The case of Siberian Cranes are one of the saddest, i gather they have stopped their migrations to India. The blogger had the rare fortune (in retrospect rarest) to witness these majestic birds in the Bharatpur (Ghana bird sanctuary, Rajasthan) in the winters of 1998-2002. It used to be the most awaited event, those days I didn’t have camera and used to borrow binocs, we used to sit around to witness these birds. Very fond memories of sharing food with absolute strangers, as they recorded the bird. Siberian cranes were events, now only memories. To think that those rather quaint birds are not going to be here is a quite painful. So to spot a bird which in all likelihood is a migrant from Siberia was quite a pleasant surprise. Red breasted Flycatchers are abundant visitors from Europe to central Asia extending upto Siberia during winter, they can be found anywhere, in the forest or outskirts of human dwellings provided there is enough cover, a rather quiet bird that prefers not to be disturbed, it flits from bough to bough. The movements are jerky and restless, this tiny bird of the size of sparrow has a nasty temper is ready for a fight at short notice. This one I thought came forward to challenge me and kept observing me annoyingly until I cleared the place, then it flew back to its perch. Bigger birds use thermals to fly long distance that I guess is relatively easy. Small birds like this one generally migrate during night; it must be really challenging. Quite a miracle.
Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004)
This is not a time for satisfaction:
the shock, scandal, outrage of the world
become a fever in my room.
Withdrawn into myself
I am this fever and cause of it,
the meaning without a cure for it
A foundational figure of post colonial Indian writing in English, Nissim Ezekiel was a rare Indian Jewish writer, indeed one of t
he very few considering that Jewish population is rather sparse as most migrated to Israel. He belonged to Mumbai Jewish community: the bene Israel. He worked as an art critic as also professor of English, meanwhile he came out with steady collections of poems. Reading his poems are always a pleasure, he was one of the earliest Indian English poets I picked up (I really didn’t have much idea about English poems, so started with one side of the rack at Sahitya Akademi Delhi!!), in the year 1998 or so I used to carry his copy while I travel. I distinctly recall reading him in Nainital, later that day while negotiating in market I was still thinking on the use of words and brilliance of his creations! He grows on you, as he does he strips and enters the core with few well chosen words, it’s remarkable- very rare in Indian English to maintain the Indian essence, the urban quandary.
To save myself
From what the city had made of me, I returned
As intended, to the city I had known
While you read his poems you realise English is just another Indian language! He is definitely one of my favourite and I did dabble on the lines he wrote ‘The patriot’ or ‘Goodbye Party to Miss Pushpa TS’ in my earlier scribbles, it really is quite fun. You get the hint listening to conversations of people but irony comes out quite well when you convert into writing, have to be careful as it dangerously borders condescending (Considering that I also speak not very perfect English! So what do you do sirji? Nothing serious just simply writing and going here and there. The other day i am telling myself how i can make more money by talking shawking only!!). To be frank I am not really comfortable writing or reading poems wherein the focus is on English spoken by common people, but I try translating the Hindi, the irony is authentic in such cases. Anglophile elitist snobbery, scorn of mediocre ‘urbane’ on non English speaking is rather common these days, they also think it is humour. But must say Ezekiel handles it remarkably well, he captures the idiosyncrasies amazingly, his sensitivity is rare (think of Naipaul in early fictions, the Trinidadian Indian English). When you read you don’t see ridicule you see empathy, we like the characters in their writings. That is great writing, that is great poem.
Anyone who is aware of Indian poems must have read Ezekiel-popular being ‘Night of Scorpion’, available on the Net and is part of academic curriculum. He was also a mentor to younger poets, such as Dom Moraes, Adil Jussawalla and Gieve Patel. These poems in the blog are chosen randomly, I strongly suggest the readers to buy the collected poems (Oxford Publication, introduced by Gieve Patel). It is difficult to put too long poems in the blog, else one will have to reduce the number of poems, not to forget this blog is about birds!
By the way today i.e. Jan 09 also happens to be Nissim Ezekiel’s death anniversary...
Poetry
If it were so as i say it is,
In poetry, precisely so,
A face, savage, singular
But well-defined identity,
Homage would be done to it
By such a sleep, such a lucid flow
Of time, that i would be
In poetry defined
As in reality i should be so.
A poem is an episode, completed
In an hour or two, but poetry
Is something more. It is the why
The how, the what, the flow
From which a poem comes,
In which the savage and the singular,
The gentle and familiar,
Are all dissolved; the residue
Is what you read, as a poem, the rest
Flows and is poetry. This should be so,
Precisely so.
The stone
I have learnt to revel in the stone,
Hard, cold, heavy, shapeless, solid stone,
To turn away from all that seems to flow
Elusively; time, water, blood around the bone,
The flare and flux of what is merely show
For something real like a common stone,
Not to be caressed, like flesh, but hard as bone.
