How is that I not see the Hoopoe?

Finally I was able to spot Hoopoe, a bird that was so very common once, it seemed to have vanished. Hoopoe is an exotic looking bird fawn colored plumage black wings and tail that is banded with white long curved bill and fan shaped crest that spread when alarmed. This is one bird that can be easily identified. They avoid thick forest and are very common in open field with grooves of trees. They could be found turning over leaves or rubbish searching for insects. It has undulating uncertain kind of fight as if it has forgotten where to go “geez am I supposed to go here or there?!!” though it is master of flight easily avoiding birds of prey. During incubation period the females of the specie secrete an unpleasant smell that gives the nest stench of rotting flesh which keeps the predator away.

Hoopoe finds mention in ancient civilizations (Egyptian considered it sacred and Persians associated it to virtue), in murals and quite interestingly reference is found in both Koran and Bible (the above line “How is that I not see the Hoopoe?” is taken from Koran!!).

In 2008 after a poll hoopoe was made the national bird of Israel. The short listed birds consisted of the bulbul, the red falcon, the goldfinch, the biblical vulture, the spur-winged plover, the honey-sucker, the warbler, the white-chested kingfisher, and the white barn owl. Hoopoe was an overwhelming favorite winning 35% vote. Here is the picture of Shimon Peres, president of Israel, announcing the national bird. Incidentally Israel is a main crossroads for birds migrating between Europe and Africa.
 

Leopold Sedar Senghor (1906-2001): The poet who became the President

It was while I was searching for whom to write about in this blog that I stumbled upon Leopold Senghor the former President of Senegal. Senghor was an influential statesman who served as President for almost twenty years after the country got independence from France in 1960. He was also a poet and writer of repute (incidentally he also authored the national anthem of the country!) affirming the rich cultural tradition of Africans. Other example of writer as head of the country in recent times include Vaclav Havel (President of the Czech Republic, he is my personal favorite too) and Lennart Meri (elected twice as President of Estonia). Senghor worked for strengthening African identity. He used a term ‘Negritude’ which meant ‘sum total of cultural values of black world’. Sartre referred to him as ‘Black Orpheus’. I found his poems amazingly sensual with passion for Africa. There is overwhelming optimism. These lines from Noliwe

I would not have killed her if I had loved her less.
I had to escape from doubt
from the intoxication of the milk of her mouth,
from the throbbing drum of the night of my blood
from my bowels of fervent lava,
from the uranium mines of my heart
in the depths of my Blackness
from love of Noliwe
from the love of my black skinned people.

Senghor had his higher studies in Paris and later served as an officer in French army. He was captured by Germans during Second World War and escaped execution; he spent incarceration period writing poems. He later took up teaching career at prestigious university in Paris. When Senegal got independence he took over as the President. He is credited to have put a strong foundation of a peaceful nation.

This one of his earlier poems that reflects nostalgia of an exile…

Tokowaly, uncle, do you remember the nights gone by
When my head weighted heavy on the back of your patience
Or
Holding my hand your hand led me by shadows and signs
The fields are flowers of glowworms, stars hang on the
bushes, on the trees
Silence is everywhere.

In another poem “visit” he recalls the sky of his country

It is the same sun bedewed with illusions,
The same sky unnerved by hidden presences,
The same sky feared by those who have a reckoning with the dead,
And suddenly my dead draw near to me...

He wrote once"... every true work of art, whether it is a novel, a riddle, or a caricature, is always a rhythmic image.... A work of art--poem or story, painting or sculpture, music or dance-these are not ideas but works of beauty. The role of criticism is not to say what it means but why and in what way it is beautiful."

Coppersmith at work

These are delightfully colorful birds. Small stocky greenish bird with yellow, crimson and black sprayed on the face. Purely arboreal they don’t come anywhere near ground and fly from tree to tree sometimes traveling long distances. Like barbet these birds are heard more than seen, they so brilliantly camouflaged. The call is metallic took that is repeated at regular intervals, as if coppersmith is at work, the reason why they are called coppersmith!. I found this bird that was busy fighting the bird upstairs “yah sure I know what you are about sure sure” kind of fight that finally led to they chasing each other across trees.

