird; Yet unshak’d and gay he seemed, and was a-whistling While leaves of the trees in the breeze were a-rustling. The wooden wheels of the cart rattled on the road As the bullocks moved on drawing the weary load; And the sound of the whip came again and again, And silent strains echoed on the walls of his brain. Then on the clear sky came a throng of clouds eftsoon, And like a cloak wrapp’d the myriad stars and moon; And darkness dropp’d, like veil across a maiden’s face, But the burning lantern lit the surrounding space. Then the breeze that was a-blowing had ceased to blow, And all the sounds into the air had ceased to flow, Save the tinklings of bells and rattling of wheels And faint beatings of the heart which he hears and feels. And he thought of his wife, that unfortunate maid, Who, alas! in a nearby lonely spot is laid. He, one darker night, brought her in this self-same cart And strangled her to stop the beating of her heart. No remorse had he; for, as far as he could see, She deserved it, as to him she brought no dowry; Nor had he sadness, though once he was filled with it, Nor fears to pass by the spot where dwells her spirit. That spot he has passed before on a darker night And that spot he now would pass without any fright. But knew not he that his wrath on her did descend On a night that has returned to mark a year’s end.— And his mind reels as the cart nears the fateful spot; The wheels cease to rattle and the bells tinkle not, Though the bullocks move along sincere in their toil,— And then the lantern ceased to burn, though full of oil. Silence was in the air and darkness all around. “Mercy!” he cried affrighted, and fell in a swound. Then the clouds dispersed and the firmament was bright, And all the silenced sounds came back into the night. So stars in the firmament were all a-twinkling, And the bells of the bullocks were all a-tinkling; The lantern — with its light restored — swayed to and fro, And the breeze was a-blowing as ’twas wont to blow. 23. The Anklet Sestina Now will I sing the song of the anklet Which Kannagi wore inlaid with rubies. Kovalan,
her spouse, returned from the dead And to paradise took her like a queen. But when alive on earth, Madhavi’s breast Set all his senses, mind and heart on fire. How long can Madhavi sustain the fire With so sweet a voice or tinkling anklet? Not for long dwelt she in Kovalan’s breast Who priced her more precious than rubies. Madhavi no more shall be his queen; He shall hasten home or just drop down dead. Let Kovalan’s past be as good as dead And his self be made whole by hallowed fire. Kannagi, glad again to be his queen, Urged Kovalan to go sell her anklet In another town where pearls and rubies — Alas! — kindled greed in a goldsmith’s breast. Calm and full of hope was Kovalan’s breast; He knew not that shortly he would be dead. He handed the anklet full of rubies To the goldsmith whose eyes sparkled fire Having stolen a similar anklet Inlaid with pearls which belonged to the queen. The goldsmith hastened to the king and queen; And guarding the truth well within his breast, He lied, “Kovalan stole the queen’s anklet.” The furious king wanted Kovalan dead. Kovalan’s body, once hallowed by fire, Now lay in a pool of blood — nay, rubies! “My anklet has no pearls, only rubies!” Cried Kannagi to both king and queen. “Unjust king!” From her lips sprang words of fire. “My husband is not a thief!” Her heaving breast Now more at grief than when she saw him dead. She’ll prove his innocence with the anklet. She broke the anklet and out sprang rubies; The king fell down dead and so did the queen. And Kannagi’s breast set the town on fire. 24. A Ballad On Duty (A tale from the Hitopadesha) A rich but simple washerman Lived in an ancient town; Well he washed a poor man’s dhoti As well a rich man’s gown. He swindled not a person’s cash, A honest life led he! And for all his earnest labour He charged a modest fee. One wonder may if such a man Anywhere else be found.— He had a devoted donkey And a ferocious hound. The donkey served with zeal and might And made his master fain; For whatever his burden be, Never would he complain. The hound too served his master well And watched the house by night. Many a thief he pounced upon And gave them such a fright! One rosy morn the washerman He found himself a spouse; Then there for ever seemed to be Merriment in the house. From morn till eve, from night till dawn, He sported with his wife. Ah! Who can tell, if one can tell, How flows the stream of life? He doted on his spouse for aye, For she made his heart pound! Thus he hardly fed the donkey, And neglected the hound. Sly as a cat, one moonless night, Someone scaled the compound wall. The hound nor pounced upon the thief Nor cared to bark at all. “O bark and rouse the house from sleep!” The donkey told the hound; Bemused was he to find the hound Stretch himself on the ground. “It little profits me to bark,” The hound arose to say. “The more I care the less I’m fed, Let the thief have his day.” “An ingrate brute you are indeed!” The donkey rebuked the hound. “No reward for thy labour seek And blessings will redound.” The hound refused to bark and sighed And stretched himself again. “Then I must,” said the donkey wroth, “If stubborn you remain.” Quickly replied the hound, “O don’t! Seek not to sport a mask. ’Tis not for you to rouse the house; Do thine allotted task.” But raising his head the donkey Brayed loud into the night. The startled thief took to his heels; The hound vanished from sight. Jerked out from sleep the washerman Into a rage he flew. Up he picked a cudgel-like stick And beat the donkey blue. He beat the donkey black and blue Till broke the stick in twain. “A hard lesson,” the donkey thought And sagged and cried in pain. 25. The Raga Of Deepak Tansen sat with his daughters twain The raga of Deepak to sing: Softly plucked he the rabab strings All set to please his king. Twilight the hour and vast the hall, Deepams