Fingers crossed for the shortlisting.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Sips That Make A Poison Woman
My first book of poems is published!
Available on amazon uk. Follow the link by clicking on the title.
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
More publications/prizes
Well well, Poetry! Who would have thought. I wrote and sent a few poems off last year, and won a prize which means my first book, a collection of poems, will be coming out this year.
http://www.ravenglasspoetrypress.co.uk/entry2010.html
Also cannibalised a chapter from the defeated first novel for the Asham short story award. Here is the hooray-inducing result:
Watch this space for release details of my first poetry collection from Ravenglass Press.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Poems I wrote at 18, as the Pioneer of the movement “Gibberish”
SUMMER
Burning coal black gold
Sleeping in the afternoon.
Eyes shut, streaming with light,
Eyelids closed against the glare,
The rotating blades drag their wings,
Chopping the swollen air,
Cutting strips of heavy heat
That unravel gracefully spiralling
Down on the supine form
(on the body on the bed),
sweat beads glisten and roll down,
breath hot moist the pillow heat,
the light turns white to yellow to orange
as the clock hands creep toward six.
Waking up is hell, the head swims groggily,
The mouth coated with bitter slime,
Eyes water down the stored up heat.
Bloody Sunday afternoon.
PIECE OF DIRT
It lays lightly, covering your skin,
A grey coat greasing clingily clad.
Drag a finger along the skin
Like furrowing a fertile land,
The straight black line forms
And thickens under the fingernail,
Flick it with the sturdy thumb,
Out comes a beautiful crescent moon.
There’s beauty even in the black grime
That touches but a tender eye,
Look and observe, and you will penetrate
The secret of the creation of the gods,
That there’s beauty even in a piece of dirt.
LECTURE
Swollen eyelids shutter down every
Six and a half seconds
(droning voices all around).
The dragging pen scratches forlornly,
Wandering away from the steely lines,
To be brought back to place with a jerk.
The top of the head separates and swims
Upward and away, slowly,
While the droopy eyes watch,
And slowly settles down again.
The head then nods losing its
Centre of gravity, strains the neck
Threatening to snap.
It grows like a Jurassic baby,
Heavy and ponderous, has a
Magnetic attraction towards the
Book on the desk.
Fatal attraction.
Thump. ZZZZzzzz.
ZOMBIE LAND: the idiot’s box
Turn it on and it takes over life,
Spewing sights and sounds on a rote,
Monotonous in its continuity,
Never fatigues, never dims its fiery colours,
Keep at it, the brain turns mush,
The body mashed potato served on comfy couch,
The dish garnished by slender remote.
Staring zombies stare deaf to each other,
Meals untasted, books rotting away,
As minds dip and immerse in fantasy land,
In the bottomless pleasure pits of Hollywood,
Or the slimy spicy cauldrons of Bollywood,
Or other stuff all far removed from reality.
Seething sanity buckles under
The muddying pressure of cheery crap.
A DYING CAT
The last of the leaves fall
In the autumn dusk.
The last of my days trickle past
Slowly slowly . . . crushing, moaning.
Snaps of memories
Fade in . . . fade out . . .
The first scratches . .
The first kill – a limping rodent,
The scald from the first hot milk,
The stinging laughter of the kid,
And my revenge . . . shredded leather deat.
The first female – virtual lioness.
I peer at a raggedy cobweb
Through rheumatic eyes
And try to feel toothless gums
With a slow, curling tongue.
I look out the window again,
At the last autumn leaf,
Grey and wrinkled,
Teetering on the sinewy branch.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Publications
Well, well. Never mind the novels, the first one that is sleeping in the dusty cupboard, and the new one which is sitting at the desk, half hanging out of my head.
My short stories are getting about in the world.
First, last year, 'Bhai and the Manager' was published in Riptide Volume 4
Second, this year, 'Kite Season' a story from my MA submission, is shortlisted for the Riptide Short Story Competition, and will be published in Volume 6
check out http://www.riptidejournal.co.uk/
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Spring Comes, The Wind Comes
Spring comes, the wind comes
To rustle and heave,
Uproot little shoots
That Spring whispers into life
Sprouting and flowering,
Raptures in all colours,
Sunworshippers, soildwellers
Sing praises on spindly legs
Bending and breaking
In the wind that comes
When spring comes
The wind to remind
That the sunshine is but
Here now, scattered soon
By bullying clouds
Those friends of winter
And autumn that wears hues
Of steel, iron, aluminium
The light of spring is no metal
It is the wing of a butterfly
Blink and it flutters away
The sunshine scatters
Like fey green dreams
In the wind that comes,
With the clouds it brings
When Spring comes
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Review of Slumdog Millionaire
Sukhdev Sandhu calls it ‘a hugely important film in contemporary cinema.’ How do I take this film seriously, when in spite of all its merits, it fails utterly when it comes to female casting?