I have learnt to love the texture of stone,
Rough or smooth but all unyielding stone,
Which plays no facile game of outward show,
And holds itself together as a bone;
It does not feel the paralysing flow
Of everything not hard as stone
But share its nature like the hidden bone.
The classic poem ‘The Patriot’
The Patriot
I am standing for peace and non-violence.
Why world is fighting fighting
Why all people of world
Are not following Mahatma Gandhi,
I am simply not understanding.
Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct,
I should say even 200% correct,
But modern generation is neglecting-
Too much going for fashion and foreign thing.
Other day I'm reading newspaper
(Every day I'm reading Times of India
To improve my English Language)
How one goonda fellow
Threw stone at Indirabehn.
Must be student unrest fellow, I am thinking.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am saying (to myself)
Lend me the ears.
Everything is coming -
Regeneration, Remuneration, Contraception.
Be patiently, brothers and sisters.
You want one glass lassi?
Very good for digestion.
With little salt, lovely drink,
Better than wine;
Not that I am ever tasting the wine.
I'm the total teetotaller, completely total,
But I say
Wine is for the drunkards only.
What you think of prospects of world peace?
Pakistan behaving like this,
China behaving like that,
It is making me really sad, I am telling you.
Really, most harassing me.
All men are brothers, no?
In India also
Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Hindiwallahs
All brothers -
Though some are having funny habits.
Still, you tolerate me,
I tolerate you,
One day Ram Rajya is surely coming.
You are going?
But you will visit again
Any time, any day,
I am not believing in ceremony
Always I am enjoying your company.
Goodbye Party for
Miss Pushpa T.S.
Friends,
our sister
is departing for foreign
In two three days,
and
we are meeting today
to wish her bon voyage.
You are all knowing, friends,
what sweetness is in Miss Pushpa.
I don’t mean only external sweetness
but internal sweetness.
Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling
even for no reason
but simply because she is feeling.
Miss Pushpa is coming
from very high family.
Her father was renowned advocate
in Bulsar or Surat,
I am not remembering now which place.
Surat? Ah, yes,
once only I stayed in Surat
with family members
of my uncle’s very old friend,
his wife was cooking nicely...
that was long time ago.
Coming back to Miss Puspha
she is most popular lady
with men also and ladies also.
Whenever I asked her to do anything,
She was saying, ‘just now only
i will do it.’ That is showing
good spirit. I am always
appreciating the good spirit.
Pushpa Miss is never saying no.
Whatever I or anybody is asking
she is always saying yes,
and today she is going
to improve her prospect ,
and we are wishing her bon voyage.
Now I ask other speakers to speak,
and afterwards Miss Pushpa
will do summing up.
Guru
The saint, we are told,
once lived a life of sin-
nothing spectacular, of course,
just the usual things.
We smile, we are not surprised.
Unlikely though it seem,
we too one day
may grow up like him,
dropping our follies
like old cloths or creeds.
But then we learn
the saint is still a faithless friend,
obstinate in argument,
ungrateful for favours done,
hard with servants and poor,
discourteous to disciples, especially men,
condescending, even rude
to visitors (except the foreigners)
and overscrupulous in checking
the accounts of the ashram.
He is also rather fat.
Witnessing the spectacle
we no longer smile.
If saints are like this,
what hope is there then for us?
Paradise Flycatcher
White streamers moving briskly on the green
Casuarina, a rouse the sleepy watcher
From a dream of rarest birds
To this reality. A grating sound
Is all the language of the bird,
Spelling death to flies and moths
Who go this way to Paradise.
Its mask of black, with tints of green,
Exactly as described in books on Indian birds,
Is legend come alive to the dreamer
Whose eyes are fixed on it in glad surprise.
So many years ago, its predecessor
Came-it was an afternoon like this-
And clung with shaking streamers
To the same Casuarina, catching flies;
But fate that day, not the dreamer only,
Fixed his eyes on it and shot it down.
It lay with red and red upon its white,
Uncommon bird no longer in the mud.
The live one flashes at the watcher
Chestnut wings; the dead is buried in his mind.
“Paradi
se Flycatcher” was written for Zafar Futehally. Living legend is a clichéd term these days but when it comes to Zafar Futehally he really is a legend. This blogger was at a function in Lal Bagh Gardens yesterday on the occasion of release of ‘Numerically linked book’ (compiled by Crest Technologies, Edited by Joseph George), and had the good fortune of meeting Mr. Futehally. It really was an honour. The picture herein was taken during the function.
A scribble...
To take the man on the street seriously
The man on the street don’t seem to be bothered
about tyranny and terror these days
his steps are steady, aligned to an imaginary path.