unlit from ceiling hung. The king and his men down they sate To hear the raga sung. He began with a voice so sweet On a note neither high nor low; Soft was the breeze and dim the hall When melody began to flow. And as from low to high he sang, Rapt sat the audience entire; Soon the increasing notes invoked The spirit of fire. His daughters plucked the tambur strings As adjunct to his mellow strain. At once the spirit each deepam lit And the hall seemed a fane. Every eye with a deepam shone, But Tansen’s with an inner gleam: The king was pleased to behold this And thought it was a dream. But Tansen knew the notes intense, The raga him not satisfies; And like dew-drops from a leaf, Fell tear-drops from his eyes. The falling tears fell not, but they In mid air up in vapours rose; And each curtain went up in flames And he swoon’d to repose. His daughters plucked the tambur strings As adjunct to a diff’rent strain: They sang the raga Megh Mallar, A song to invoke rain. The plaintive notes the rain-god heard As on a cloud asleep he lay; And what the notes him decreed He could not but obey. He rose and twang’d the mighty bow And shot forth the arrows of rain: They clove the air and eke the flames, And the spirit was slain. Fann’d by the breeze Tansen arose And glanced at the audience entire; And ne’er the king did wish to hear The song that invoked fire. Appendix Blues — A Verse Form The blues, according to the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, is a song of American Negro origin which takes the basic form of a 12-bar chorus consisting of a three-line stanza with the second line repeating the first. J.A. Cuddon’s Dictionary of Literary Terms adds that these three-line lyrics are often expressive of despair, grief and a general feeling of hopelessness and oppression. In ‘Rhyme’s Reason’, John Hollander calls it ‘that wonderful modern mode of accentual oral poetry and song called The Blues’. And adds: “Musically, a 4/4 rhythm, usually slow, moves through twelve measures in a fairly fixed chordal sequence.” In early 1998, The New York Times news service gave a
facetious account of the blues. For instance, it says that you have the right
to sing the blues if you have shot a man in Every Tom, Dick and Harry has the right to sing the blues. I am sure every poet would endorse my view. One need not necessarily draw inspiration from experience to sing the blues. One can draw it from the imagination as well. Blues need no justification. Remember P.B. Shelley’s classic line: “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of the saddest thought.” Let us sing the blues for sheer pleasure. Some of my blues appear in A Pocket Book Of Rhymes and Literary Trivia & Curiosities. The rules are simple: 1. Write a rhythmic line; 2. Repeat the line; and 3. Find something that rhymes. The theme of the blues is of course the blues. When you are in the dumps, the best thing would be to sing the blues. Some classic examples of blues are W.C. Handy’s ‘Memphis Blues’ and ‘St. Louis Blues’.
When I introduced this verse form at Arcanum Café (www.arcanumcafe.com), I was of the mistaken view that blues had a recent origin. My article titled ‘Blues — A New Verse Form’ fired the imagination of quite a number of poets who gave themselves a free rein in blues-related activity at the message board. But almost all the enthusiastic exponents were drawn towards the thematic and not the structural element of the blues. Theresa Bailey, one of the house poets, however, is a notable exception. Neither the form nor the spirit of the blues is sacrificed in her maiden attempt ‘Cry A River’: Cry A River (Blues Style)
Imagine you singing the blues, singing the blues for me Said imagine you singing the blues, singing the blues for me Walking down this lonesome road, this color’s all I see Wish I could cry a river and wave it all goodbye Said wish I could cry a river and wave it all goodbye For my man knows not what Love is, and now … nor do I. Regarding the form of the blues, there is another stream of thought. “…blues is poetry, and in poetry there are no rules,” says Karen Haydock in an article ‘Blues That Rhyme’ published in the Sunday supplement of The Hindu of January 31, 1999. She goes on to add: “They don’t have to rhyme, start with a capital letter and end with a full stop and they don’t have to have sentences. Invented spellings and ‘nu werds’ can also be a part of poetry.” Of course there is something called poetic licence. You can change the rigid laws with flexible ones whenever there is a need to fulfil the higher laws of poetic thought. But you cannot dispense with poetic laws altogether. For where there is no order, there can be no beauty; and where there is no beauty, there can be no pleasure. And that is that! — Nirmaldasan April 2008 About the author Nirmaldasan is the pen name of N. Watson Solomon, Assistant Professor of Journalism, SRM School of Journalism and Mass Communication, SRM University, Kattankulathur — 603 203. He is the Editorial Advisor to the Organisation for Studies in Literature and Environment-India (OSLE-India); Secretary of the Indian Online Media Forum; and founder-editor of the Journalism Online newsletter. His first volume of verse titled An Eaglet In The Skies appeared in 1996. Ten years later appeared A Pocket Book Of Rhymes. He has co-authored tinai volumes with Dr. Nirmal Selvamony and Understanding News Media (2006) with Dr. I. Arul Aram. He has co-edited Essays In Ecocriticism (2007) with Dr. Nirmal Selvamony and Mr. Rayson K. Alex. His online publications include Rocking Pegasus (2002), Literary Trivia & Curiosities (2004) and A Quiver Of Arrows (2007). Here are links to his literary and other writings: * nirmaldasan home page https://www.angelfire.com/nd/nirmaldasan * readability monitor http://strainindex.wordpress.com * journalism online newsletter http://groups.yahoo.com/group/journalismonline * media studies http://nirmaldasan.blogspot.com |