The reviewer Kevin Buist suggests that Danny Boyle couldn't decide whether to ask his actors to be realistic, or overly theatrical, as the film is a homage to Bollywood. It is one of those strange entities, a realistic homage to Bollywood. So I can take it for what it is, enjoy the film, and then dismiss it from my mind. But the thing is, this film is being compared to Charles Dickens novels, and as being in the cusp between art and commerce. So people are taking this film seriously. So I’ve to say, I’m sorry, but would you sit up and take notice of the women? I mean, really look at them, and look at the men.
The entire male cast look realistic. Not one of them could be mistaken for Tom Cruise or Amitabh Bacchan (expect maybe the guy who plays the Beggarmaster). But the female actors? Jamal’s slum-mother looks like she walked off from the cover of a fashion magazine. Well-shaped eyebrows, ethereal beauty and slim frame (which looks achieved by diet, rather than lack of nutrition). Hey, whatdyaknow, she looks like some fashion model turned actor. Jamal’s girlfriend, the slum-girl who becomes a teenage prostitute? She could be the twin of the woman who plays the mother, if the length of their pouts and silkiness of skin are to go by. And their similarity of features, I’m sure, has not occured because of the Oedipal reading the director wants critics to do from the text of the film.
I’m not taking issue with the utter passivity of the female roles in this film. I acknowledge that this is a male-film made in a male-world by men. But this is the west, and we do not live in a pre-feminist world like most of India does, so hey Danny Boyle and gang, please pull your socks up and pay attention. I cannot take the character of Latika seriously in the film because, she is a) a simpering, vapid siren who belongs on a catwalk and b) she has no agency.
I did say I wasn’t taking up the issue of female passivity, but really, I lied. The final scene where Jamal’s brother Salim completely goes out of character and urges Latika to run away, giving her his phone, and immolates himself in a bathtub full of money (!!), really, it was Latika who should have grabbed the car keys, kneed the mafia boss in the groin, and made off with Salim’s phone. Salim was born mean and selfish, and so he should have remained. And if Latika had shown even that little bit of spunk, I’d have forgiven her ethereal looks and general vapidness.
And no, I’m neither a lesbian nor too ugly to get the guys.
The reviewer Kevin Buist suggests that Danny Boyle couldn't decide whether to ask his actors to be realistic, or overly theatrical, as the film is a homage to Bollywood. It is one of those strange entities, a realistic homage to Bollywood. So I can take it for what it is, enjoy the film, and then dismiss it from my mind. But the thing is, this film is being compared to Charles Dickens novels, and as being in the cusp between art and commerce. So people are taking this film seriously. So I’ve to say, I’m sorry, but would you sit up and take notice of the women? I mean, really look at them, and look at the men.
The entire male cast look realistic. Not one of them could be mistaken for Tom Cruise or Amitabh Bacchan (expect maybe the guy who plays the Beggarmaster). But the female actors? Jamal’s slum-mother looks like she walked off from the cover of a fashion magazine. Well-shaped eyebrows, ethereal beauty and slim frame (which looks achieved by diet, rather than lack of nutrition). Hey, whatdyaknow, she looks like some fashion model turned actor. Jamal’s girlfriend, the slum-girl who becomes a teenage prostitute? She could be the twin of the woman who plays the mother, if the length of their pouts and silkiness of skin are to go by. And their similarity of features, I’m sure, has not occured because of the Oedipal reading the director wants critics to do from the text of the film.
I’m not taking issue with the utter passivity of the female roles in this film. I acknowledge that this is a male-film made in a male-world by men. But this is the west, and we do not live in a pre-feminist world like most of India does, so hey Danny Boyle and gang, please pull your socks up and pay attention. I cannot take the character of Latika seriously in the film because, she is a) a simpering, vapid siren who belongs on a catwalk and b) she has no agency.
I did say I wasn’t taking up the issue of female passivity, but really, I lied. The final scene where Jamal’s brother Salim completely goes out of character and urges Latika to run away, giving her his phone, and immolates himself in a bathtub full of money (!!), really, it was Latika who should have grabbed the car keys, kneed the mafia boss in the groin, and made off with Salim’s phone. Salim was born mean and selfish, and so he should have remained. And if Latika had shown even that little bit of spunk, I’d have forgiven her ethereal looks and general vapidness.
