"If I had my life to live over again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once a week." - Charles Darwin
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
My Poems-3: "Dindigul" (From Suri's Autobio)
The name brings to memory
A fort on a hillock;
As a boy climbed it
several times.
This is where
dad was working,
when I was born.
His diary records
the momentous event:
"A Red Letter Day :
Telegram from ANY
informing birth of my son".
What Red-letter day?
My son snorts now!
My mom and me,
as a babe,
were taken to
my paternal uncle's house -
"40, Society Street".
Travelling by train
from mom's place,
changing trains in between,
commences my association
with Railways
which continues.
They are live-characters
in my life-drama.
All that
we will see later.
During my uncle's time,
40, Society Street
was a jolly-good place,
for a lot of children -
my cousins, me and
all the kids nearby.
That house is
associated with
many many events
of my life -
some memorable and
some better forgotten.
I was named after
this uncle -
"SIVASURIYANARAYANAN" .
'Reminds me of a
goods train' -
a friend commented
on my name.
Yes, what a long name!
But I can't blame
my uncle.
He inherited it
from his grandpa
and dad chose it for me,
for uncle was more
a father to him.
(Dad lost his father
when he was 8.)
Hope, my son
will be more
imaginative and
comes up
with something better
for his son,
when he is born.
But I am
either
"Suri" or "Murugan"
to all near and dear.
The longer version
is for records only.
Murugan?
Oh, petname mother
chose for me.
Still many from
mother's side
know me as 'Murugan'.
Later my siblings
took to calling me,
'Mulla' -
a corrupt form of Muruga
or maybe after
Mulla Nazruddeen,
whose jokes
I used to crack often.
My namesake uncle was
Town Congress leader,
popular and soft-spoken gent,
respected and trusted by many.
A Municipal Councillor,
till his tragic death,
his ward,
Ward No.4 to be precise,
came to be known as
"Congress Fortress".
Cut at the prime of life,
he fell like a
huge banyan tree,
leaving many branches
to dry and wither away.
Uncle gone,
40 society street gone,
all the glories gone, -
his children,
that is,
those that are left,
despair there,
facing calamity
after calamity.
On uncle's death,
burden fell on Sethu -
my cousin and the
eldest son of uncle,
when he was hardly 20.
Crushed almost,
he still lives there.
Now, 40 years after,
Dindigul is
just another name,
with fragrant and painful
memories.
Avoid unpleasantness,
well, that is me.
Pressed down as I am
with worries and problems,
Relatives and friends mean solace to me;
When they turn unpleasant,
I hide my face and
run away.
Weakness of character?
Self-centredness?
I rue this flaw of character,
but what to do?
A fort on a hillock;
As a boy climbed it
several times.
This is where
dad was working,
when I was born.
His diary records
the momentous event:
"A Red Letter Day :
Telegram from ANY
informing birth of my son".
What Red-letter day?
My son snorts now!
My mom and me,
as a babe,
were taken to
my paternal uncle's house -
"40, Society Street".
Travelling by train
from mom's place,
changing trains in between,
commences my association
with Railways
which continues.
They are live-characters
in my life-drama.
All that
we will see later.
During my uncle's time,
40, Society Street
was a jolly-good place,
for a lot of children -
my cousins, me and
all the kids nearby.
That house is
associated with
many many events
of my life -
some memorable and
some better forgotten.
I was named after
this uncle -
"SIVASURIYANARAYANAN" .
'Reminds me of a
goods train' -
a friend commented
on my name.
Yes, what a long name!
But I can't blame
my uncle.
He inherited it
from his grandpa
and dad chose it for me,
for uncle was more
a father to him.
(Dad lost his father
when he was 8.)
Hope, my son
will be more
imaginative and
comes up
with something better
for his son,
when he is born.
But I am
either
"Suri" or "Murugan"
to all near and dear.
The longer version
is for records only.
Murugan?
Oh, petname mother
chose for me.
Still many from
mother's side
know me as 'Murugan'.
Later my siblings
took to calling me,
'Mulla' -
a corrupt form of Muruga
or maybe after
Mulla Nazruddeen,
whose jokes
I used to crack often.
My namesake uncle was
Town Congress leader,
popular and soft-spoken gent,
respected and trusted by many.
A Municipal Councillor,
till his tragic death,
his ward,
Ward No.4 to be precise,
came to be known as
"Congress Fortress".
Cut at the prime of life,
he fell like a
huge banyan tree,
leaving many branches
to dry and wither away.