Two Albanian poets and some incredible lines…

It was providence nothing else that I chanced upon these two poets. Albania a small nascent country has surprisingly rich literary history. It was a pleasant surprise to read some of them (I have to say this again: I am so much grateful to Internet. In 1995-96 when I took up reading I had to be at the mercy of library or local book lending shop…Elloor was quite popular in kerala, don’t know whether it still exists. The way things have changed is nothing short of miracle). Albanians have every reason to be proud of this heritage coming as they are from decades of isolation and misery.

Let me start with Lasgush Poradeci [(1899-1987) the picture herein is his statue in Albania], he was one of the best and what I like about him was almost meditative observation of nature. These lines from “Pogradec”

A shimmering sunset on the endless lake.
Ghostlike, a veil is slowly spread.
Over mountain and meadow the dark of night descends,
Settling from the heavens upon the town.

Over the vast land no more sound is to be heard:
In the village the creaking of a door,
On the lake the silence of an oar.
Over the Mal i Thatë an elusive eagle soars.

Sunset always is evocative- the play of silence and darkness, I miss it in cities…I miss it so much. Even when I was studying in college after all the crap I did I made it a point to visit the beach to see the sunset once in a while. Vastness of nature begins with wonder then slowly it seeps in, then you also become part of wonder. It is same about mornings and this poem by Poradeci

Morning

Like a spirit sombre within the breast
Lies the lake encased in hills.
Mirrored in its depths,
Night expires breath by breath.

I watch how she suffers, how she dies,
Her eyes blinking,
Azure-circled pools,
Like the stars of a fading sky.

But now the light of dawn
Shimmers deep within the lake.
The daystar steals away, melting
Like a piece of sugar candy.

Behold, day has dawned,
And lightning flashes from the depths.
Like a harbinger of morn
Appears, bird-white, a pelican.

The second poet is Migjeni (1911-1938) pen name of Millosh Gjergj Nikolla, he died very young with tuberculosis but left some wonderful writings and poems (there are some short stories of his in the Net. I liked the story of a prostitute who looks for that elusive ‘normal life’ and ends up mad). With age he could have contributed immensely to Albanian literature but unfortunately fate had other plans. I hate it when beautiful people die young (I also hate it when crude people live long). Migjeni did not disappoint and I am quite glad to reproduce some of his lines here…

These lines from “Blasphemy”

The mosques and churches float through our memories,
Prayers devoid of sense or taste echo from their walls.
Never has the heart of god been touched by them,
And yet it beats on amidst the sounds of drums and bells.

Majestic mosques and churches throughout our wretched land,
Spires and minarets towering over lowly homes,
The voice of the hodja and priest in one degenerate chant,
Oh, ideal vision, a thousand years old!

These few lines from “Poem of poverty”

Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow,
A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow,
When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes
Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands;
Behind you they lie, stretched out
Their whole lives through, until the moment of death.
Above them in the air, as if in disdain,
Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky,
Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour.
And poverty feels betrayed.

lines from prose titled “The suicide of a sparrow”

The sparrow was suffering from depression. It was born in a very barren land. Instead of grass, there were boar bristles, and instead of trees, there were the horns of prehistoric beasts. Who would not be depressed in such an environment, if one could call it nature? A sparrow does not need much to live on, but an environment devoid of nature, did not provide anything….

The sparrow, perched on a horn and in the depths of depression decided to commit suicide. It looked about in philosophical irony and took the irrevocable decision which glimmered in its despairing eyes. It chirped once, it chirped twice, it chirped three times. Then there followed a long and poignant cry, its last will, the testament of its suffering. Without spreading its wings, it jumped off the horn and plunged into a boar bristle as long and sharp as a knife, and was impaled.

A sparrow, impaled on a boar bristle. Its tail and wings fluttered, causing it to rotate around the bristle, as metal weather vanes turn on the top of our chimneys when the North Wind begins to blow. What is the logical connection here? Do I detect complaints? Indeed, my dear and far from superficial reader, are there not enough logical, moral, and dogmatic inconsistencies in the realities of this world? Why get angry and accuse me of a few logical inconsistencies which are doing harm to no one

Stone Curlew the dukhi bird!!

