Identification and Isolation

Sandip

Sandip is a M Sc Physic student at the Cochin University of Science and Technology. He has been writing poems since his school days and his first collection of poems ‘Sheer Echoes of Time’ was published last year. Sandip has a great interest in Carnatic Music, Kathakali Music and football. “Like any other human beings, poets too perform many social responsibilities. However, a poet’s presence becomes all the more important when he underlines his responsibilities with metaphors,” says Sandip. www.artconcerns.com presents three of his latest poems.

1. Identification Leading to Isolation

In a less frequented area of the busy town
There is a garden resembling an old artist
Who in his prime painted grand works before
He shifted to portraits, for stomach's ale.
These days even his portraits lack likeness.
The garden too has lost its fragrant flowers;
Wild ones and feral weeds have taken their place.
The grass has grown high in place of the lawn
Like the unshaven beard of the aged artist.
In the past, many love affairs bloomed here,
Young boys came to play and rejoice,
Maidens felt joy as when looking in their mirrors.
Families chose the garden as their favourite picnic spot.
So did the old man, once hailed as a wizard.
He used to draw pictures that oozed rich life.
His palette has lost those vibrant colours now;
Some left, unable to stick to the brush
And those which stuck no longer got onto his canvas.
The smile that rested on his lips and in his works
Has completely disappeared; now there's a gloomy face.
The fragrance of the flowers too has gone.
A gardener lived here, flowers were his children,
He kept the lawn and slept on it on starry nights.
The painter had a lady love who looked after him well,
Then a fatal illness took her life, left him alone.
The gardener left the garden too for some reason.
The buds that had a lot of promise drooped.
The creativity of the painter died in a similar way;
Still some old art-lovers bought his portraits
And an old couple or two visited the garden.

Is that garden in this present world without a gardener?
Then I am that painter who has lost his artistry.

(A lot of time spent inside the gallery of Open Eyed Dreams, at calicut, in fortunate company with some true art aficionados, is ample inspiration for a few poems at least. This poem, but can be traced out as having been come out from memories of that days. Surrounded by many great works, a lot of poems drawn in many canvas that left a definite impression in the palette of the poet's mind.)

2. Rain Round the Desire's Bend

I wish it had rained now, let these dark clouds-
Do not let me down by failing to give a raindrop
Often they go away as inside some hope sprouts
The offspring here do not resemble their father;
Rain is always trustworthy, not like the clouds
Dark clouds may even sometimes try to deceive
But their malice is not carried over to the rain
Rain and mothers know only to moisten heart
With itself, herself or with her pure tears of joy
I wish for that rain to fall down heavy upon me.

It is raining now, as drops pierce my skin slowly
Entering my vessels, no pain, it is all yearning glee
The mixing up with rain alone can sanctify blood
Life itself arose from the unison of rain and blood
The flashes send new light to cut open the dark sky
Thunder puts an end to dumb tongue's tradition
As I stand just below an umbrella formed by a tree
One big clatter sends all the crows on top flying
As I look up it seems that the branches expanding
No, those are the crows flying away covering the sky.

In the next flash, the tree I am standing below is hit
Fire in the rain, and I am now beside a heap of ash
Those birds that caught the warning have escaped
I also have quite astonishingly survived that blaze
Without one burn or blemish anywhere on the skin
That heap of ash has now mixed with the mud below
I stand upon that earth, without a tree or an umbrella
Still raindrops puncturing my skin without any pain
All this doesn't even inflict any fear upon my mind
I am just rejoicing in the first rain of this dry season.

( Rain. Something that has touched every heart, has been catalyst to a lot of poems. 'Round the Bend' means being mad. Here it is mad along the poet's desire. Madness, Van Gogh had said, "It is only too true that a lot of artists are mentally ill- it's a life which, to put it mildly, makes one an outsider. I'm all right when I completely immerse myself in work, but I'll always remain half crazy.")

3. Killing the Earth, and Earthworm

An earthworm formed the coastline of this aged village
A long creature that shapes its body for the land's curves
That is yesterday's innocence named village, today's town;
Still earthworm remains, but the ships that have arrived
From the distant land where there are no worms of desire
Far along the shore put their anchor right in the middle of-
The earthworm's long gut, an almost empty lone hut,
Where a poor ploughman's wife and children starve
But that is habit for them, the cock to the hen that fed-
On earthworms had once joked that hunger is a hobby.
The anchor cuts the worm into two, but life only diverges
The anger of the ship's captain is all at this new growth
Two from one, thus four from two and it goes on and on
Now it is not an earthworm, but many forming the line
But that captain in his rage has pulled the anchor up
Has turned it upside down, and with that blunt top
Started pressing hard on the earthworms' woe-heads
If you set aside these deprived beings to be crushed
Then tomorrow's dawn will witness no worm round,
Town will be called a graveyard by the new landowners.

(Many say poets have to perform a duty to the society. But poets usually hate responsibilities of any kind. But this poem is different. Here the earthworm can be taken as an image of the present-day farmer or agricultural scene of the country at large. Here is a call from the versifier, a shrill cry with a hint of warning, but more importantly an intricate solution.)