Not for him the daily talks on freedom and price rise.
An inertia that couldn’t be explained from his diet
No he is not going to look this way or that way
Isn’t bothered about history or economics
Whether monsoon has become erratic
Carbon monoxide fills the bedroom
Development don’t need trees
Doesn’t give a fig about foreign investment or corruption scandals
And that,
Some have gods everywhere
Other’s only at one place
And would massacre if suggested vice versa.
No he isn’t bothered
Maybe he stops for a while, catch his breath
But he doesn’t, he is running now
He is fleeing the soul: the Humanity’s soul
Refuses to accept his fate
He has decided to escape.
Nissim Ezekiel (1924-2004)
This is not a time for satisfaction:
the shock, scandal, outrage of the world
become a fever in my room.
Withdrawn into myself
I am this fever and cause of it,
the meaning without a cure for it
A foundational figure of post colonial Indian writing in English, Nissim Ezekiel was a rare Indian Jewish writer, indeed one of t
he very few considering that Jewish population is rather sparse as most migrated to Israel. He belonged to Mumbai Jewish community: the bene Israel. He worked as an art critic as also professor of English, meanwhile he came out with steady collections of poems. Reading his poems are always a pleasure, he was one of the earliest Indian English poets I picked up (I really didn’t have much idea about English poems, so started with one side of the rack at Sahitya Akademi Delhi!!), in the year 1998 or so I used to carry his copy while I travel. I distinctly recall reading him in Nainital, later that day while negotiating in market I was still thinking on the use of words and brilliance of his creations! He grows on you, as he does he strips and enters the core with few well chosen words, it’s remarkable- very rare in Indian English to maintain the Indian essence, the urban quandary.To save myself
From what the city had made of me, I returned
As intended, to the city I had known
While you read his poems you realise English is just another Indian language! He is definitely one of my favourite and I did dabble on the lines he wrote ‘The patriot’ or ‘Goodbye Party to Miss Pushpa TS’ in my earlier scribbles, it really is quite fun. You get the hint listening to conversations of people but irony comes out quite well when you convert into writing, have to be careful as it dangerously borders condescending (Considering that I also speak not very perfect English! So what do you do sirji? Nothing serious just simply writing and going here and there. The other day i am telling myself how i can make more money by talking shawking only!!). To be frank I am not really comfortable writing or reading poems wherein the focus is on English spoken by common people, but I try translating the Hindi, the irony is authentic in such cases. Anglophile elitist snobbery, scorn of mediocre ‘urbane’ on non English speaking is rather common these days, they also think it is humour. But must say Ezekiel handles it remarkably well, he captures the idiosyncrasies amazingly, his sensitivity is rare (think of Naipaul in early fictions, the Trinidadian Indian English). When you read you don’t see ridicule you see empathy, we like the characters in their writings. That is great writing, that is great poem.
Anyone who is aware of Indian poems must have read Ezekiel-popular being ‘Night of Scorpion’, available on the Net and is part of academic curriculum. He was also a mentor to younger poets, such as Dom Moraes, Adil Jussawalla and Gieve Patel. These poems in the blog are chosen randomly, I strongly suggest the readers to buy the collected poems (Oxford Publication, introduced by Gieve Patel). It is difficult to put too long poems in the blog, else one will have to reduce the number of poems, not to forget this blog is about birds!
By the way today i.e. Jan 09 also happens to be Nissim Ezekiel’s death anniversary...
Poetry
If it were so as i say it is,
In poetry, precisely so,
A face, savage, singular
But well-defined identity,
Homage would be done to it
By such a sleep, such a lucid flow
Of time, that i would be
In poetry defined
As in reality i should be so.
A poem is an episode, completed
In an hour or two, but poetry
Is something more. It is the why
The how, the what, the flow
From which a poem comes,
In which the savage and the singular,
The gentle and familiar,
Are all dissolved; the residue
Is what you read, as a poem, the rest
Flows and is poetry. This should be so,
Precisely so.
The stone
I have learnt to revel in the stone,
Hard, cold, heavy, shapeless, solid stone,
To turn away from all that seems to flow
Elusively; time, water, blood around the bone,
The flare and flux of what is merely show
For something real like a common stone,
Not to be caressed, like flesh, but hard as bone.
I have learnt to love the texture of stone,
Rough or smooth but all unyielding stone,
Which plays no facile game of outward show,
And holds itself together as a bone;
It does not feel the paralysing flow
Of everything not hard as stone
But share its nature like the hidden bone.
The classic poem ‘The Patriot’
The Patriot
I am standing for peace and non-violence.
Why world is fighting fighting
Why all people of world
Are not following Mahatma Gandhi,
I am simply not understanding.
Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct,
I should say even 200% correct,
But modern generation is neglecting-
Too much going for fashion and foreign thing.