I am removing the piece on Fairy bluebird and replacing with Stone Curlew. It was my fault I should be more careful (than excited!) but I guess the arboreal nature of the bird gave indication of Bluebird than Thrush. Further the pictures also were not great, bills which are important reference in classification too were blurry. I guess my search for Fairy Bluebird continues and yes I will have to have better pictures of Malabar whistling thrush to write about it. In the meantime it is Stone Curlew…

These birds give an impression that they are carrying all the problems of the world on their shoulders (that at present is the job of likes of Obama!!) and stared soulfully with their large eyes. Being nocturnal these big eyes help to catch prey. They are also referred to as ‘thick knees’ and are not really curlews but wader birds, the name curlew comes from ‘curlee’ calls that can be heard in the night.

Taras Shevchenko: the voice against tyranny

Taras Shevchenko (1814-1861) was an iconic poet whose literary heritage is seminal to not only modern Ukraine literature but to Ukrainian language itself and was a source for awakening of national consciousness. Born as a serf later a servant, orphaned at early age, he started his life in misery and poverty. Observing his artist talent, he was encouraged and later bought and given freedom by a painter. He enrolled for formal training in art and started life as a poet. His frequent visits to Ukraine meeting his enserfed siblings and relatives, watching the tsarist oppressions and destruction of his beloved land left deep imprints on him.

I will glorify
Those small, mute slaves!
On guard next to them
I will place the word.

He used satire poems against Tsar and actively participated and was philosophical guide to many subversive groups, punished into military labor and was prevented to write or draw by an express order by Tsar himself. Though Shevchenko somehow managed to write in secret, ten years later on the death of Tsar he was released. By now he was being seen as national bard and he turned his bitterness against Ukrainians extolling them to be honorable and worthy of their history, scorned them for being inactive against oppressions. All his life he was devoted to his nation. "Body and soul I am the son and brother of our unfortunate nation," he wrote. He imbued biblical texts with contemporary political relevance. His poem “The Testament” gained much popularity after it was set into music and is now next only to Ukrainian national anthem.

The Testament

Dig my grave and raise my barrow
By the Dnieper-side
In Ukraina, my own land,
A fair land and wide.
I will lie and watch the cornfields,
Listen through the years
To the river voices roaring,
Roaring in my ears.

When I hear the call
Of the racing flood,
Loud with hated blood,
I will leave them all,
Fields and hills; and force my way
Right up to the Throne
Where God sits alone;
Clasp His feet and pray...
But till that day
What is God to me?

Bury me, be done with me,
Rise and break your chain,
Water your new liberty
With blood for rain.
Then, in the mighty family
Of all men that are free,
May be sometimes, very softly
You will speak of me?

Shevchenko used folk song elements to depict sadness, women’s harsh fate, the longing for happiness (his poems and writings had consistent images of impregnated and abandoned women as a metaphor of tsar’s oppressions). His poetic style was marked by the use of simple language and metaphors. Shevchenko consistently refined his use of folkloric material. His adaptation of folkloric elements was so successful that many of his poems became folk songs. His paintings are masterpieces mostly quaint and refined that hid his own harsh realities (an example of his painting is posted herein).

this my favorite poem

Even till now I have this dream:

among the willows and above the water near a mountain there is a tiny white bungalow.

A grayed grandfather sits near the bungalow

and watches his tiny grandson, so nice and curly-haired.

Even till now I have this dream:

a happy smiling mother steps out of the house and kisses grandfather and the child,

she joyfully kisses him three times,

takes him into her arms and nurses him, and carries him to bed.

And grandfather sits there and smiles,

and quietly Whispers: “Where is that misery? That sadness? Those foes?”

And in a whisper the old man, crossing himself, recites the Our Father.

through the willow tree the sun shines and quietly dies out.

The day is done, and all has gone to sleep.

The grayed old man has gone himself to the house to rest.

The forest wagtail

It was a stroke of luck that I spotted Forest wagtail, you wouldn’t believe when you see this small bird that it is a migrant from thousands and thousands of kilometers away from Siberia from north china from Assam. How does it fly from such far lands? It is a miracle. And so unassumingly nibbling on forest ground “oh it’s no big deal. We do it all the time”. Really little bird!!. I don’t think so. I think it is quite a big deal to fly thousands of kilometers on those small wings. I found this bird wary but not unduly intimidated by human presence. Back and crown are olive brown, the wings black with two yellow wing bars. Forest wagtail differs from other wagtail in its bizarre habit of swaying its tail from side to side, not wagging it up and down like other wagtails. They feed on insects specifically ants and spiders.