Uncle gone,
40 society street gone,
all the glories gone, -
his children,
that is,
those that are left,
despair there,
facing calamity
after calamity.
On uncle's death,
burden fell on Sethu -
my cousin and the
eldest son of uncle,
when he was hardly 20.
Crushed almost,
he still lives there.
Now, 40 years after,
Dindigul is
just another name,
with fragrant and painful
memories.
Avoid unpleasantness,
well, that is me.
Pressed down as I am
with worries and problems,
Relatives and friends mean solace to me;
When they turn unpleasant,
I hide my face and
run away.
Weakness of character?
Self-centredness?
I rue this flaw of character,
but what to do?
Friday, July 27, 2007
Poem of the day-25: "Exercise Your Mind" by Ka.Vai.Palanisamy
I have not
handful of dreams.
But teach you
the strategem
to test the truth
on the touchstone.
And I shall not write
anything new,
for there is none
that had written new.
The vision Buddha had
is a vision unto him alone.
If wisdom need,
you are to cognize the world.
Without the birth of light in you
The darkness will not vanish.
So exercise your mind,
in the language of silence,
to impregnate
Life of a Sun.
handful of dreams.
But teach you
the strategem
to test the truth
on the touchstone.
And I shall not write
anything new,
for there is none
that had written new.
The vision Buddha had
is a vision unto him alone.
If wisdom need,
you are to cognize the world.
Without the birth of light in you
The darkness will not vanish.
So exercise your mind,
in the language of silence,
to impregnate
Life of a Sun.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Poem of the Day-2: 'The Time to Die' by Professor Cheriyan Jacob
When the twilight tempering the shadows
Soften the night's approach
And the clouds I have admired often
Are silvered at the edges,
The leaves' murmur dying away
In the soul's infinite distance
Like the reverberations of my hopes,
When the leaves are hushed and the ocean
Sends its melodious requiem to the sky
And the copse sounds not with the wren's chirp
Or the woodpecker's whistle
When there is only the call of the blackbird to its mate
That is the time for me to die,
To pass into the primeval silence
When silence wraps the world around,
And not when a noisy parliament is in session
And politicians sling the mud at democracy.
(From the Library Week Souvenir of CECRI Club)
Soften the night's approach
And the clouds I have admired often
Are silvered at the edges,
The leaves' murmur dying away
In the soul's infinite distance
Like the reverberations of my hopes,
When the leaves are hushed and the ocean
Sends its melodious requiem to the sky
And the copse sounds not with the wren's chirp
Or the woodpecker's whistle
When there is only the call of the blackbird to its mate
That is the time for me to die,
To pass into the primeval silence
When silence wraps the world around,
And not when a noisy parliament is in session
And politicians sling the mud at democracy.
(From the Library Week Souvenir of CECRI Club)
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Poem of the Day-1: "Birth of an Alliance" by Dr.Rosemary C.Wilkinson
I came across this poem in a book entitled, "East-West Voices" edited and compiled by Dr.V.S.Skanda Prasad and published by Chetana Books, Mangalore, India. Needless to say, like many other treasures, I found this also on a pavement bookshop. I loved this poem and hope the visitors to this blog will also love it. Thank you, Dr.Rosemary C.Wilkinson and Dr.Dr.V.S.Skanda Prasad!
She gathered a variety of poems
When she was very young.
As someone would gather rare flowers.
She plucked from here, from there,
Then she placed them all in a bower.
Now this bower lay as a dormant
Rustic cottage over the years -
So quaint, and all forlorn -
Then one day someone came along
Cleared the webs, unlocked the door,
And lo! an artist was born.
(Dr.Rosemary C.Wilkinson wrote her first poem at age 14.......When President Kennedy was shot, she wrote her second poem. From then on, she could not stop the poetry from flowing. Author of more than 15 books on poetry, she has honoured with many international awards. She was the President of the 5th World Congress of Poets held in USA during 1981.)
On Poetry-10: Carl Sandburg 4
Poetry is the journal of a sea animal, living on land, wanting to fly in the air.
My Poems-2 : 'Arumuganeri' (From Suri's Autobio)
A small place near Tiruchendur,
and not far from Cape Comorin;
The landmark today is
The Dhrangdhra Chemicals Ltd.
It was my mother's place.
There was I born on a
Diwali Day,
to the sound of crackers and
the light of fireworks.
October 21, 1949 to be precise.
My contact with the place
is very limited.