Other day I'm reading newspaper
(Every day I'm reading Times of India
To improve my English Language)
How one goonda fellow
Threw stone at Indirabehn.
Must be student unrest fellow, I am thinking.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am saying (to myself)
Lend me the ears.
Everything is coming -
Regeneration, Remuneration, Contraception.
Be patiently, brothers and sisters.
You want one glass lassi?
Very good for digestion.
With little salt, lovely drink,
Better than wine;
Not that I am ever tasting the wine.
I'm the total teetotaller, completely total,
But I say
Wine is for the drunkards only.
What you think of prospects of world peace?
Pakistan behaving like this,
China behaving like that,
It is making me really sad, I am telling you.
Really, most harassing me.
All men are brothers, no?
In India also
Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Hindiwallahs
All brothers -
Though some are having funny habits.
Still, you tolerate me,
I tolerate you,
One day Ram Rajya is surely coming.
You are going?
But you will visit again
Any time, any day,
I am not believing in ceremony
Always I am enjoying your company.
Goodbye Party for
Miss Pushpa T.S.
Friends,
our sister
is departing for foreign
In two three days,
and
we are meeting today
to wish her bon voyage.
You are all knowing, friends,
what sweetness is in Miss Pushpa.
I don’t mean only external sweetness
but internal sweetness.
Miss Pushpa is smiling and smiling
even for no reason
but simply because she is feeling.
Miss Pushpa is coming
from very high family.
Her father was renowned advocate
in Bulsar or Surat,
I am not remembering now which place.
Surat? Ah, yes,
once only I stayed in Surat
with family members
of my uncle’s very old friend,
his wife was cooking nicely...
that was long time ago.
Coming back to Miss Puspha
she is most popular lady
with men also and ladies also.
Whenever I asked her to do anything,
She was saying, ‘just now only
i will do it.’ That is showing
good spirit. I am always
appreciating the good spirit.
Pushpa Miss is never saying no.
Whatever I or anybody is asking
she is always saying yes,
and today she is going
to improve her prospect ,
and we are wishing her bon voyage.
Now I ask other speakers to speak,
and afterwards Miss Pushpa
will do summing up.
Guru
The saint, we are told,
once lived a life of sin-
nothing spectacular, of course,
just the usual things.
We smile, we are not surprised.
Unlikely though it seem,
we too one day
may grow up like him,
dropping our follies
like old cloths or creeds.
But then we learn
the saint is still a faithless friend,
obstinate in argument,
ungrateful for favours done,
hard with servants and poor,
discourteous to disciples, especially men,
condescending, even rude
to visitors (except the foreigners)
and overscrupulous in checking
the accounts of the ashram.
He is also rather fat.
Witnessing the spectacle
we no longer smile.
If saints are like this,
what hope is there then for us?
Paradise Flycatcher
White streamers moving briskly on the green
Casuarina, a rouse the sleepy watcher
From a dream of rarest birds
To this reality. A grating sound
Is all the language of the bird,
Spelling death to flies and moths
Who go this way to Paradise.
Its mask of black, with tints of green,
Exactly as described in books on Indian birds,
Is legend come alive to the dreamer
Whose eyes are fixed on it in glad surprise.
So many years ago, its predecessor
Came-it was an afternoon like this-
And clung with shaking streamers
To the same Casuarina, catching flies;
But fate that day, not the dreamer only,
Fixed his eyes on it and shot it down.
It lay with red and red upon its white,
Uncommon bird no longer in the mud.
The live one flashes at the watcher
Chestnut wings; the dead is buried in his mind.
“Paradi
se Flycatcher” was written for Zafar Futehally. Living legend is a clichéd term these days but when it comes to Zafar Futehally he really is a legend. This blogger was at a function in Lal Bagh Gardens yesterday on the occasion of release of ‘Numerically linked book’ (compiled by Crest Technologies, Edited by Joseph George), and had the good fortune of meeting Mr. Futehally. It really was an honour. The picture herein was taken during the function.A scribble...
To take the man on the street seriously
The man on the street don’t seem to be bothered
about tyranny and terror these days
his steps are steady, aligned to an imaginary path.
Not for him the daily talks on freedom and price rise.
An inertia that couldn’t be explained from his diet
No he is not going to look this way or that way
Isn’t bothered about history or economics
Whether monsoon has become erratic
Carbon monoxide fills the bedroom
Development don’t need trees
Doesn’t give a fig about foreign investment or corruption scandals
And that,
Some have gods everywhere
Other’s only at one place
And would massacre if suggested vice versa.
No he isn’t bothered
Maybe he stops for a while, catch his breath
But he doesn’t, he is running now
He is fleeing the soul: the Humanity’s soul
Refuses to accept his fate
He has decided to escape.