Kazi Nazrul Islam (1899-1976): the rebel poet who sought revolution

One of the greatest Bengali poets who is loved across the borders, a poet, writer, essayist as also composer of thousands of songs (ghazals, collectively known as Nazrul songs, that is immensely popular to this day), and yes he could act and sing too!!. He is the soul of Bangladesh. Nazrul Islam is someone whom the world should know and understand more.

Kazi Nazrul Islam was born in a pious poor Muslim family- his father was an imam of local mosque, he had his early education in this religious surroundings, he later became muezzin. Soon he joined a theatre group and traveled across Bengal with the troupe, composing plays. He later joined army that took him outside Bengal. Finally he settled down to literary activities coming in close contact with other luminaries. Writes Tagore (To Kazi Nazrul Islam)

Come, ye comet,
come to build a bridge of fire across the dark,
Hoist up on the castletop of evil days
Your flag of victory!
Let omens be carved on the forehead
of the night,
Awaken, startle those that drowse,

“Bidrohi” his famous and popular work was published in 1922, his rebellious language adding to the fervor of freedom movement.

Weary of struggles, I, the great rebel,
Shall rest in quiet only when I find
The sky and the air free of the piteous groans of the oppressed.
Only when the battle fields are cleared of jingling bloody sabres
Shall I, weary of struggles, rest in quiet,
I the great rebel

He started bi-weekly magazine “Dhumketu”, and was soon arrested and spent sometime in jail. He also started “Langal” a magazine that was intended to be mouth piece for peasant masses. He used rhetoric as a tool that exuded sincerity and intensity that created a rage among common people against injustice and oppression. Some people have mistaken his “I” to be arrogance but it was meant to represent the suffering humanity, the poorest, giving them sense of self. He was responsive to the contemporary issues, and wrote in the way he felt, it wasn’t contrived. Nazrul was rightly critical of khilafat movement for its religious fundamentalism and hollow ideology. He fought lifelong against religious dogmas and intolerance, and considered them inherently irreligious.

These lines of his I find quite amazing “I can tolerate Hinduism and Muslims but I cannot tolerate the Tikism (Tiki is a tuft of never cut hair kept on the head by certain Hindus to maintain personal Holiness) and beardism. Tiki is not Hinduism. It may be the sign of the pundit. Similarly beard is not Islam, it may be the sign of the mollah. All the hair-pulling have originated from those two tufts of hair. Today’s fighting is also between the Pundit and the Mollah: It is not between the Hindus and the Muslims. No prophet has said, ‘’I have come for Hindus I have come for Muslims I have come for Christians.” They have said, “I have come for the humanity for everyone, like light’’. But the devotees of Krishna says, “Krishna is for Hindus”. The followers of Muhammad says, “Muhammad (Sm) is for the Muslims”. The Disciple of Christ is for Christian”. Krishna-Muhammad-Christ have become national property. This property is the root of all trouble. Men do not quarrel for light but they quarrel over cattles”(emphasis mine)

Later with deaths of his closed ones his poetry turned from theme of rebelliousness to spiritual quest. His songs merge Islamic and Hindu values and philosophies (he effectively merged folk tunes). These amazing lines

Let people of all countries and all times come together. At one great union of humanity. Let them listen to the flute music of one great unity. Should a single person be hurt, all hearts should feel it equally. If one person is insulted; it is a shame to all mankind, an insult to all! Today is the grand uprising of the agony of universal man

Read these few lines from “The Rebel” and tell me if you don’t feel that raw energy

I am insane! I am insane!
Suddenly I have come to know myself,
All the false barriers have crumbled today!
I am the rising, I am the fall,
I am consciousness in the unconscious soul,
I am the flag of triumph at the gate of the world,
I am the glorious sign of man's victory,
Clapping my hands in exultation I rush like the hurricane,
Traversing the earth and the sky.
The mighty Borrak is the horse I ride.
It neighs impatiently, drunk with delight!
I am the burning volcano in the bosom of the earth,
I am the wild fire of the woods,
I am Hell's mad terrific sea of wrath!
I ride on the wings of the lightning with joy and profound,
I scatter misery and fear all around,
I bring earth-quakes on this world!

