Philip is helping me put on YouTube some of my old published poetry. The primary reason for this is for documentation, but if anyone wants to read/hear them, please! Always interested in your comments.
The reason I want to put them online is obvious. I've been writing and publishing poems for many decades, and, for obvious reasons, the chances that I will continue doing so for decades to come are not great. I am also enjoying resurrecting "old friends," some of them written nearly forty years ago. I have forgotten so many of them! Although I'm not at all vain about my writing abilities, I am nevertheless convinced that many of my old poems do not deserve oblivion. If a relative or a stranger recalls some day that what is now ash was once a poet and an amateur musician, and, in addition, gets some enjoyment from these (by then) old YouTube postings, well that would put a big smile on my face if I still had a face with which to smile!
I am also providing herewith notes on the recorded poems, which might be of some interest to the reader/listener.
Vol. 1 Number 2: Nirmala's India.
This poems was published by Rattle magazine in 2003 (Vol. 9, No. 2). A rarity among my poems, it is based on fact, not fiction. My wife's mother, B. Gopalan, related the occurrence to me.
In India, it is customary to bend over and touch the feet of elders when one visits them or takes one's leave from them. It is basically done by children and young adults as a sign of respect for their elders. I remember watching flocks of young ones, like birds about to peck grain, bending over before their elders as they greeted them at the airport in Chennai. It is not customary for older adults to bow before their even older relatives, which is an important fact to remember for the background of this poem.
My mother-in-law--whom we all miss very much--was visiting the husband of her aunt. This took place in Kerala, the state from which my wife's family hails. B. Gopalan, was not at all traditional, and wouldn't dream of bowing down before her uncle--everyone who knew her would know this. She was visiting during the monsson season, when rain is alway imminent; thus she had taken along her umbrella, which she put on the floor after arriving at her uncle's house. After the visit, whe bent down to pick up the umbrella--Her uncle's vanity misconstrued this as the first stage of obeissance to himself. He put his hand magnanimously on her head and said someting to the effect: "no, no, Mollai (a term for addressing younger woman, which was a bit condescending in this context) get up! You don't need to bow down." Although my mother-in-law was not at all a rude person, bowing down, believe me, was the last thing on her mind. She told me that she began to laugh but supressed it, and allowed the vain man to believe that her niece was worshipping him as if he had been an avatar of Shiva.
The quote from "the awful book" is a verbatim quote from a book about India at the time--the name of which I've forgotten--hich very much angered my wife and me. I'm not saying that women are not suppressed in various areas of India, but stating that a woman can be killed anywhere in India with impunity is so ridiculous that it is beneath comment. I
A very real danger for women--and any other living creature--in India is, well, crossing the road. Drivers generally take us much care to miss a pedestrian in their path as they would swerve to spare a raindrop. I got into trouble sometimes, since, as a former New Yorker, I don't always look before crossing. Nirmala, having grown up in India, is much more cautious. One day in Chennai we were crossing a main road after a concert. Nirmala remained at the curb, but I darted out and Mr. Gopalan for some reason followed me. We had to dart to avoid a bus, and made it to the middle of the road. To our horror, a huge bus was heading straight at us--and another huge bus was heading for us from the opposite direction. No bus thought we were worth slowing down for. If I panicked and ran, I wouldn't be here writing this. We held on to each other, closed our eyes; both buses whizzed by at the same time. We came within inches of being hit on either side. This was such a frightening experience--I still recall it vividly--I wrote about it later in a poem called "The Toad." It was published in a 1998 anthology entitled "Frogs and Toad." (For those of you familiar with Chennai will realize that this poem is dated. Cows and buffaloes have been banned from city streets.) I include it here as an addendum:
The Toad
Right in the middle of a Third World road
not far from the heart of a city
just to the left of my two Western eyes,
a giant toad--fat, brown and dusty.
For a minute, a miracle--no traffic:
no men, women, children, cows, buffaloes,
carts, dogs, cycles, cats, lorries to push,
moo, drive, bark, ring, and honk us aside.
"I've, escaped, just like you, from a swamp--
Tell me, dear fellow wise pot-bellied creature,
is this world worth it?" A lorry advances;
we look at each other, then jump for our lives.