Maybe I visited the place
four or five times
in all my life.
I spent
a summer vacation there
during my school days.
Swimming in a pond daily,
Witnessing a Volley-ball tournament,
Playing an old gramophone and
munching snacks
in the house of
various relatives.
Beyond that,
the place holds
no other memories for me.
But, oh yes,
after my marriage,
I spent a day there
with my wife,
spending an hour
in each uncle's house.
I am told
K.T.Kosalram,
Member of Parliament,
was a native of that place.
So also
the Tamil writer,
"Thamarai Manaalan".
After that
I have lost touch
completely and
am not sorry!
and not far from Cape Comorin;
The landmark today is
The Dhrangdhra Chemicals Ltd.
It was my mother's place.
There was I born on a
Diwali Day,
to the sound of crackers and
the light of fireworks.
October 21, 1949 to be precise.
My contact with the place
is very limited.
Maybe I visited the place
four or five times
in all my life.
I spent
a summer vacation there
during my school days.
Swimming in a pond daily,
Witnessing a Volley-ball tournament,
Playing an old gramophone and
munching snacks
in the house of
various relatives.
Beyond that,
the place holds
no other memories for me.
But, oh yes,
after my marriage,
I spent a day there
with my wife,
spending an hour
in each uncle's house.
I am told
K.T.Kosalram,
Member of Parliament,
was a native of that place.
So also
the Tamil writer,
"Thamarai Manaalan".
After that
I have lost touch
completely and
am not sorry!
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
On Poetry-11: The Healing Power of Poetry
Dr.Smiley Blanton, one of America's great psychiatrists, wrote a charming book, "THE HEALING POWER OF POETRY". He found, in his work with patients, that emotional troubles could be helped by the healing properties of great poetry. (From "Treasury of Courage and Confidence" by Dr.Norman Vincent Peale).
(On an impulse, I tried Google Search for "Healing Power of Poetry" and got results within 0.34 seconds. It gave about 7890 links! I am furnishing details about one of the articles that I could access immediately and which also impressed me, namely, "Finding the Words to Say It: The Healing Power of Poetry" by Robert Carroll, UCLA Department of Psychiatry, Los Angeles CA 90024, USA. It was published in an Oxford University Press (OUP) jounral, namely, "Evidence-based Complementary and Alternative Medicine".
Another interesting feature of this article is it has been published under Open Access model and though the author retains copyright, "users are entitled to use, reproduce, disseminate, or display the open access version of this article for non-commercial purposes provided that: the original authorship is properly and fully attributed; the Journal and Oxford University Press are attributed as the original place of publication with the correct citation details given; if an article is subsequently reproduced or disseminated not in its entirety but only in part or as a derivative work this must be clearly indicated. For commercial re-use, please contact journals.permissions{at}oupjournals.org."
As the article talks about the therapeutic value of poetry, I think I should also post a copy in my other blog devoted to Alternative Medicine and Health.
Grateful thanks to Dr.Robert Carroll and OUP.
My Poems-1 : The Excuse (From Suri's Autobio)
You can do anything,
provided you find an excuse,
even murder and rape.
For me,
the excuse was
provided by
Robin Sharma of
The-Monk-Who-Sold-His-Ferrari fame.
He says,
"Any life is worth living,
And given this,
Every life is worth recording."
One part of my mind
admonished me
in the vein of the Gita:
"Yield not to temptations."
But what to do?
Ordinary mortals
always yield to temptations,
which must have been obvious
even to Lord Krishna.
So, you have this thing,
which passes for
an autobiography.
But why this
particular form,
you may ask?
There is a poem in Tamil.
A turkey,
on seeing a peacock dancing,
also started dancing.
I happen to see
Vikram Seth's
"Golden Gate."
And there you are! (- To be continued)
provided you find an excuse,
even murder and rape.
For me,
the excuse was
provided by
Robin Sharma of
The-Monk-Who-Sold-His-Ferrari fame.
He says,
"Any life is worth living,
And given this,
Every life is worth recording."
One part of my mind
admonished me
in the vein of the Gita:
"Yield not to temptations."
But what to do?
Ordinary mortals
always yield to temptations,
which must have been obvious
even to Lord Krishna.
So, you have this thing,
which passes for
an autobiography.
But why this
particular form,
you may ask?
There is a poem in Tamil.
A turkey,
on seeing a peacock dancing,
also started dancing.
I happen to see
Vikram Seth's
"Golden Gate."
And there you are! (- To be continued)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