I am Orpheus'sflute,
I bring sleep to the fevered world,
I make the heaving hells temple in fear and die.
I carry the message of revolt to the earth and the sky!
I am the mighty flood,
Sometimes I make the earth rich and fertile,
At another times I cause colossal damage.
I snatch from Bishnu's bosom the two girls!
I am injustice, I am the shooting star,
I am Saturn, I am the fire of the comet,
I am the poisonous asp!
I am Chandi the headless, I am ruinous Warlord,
Sitting in the burning pit of Hell
I smile as the innocent flower!
I am the cruel axe of Parsurama,
I shall kill warriors
And bring peace and harmony in the universe!
I am the plough on the shoulders of Balarama,
I shall uproot this miserable earth effortlessly and with ease,
And create a new universe of joy and peace.
Weary of struggles, I, the great rebel,
Shall rest in quiet only when I find
The sky and the air free of the piteous groans of the oppressed.
Only when the battle fields are cleared of jingling bloody sabres
Shall I, weary of struggles, rest in quiet,
I the great rebel.

I am the rebel eternal,
I raise my head beyond this world,
High, ever erect and alone!

And these lines from “O nightingale” (translated from Bengali), how charmingly sensitive

In Garden Plot, O Nightingale, do not
rock upon this flower stem today;
For these buds swinging in deep sleep,
Unbroken dozing slumber lay

What an amazing man was Kazi Nazrul Islam, the comet has passed by…those who saw are blessed.

Trees are dear but Shama is dearer…

I have spotted Shama very few times, it is found in forest with streams and open glade, and is such a shy bird that the moment it sights any human in its vicinity it flies away (“gosh I had enough of these humans!”). Glossy black upper half and bright chestnut lower, it has long graduated tail, and is known for its melodious song. Generally seen feeding on ground for insects and fallen fruits, is the first one to take to flight on any hint of danger. This bird is similar to Magpie robin in many ways, except that magpie prefer open countryside and don’t seem to have any problem with humans (indeed I had a magpie robin chasing me some time back!). Shama though is a different bird, a forest dweller in colorful attire and an attitude to match. For me sighting Shama has always been a memorable experience, tricky part was getting the picture. Somehow I managed, it really doesn’t compromise on shyness!. O what a delicate looking bird, what a sight. But the camera cannot capture its music!!. Maybe if possible in future when I have more money (that looks unlikely, I am seriously slipping into debt!!), would record the sound too. It is quite challenging. I did have a cassette of bird notes, I bought it from WWF shop (Lodhi Rd Delhi if I got it right) quite possibly in 1998-99. There are also some excellent websites that do have notes of birds but again the problem is many internet café don’t have headphones. When they do have one you have forgotten about listening!.

Kuvempu a dazzling star in the sky

Kuvempu (real name KV Puttappa: 1904-1994) was one the most revered poets of Kannada language in recent times, his pictures could seen everywhere in Karnataka. He is been credited to have revived the era of epic poetry, is regarded as poet philosopher. He also gave Kannada language new words, phrases (this led to common people asking him to suggest name for their newborns!). Kuvempu’s amazing repertoire of literary contribution includes Sri Ramayanadarshana in which he gave different interpretation to the characters of Ramayana, a complete work of Ramayana in Kannada. He was awarded the highest literary award of the country “Jnanpeeth” for this effort. The picture herein is from manuscript of first page of Ramayanadarshana in Kuvempu’s own handwriting. His poems and talks on universal humanism are very popular among people.. He writes “The Religion of Humanity, the Universal Path, the Welfare of All Reconciliation, the Integral Vision – these five mantras should become view of the future. In other words, what we want henceforth is not this religion or that religion, but then Religion of Humanity; not this path or that path but then Universal Path; not the wellbeing of this individual or that individual, but the Welfare of All; not turning away and breaking off from one another, but reconciling and uniting in concord and harmony; and above all, not the partial view of narrow creed, not the dual outlook of the material and the spiritual, but the Integral Vision of seeing all the things with the eye of the Divine”.

There is a beautiful website on Kuvempu (kuvempu.com) where they have posted an incident wherein Kuvempu explains the greatness of weaver bird, I really liked that one but the site has copyright so I wrote a email requesting access to that paragraph onto my blog, they haven’t replied, if it is affirmative I will paste it at the earliest (otherwise readers can visit the website, please read it really is worth it).