The reason I want to put them online is obvious. I've been writing and publishing poems for many decades, and, for obvious reasons, the chances that I will continue doing so for decades to come are not great. I am also enjoying resurrecting "old friends," some of them written nearly forty years ago. I have forgotten so many of them! Although I'm not at all vain about my writing abilities, I am nevertheless convinced that many of my old poems do not deserve oblivion. If a relative or a stranger recalls some day that what is now ash was once a poet and an amateur musician, and, in addition, gets some enjoyment from these (by then) old YouTube postings, well that would put a big smile on my face if I still had a face with which to smile!
I am also providing herewith notes on the recorded poems, which might be of some interest to the reader/listener.
Vol. 1 Number 2: Nirmala's India.
This poems was published by Rattle magazine in 2003 (Vol. 9, No. 2). A rarity among my poems, it is based on fact, not fiction. My wife's mother, B. Gopalan, related the occurrence to me.
In India, it is customary to bend over and touch the feet of elders when one visits them or takes one's leave from them. It is basically done by children and young adults as a sign of respect for their elders. I remember watching flocks of young ones, like birds about to peck grain, bending over before their elders as they greeted them at the airport in Chennai. It is not customary for older adults to bow before their even older relatives, which is an important fact to remember for the background of this poem.
My mother-in-law--whom we all miss very much--was visiting the husband of her aunt. This took place in Kerala, the state from which my wife's family hails. B. Gopalan, was not at all traditional, and wouldn't dream of bowing down before her uncle--everyone who knew her would know this. She was visiting during the monsson season, when rain is alway imminent; thus she had taken along her umbrella, which she put on the floor after arriving at her uncle's house. After the visit, whe bent down to pick up the umbrella--Her uncle's vanity misconstrued this as the first stage of obeissance to himself. He put his hand magnanimously on her head and said someting to the effect: "no, no, Mollai (a term for addressing younger woman, which was a bit condescending in this context) get up! You don't need to bow down." Although my mother-in-law was not at all a rude person, bowing down, believe me, was the last thing on her mind. She told me that she began to laugh but supressed it, and allowed the vain man to believe that her niece was worshipping him as if he had been an avatar of Shiva.
The quote from "the awful book" is a verbatim quote from a book about India at the time--the name of which I've forgotten--hich very much angered my wife and me. I'm not saying that women are not suppressed in various areas of India, but stating that a woman can be killed anywhere in India with impunity is so ridiculous that it is beneath comment. I
A very real danger for women--and any other living creature--in India is, well, crossing the road. Drivers generally take us much care to miss a pedestrian in their path as they would swerve to spare a raindrop. I got into trouble sometimes, since, as a former New Yorker, I don't always look before crossing. Nirmala, having grown up in India, is much more cautious. One day in Chennai we were crossing a main road after a concert. Nirmala remained at the curb, but I darted out and Mr. Gopalan for some reason followed me. We had to dart to avoid a bus, and made it to the middle of the road. To our horror, a huge bus was heading straight at us--and another huge bus was heading for us from the opposite direction. No bus thought we were worth slowing down for. If I panicked and ran, I wouldn't be here writing this. We held on to each other, closed our eyes; both buses whizzed by at the same time. We came within inches of being hit on either side. This was such a frightening experience--I still recall it vividly--I wrote about it later in a poem called "The Toad." It was published in a 1998 anthology entitled "Frogs and Toad." (For those of you familiar with Chennai will realize that this poem is dated. Cows and buffaloes have been banned from city streets.) I include it here as an addendum:
The Toad
Right in the middle of a Third World road
not far from the heart of a city
just to the left of my two Western eyes,
a giant toad--fat, brown and dusty.
For a minute, a miracle--no traffic:
no men, women, children, cows, buffaloes,
carts, dogs, cycles, cats, lorries to push,
moo, drive, bark, ring, and honk us aside.
"I've, escaped, just like you, from a swamp--
Tell me, dear fellow wise pot-bellied creature,
is this world worth it?" A lorry advances;
we look at each other, then jump for our lives.
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