These lines from poems of Kuvempu that is translated from Kannada I got it from Sahitya Akademi (Bengaluru) library. These are not complete poems but few lines from each…

Night
Darkness gives us glimpses of world far, far away
what the day conceals, the night reveals.
The splendor of the sky far exceeds the charm of the earth
Life is like the day, death like the night.
If life lights up this world, death illumines
the grandeur of immortality.
Is it life that is blind?
Is it death that has splendid eyes?

I like the poem “The tree’s shadow” a lot, it is an image we see everyday and haven’t given much thought about. That is where greatness of Kuvempu comes in (shadows are tied and tells me about my freedom!. Quite an incredible conception that one). I quote few charming lines from the translated version of the poem.

Look again!
The tree’s shadow
Is there lying there as usual!
This reign of regulations troubles me
like the curse of generations.
I am anxious to swallow and digest
and transcends these rules-

That tree’s shadow
like spilt ink on the green field
lies lengthily like an ill omen.
Its innocent silent speech disturbs
my soul with its wail and remind me
of the message of freedom
which I have forgotten

These amazing lines from “Clouds”

Clouds? No not clouds but fairest spirits
are these, purest souls, like Christ, like the Buddha
beings that have been here, or will be,
moods from the high, meditation, earth’s bliss!

Kuvempu is someone I have started to like immensely (Indian literature is so wide with so many languages that we really don’t know many of these great souls from regional languages nor do I recall studying about them in school [children in government schools in Karnataka do sing Kuvempu as part of morning prayer. Isn’t that wonderful?!). It is failure of the education system. It is a shame. There should be a subject on “knowing the literary icons” from different Indian languages, as also some amazing people from other countries, in schools]. The more you know about him more you know how great he was. His words are so vibrant that you don’t think he is dead.

I was in Mysuru (Mysore) sometime back and thought of walking to Kuvempu’s house early morning. Its about 4Km from bus stand and Mysore is one of my favorite cities (such a charming place that one) and a great place for morning walks. “Udayagiri”- Kuvempu’s home, was where he spent last decades of his life. This small poem I wrote the other day would have found appreciation with Kuvempu (I like to think that way!!). I was in Western Ghats a week back (I am thinking of making it a regular feature…but the travel in state buses can be back breaking!) and saw this sight early morning and had to express in verse, don’t know whether I succeeded. It is something that comes as impulse, like a lightening of words, from somewhere inside and lo they call it poem!. And yes I too like it…

Be still my heart

There are so many desires
that shrouds life
and then
the sight of butterfly
on morning glory
sunlight splitting through.

Same Thrush !!

In an earlier blog I had written about white throated ground thrush but the photos were not proper and I could have uploaded these new photos to that blog like have done with Red whiskered Mynas, Brahminy Kites, Magpie Robin and so on. Somehow I love these birds and so decided to put it in my new post. These are quite lovely but very secretive birds, they avoid flocks and are mostly solitary or found in pairs. A shy and quiet bird promptly flies away when disturbed and sits motionless for threat to pass before resuming its quest. The distinguishing feature of Orange headed found in the southern part of the country is two oblique lines on the white chin, as if they have put mascara. These birds prefer forest with damp shady thickets and that is precisely where I found this beauty. Seen rummaging on fallen leaves and debris, tossing them around to search for insects and berries. Then it froze to lookout for threat then it ran disappearing, appearing, disappearing, appearing in the woods and to new spot to rummage…it really was an ordeal to get these pictures but what great fun and I really enjoyed following this charming busy bird. With time and persistence I did gain some trust, it came quite near to say “hello you want to take my pictures do you?!!” and then flew away just about giving me few seconds to click the above pic. Moments of joy in birding.

Ruben Dario “the child poet”

Ruben Dario (1867-1916) was a legendary poet of Central America (loosely described as Hispanic), though born in Nicaragua his influence spread across nations. He was the forerunner of modernism in Spanish-American literature. A precocious child he started to write quite early and by the time he was 13 years was well known across the country as “child poet”. There is an incident that happened in1882 when Dario at the age of 15 had a chance to pursue a scholarship which would have given him the opportunity to study in Europe. However, after reading his poem “El Libro” (The Book) in front of President Joaquin Zavala and other conservative Nicaraguan Authorities, he was denied. The president declared his poems too liberal. He feared that Europe would further influence his liberal and anti-religious views.

Dario traveled across the Central American countries starting with teaching career at El Salvador and then working at newspapers (as also as member of diplomatic delegations and later as ambassador to Spain) in Chile, Guatemala, Costa Rica, Panama, Colombia and most importantly in Argentina. He also used these opportunities to travel abroad to Spain, France and so on. This was the reason for his influence across the countries as he involved himself deeply into not only on the cultural scenes of the countries he visited but also with the political leadership, his coterie of friends included heads of states and other dignitaries. He died at a relatively young age with alcoholism related illnesses.

These two poems of his I found in the net:

On the Death of a Poet

Only the Swans that day
Saw the high maker of our thoughts embark
And o the Lake Mysterious fade away
In the black ship that crosses to the dark.

The poet's robe was his,
Embroidered with illustrious fleurs-de-lys;
And laurel leaf and thorn
His sad prefigured forehead did adorn.

Afar God's City rose,
Where everlasting Peace her throne has reared
Above the poppy-meadows of repose;
And as the coat of his desire he neared,
He proved divine delight, knew grace untold,
Beheld the Cross uplifted and, before
That sacred Conqueror,
The fallen Sphinx, a corpse already cold.

Fatality
The tree is happy because it is scarcely sentient;
the hard rock is happier still, it feels nothing:
there is no pain as great as being alive,
no burden heavier than that of conscious life.

To be, and to know nothing, and to lack a way,
and the dread of having been, and future terrors...
And the sure terror of being dead tomorrow,
and to suffer all through life and through the darkness,

and through what we do not know and hardly suspect...
And the flesh that temps us with bunches of cool grapes,
and the tomb that awaits us with its funeral sprays,
and not to know where we go,
nor whence we came!...

This I wrote the other day

Binaries in the brain

In the depth of the night
forgotten ones
don’t wait for summons these days
they come dressed for picnic
with handbags, caps and savories.
I sitting about the tree
dents in the grass
warmth in the air.

Lesser golden back woodpecker

I have written about woodpecker in an earlier blog, woodpeckers have same behavioral traits except that they differ in their color and habitats.

"Enough for me to die on her earth"

Fadwa Touqan (1917-2003) was one of the best known Palestinian poet who expressed a nation's sense of loss and defiance. Though she started with non nationalistic poems (inclined to be more sensual and social) she acquired distinct nationalist fervor after 1967 Israeli occupation. Israel, however, was not her only foe. Arab society and in particular its treatment of women was her constant concern. In her autobiography, translated as Mountainous Journey (1990), she describes how Arab women were hidden in the household like frightened birds in a crowded coop. The war was blessing in disguise “When the roof of Palestine fell,” she wrote “the veil fell off the face of women.”

This poem ‘Enough for me’ quoted below is quite popular, I also like it but the line ‘child from my country’ spoils it for me. I guess Israelis and Palestinians live in a unique situation (its like animals born in captivity and how they differ from free), I feel sad for them, decades of barricaded world has created people who are getting abnormal. Even the best of them can be so narrow; it nevertheless is an excellent poem.

Enough for me to die on her earth
be buried in her
to melt and vanish into her soil
then sprout forth as a flower
played with by a child from my country.
Enough for me to remain
in my country's embrace
to be in her close as a handful of dust
a sprig of grass
a flower.

Political poems work within boundaries, it tends to take the truth from it and fall into jingoism that kills it beauty. However it does inspire people, take pride in their roots and give them cultural context for struggle against injustice. Moshe Dayan, the Israeli general, likened reading one of Touqan's poems to facing 20 enemy commandos!.

In turn Touqan was also inspired by the struggle against occupation

When the hurricane swelled and spread its deluge
of dark evil
onto the good green land
They gloated...
“The tree has fallen!”
...
Had the tree really fallen?
Never!
...
not while the red wine of our torn limbs

feed the thirsty roots,
Arab roots alive
tunneling deep, deep, into the land!

It was demanded by some men that she devote herself to political poetry. “How,” she asked, could they ask that when “I am shut up within these walls? I don’t sit with men, I don’t listen to their heated discussions, nor do I participate in the turmoil of life outside. I’m still not even acquainted with the face of my own country as I was not allowed to travel.”.

I liked this poem ‘Freedom’

Freedom

My freedom
I shall carve the words in the
earth
chisel their sounds
over every door in the Levant...
below the slope at every street
corner inside the prison
within the torture chamber.

The rufous babbler

Babblers are cantankerous birds, so loud sometimes that I don’t prefer them. Rufous babblers though are confined only to Western Ghats and these snaps also happen to be my first sighting of these birds. I spotted them inside the deep forest of silent valley. Unfortunately my recent visit to silent valley was not really an experience I cherish. You should book your slot before you reach here or wait for a day. The warden though a nice man was not keen on tourists, he had his views that I seem to agree with. Too many visitors spoils the place (kerala is a model state for eco tourism. This blogger also would like to point out the ‘Green Budget’ presented by the finance minister of Kerala Thomas Issac, it is a path breaking effort). But they could mention these in their website. Anyway next day I got a slot with bunch of men (who happened to be colleagues in a company) and two families who were touring together. All of them were keen on making noise and singing songs. I am not against songs, there are occasions this wasn’t. I don’t know but I think they thought silent valley is a picnic spot and were all rightfully disappointed!!. I took the occasion to walk away from them into the deeper part of the jungle, when I came back after an hour or so I was not only severely admonished by the guide but had 25 pairs of angry eyes staring at me for keeping them waiting. I managed a sheepish smile that though didn’t help the matter…ok let’s leave it there.

Rufous babblers created one big raucous when they saw me. They are dark rufous colored with grey forehead and a relatively longer tail. The iris is whitish that really give them a nasty look. Like other babblers they too are found mainly close to the ground.

Cesar Vellajo (1892-1938)

He was one of the most prominent Spanish American poets of the last century, an iconic figure in Peru. He was deeply rooted in his Peruvian Indian heritage. "A constant feature of his poetry is a compassionate awareness of and a guilt-ridden sense of responsibility for the suffering of others. He saw the world in piercing flashes of outrage and anguish, terror and pity. . . . A passionate, tragic poet, he mourned our loss of moral innocence and despaired of the injustice that moves the world" (Grossman). A witness to the devastation of Spanish civil war, he was imprisoned for is political activism. These lines from poem “The black messengers” is about the bewilderment and harshness of city life from his rural.

They are the deep falls of the Christ of the soul,
of some adorable one that Destiny Blasphemes.
Those bloody blows are the crepitation
of some bread getting burned on us by the oven's door

And the man . . . poor . . . poor!
He turns his eyes around, like
when patting calls us upon our shoulder;
he turns his crazed maddened eyes,
and all of life's experiences become stagnant, like a puddle of guilt, in a daze.

There are such hard blows in life. I don't know!

This poem “To My Brother Miguel In Memoriam” is quite a touching poem, nostalgia is something I avoid but when I read these it creates voids inside that takes lots of time to shed. Death as ‘going into hiding’ is a motif I strongly I identify with, long time back I used to think that way (there is a movie by Kurosawa…not able to recall the name, it has these wonderful images). I liked this poem and read many times in last few days. Everyday it seems to add new meaning. It feels good to know about poets I haven’t really heard about till now.

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench of the house,
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour, and mama
caressed us: "But, sons..."

Now I go hide
as before, from all evening
lectures, and I trust you not to give me away.
Through the parlor, the vestibule, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not give you away.
I remember we made ourselves cry,
brother, from so much laughing.

Miguel, you went into hiding
one night in August, toward dawn,
but, instead of chuckling, you were sad.
And the twin heart of those dead evenings
grew annoyed at not finding you. And now
a shadow falls on my soul.

Listen, brother, don't be late coming out. All right? Mama might worry.

What a lovely poem that one.

I wrote this few days back

When sun sets and we go back home
will we be able to answer the questions that wait for us
in the dark?
Questions furious of being orphaned
while we filled our cravings
stole, snatched and dealt
Questions that stab our conscience
accumulating lies and farce
that tie us in knots
force us on burning amber all night
and leave quietly in the morning.

And we live the days dreading the shadows
and another night