And no, I’m neither a lesbian nor too ugly to get the guys.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Are you from Indias
Are you from India?
No.
You look like someone I know from India.
Not me.
You’re not from India?
No.
Where you from?
Jupiter.
Are you from Bangladesh?
No.
You look like Pakistan-Bangladesh. Asian.
I’m not.
Where are you from?
From here?
Oh from here? England?
Yes.
You study here?
No.
Is this floor one?
No. The third.
-cling-
No.
You look like someone I know from India.
Not me.
You’re not from India?
No.
Where you from?
Jupiter.
Are you from Bangladesh?
No.
You look like Pakistan-Bangladesh. Asian.
I’m not.
Where are you from?
From here?
Oh from here? England?
Yes.
You study here?
No.
Is this floor one?
No. The third.
-cling-
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Queen Elizabeth Hall
the tiger lillies & justin bond
Sinderella
Thursday 18 December 2008 - Saturday 20 December 2008
Review.
Where’s the story?
There were many things to enjoy and appreciate about the performance. The last time I was in Queen Elizabeth hall was for a piano concerto, and before that, a book reading by Salman Rushdie. It felt as though the sacred space (books and classical music, are closest I come to feeling religious) was profaned, and so delightfully. Men in drag are always fun, profanities release you from the dull chains of ‘decency’ in the social sphere, and the music: dark cabaret and operatic falsetto, was brilliant.
The first song set up the scene: Cinderella the crack whore, controlled and pimped by her evil stepmother and Cinderella’s expectation to meet and be rescued by a Prince Charmer, a famous rap artist. The next few songs, tell about Cinderella’s dead mother who was also a whore, more about the evil stepmother, and Cinderrella’s aspirations and dreams and monologues à la vagina. Cinderella also comes and demonstrates to a number of male audience members what her job entails. OK… then what? Then a song titled Evil, about the …er.. stepmother.. and then, lots of cavorting in the aisles and on audience (all male) laps, peruading them call the stepmother ‘evil cunt’. At some point, the stepmother’s skirt and wig unravel and Cinderella exhorts the audience to call her ‘ugly cunt’; this the men do enthusiastically. After the interval, there’s a song called, wait for it…. yes, you’ve guessed it: ‘You’re Evil.’ In Sinderella’s words, one may ask, ‘Where’s the fucking story, you cunts?’
It is mentioned in passing by Cinderella in one of her songs about what a typical crackwhore she is, that Prince Charmer, after few weeks of a-courting Rella, has fallen prey to and died of cancer, just like her mother. Apart from the technical failing of, hmm, going nowhere with the fairytale (nevermind that there was so subversion of the story, there was simply no story, reconstructed or unreconstructed), there are many aspects of this show that I found disturbing. What the audience seemed to enjoy most were the profanities. Every time there was a ‘fucking’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘blowjob’ accompanied by Cinderalla’s ‘interactions’ with the audience (mostly male), there was lots of laughter and clapping. The show was nought but men in drag constructing and donning female psyches, and with the male and some female audience’s help, sundering, eviscerating them. ‘I want to pour poison into your cunt,’ sings Cinderella to her stepmother. Bottomline is, it was drag misogyny masquerading as ‘alternative’ and performed for the entertainment of male and female misogynists. There is such a thing as misogyny among women, and it was exhibited by women in the audience, thankfully, only a few, standing and clapping at key moments of the performance. They might well have been applauding the comedy or the music, or the sheer outrageousness of the show which is refreshing after a year of behaving well and ‘normal’, but I consider it misogyny, even when it isn’t active or passive hatred of women, but the choice to be ignorant of it when it is expressed by someone else.
There was a song sung by the original trio in the group, while Cinderalla stepped out to ‘change’. It was the best five minutes of the performance. They should do more of the dark, operatic songs with unusual pauses and run riot with the melancholic drag queen in surreal setting motif. To sum it up, if you want to retell/reinterpret Cinderella, please get beyond the first act.
the tiger lillies & justin bond
Sinderella
Thursday 18 December 2008 - Saturday 20 December 2008
Review.
Where’s the story?
There were many things to enjoy and appreciate about the performance. The last time I was in Queen Elizabeth hall was for a piano concerto, and before that, a book reading by Salman Rushdie. It felt as though the sacred space (books and classical music, are closest I come to feeling religious) was profaned, and so delightfully. Men in drag are always fun, profanities release you from the dull chains of ‘decency’ in the social sphere, and the music: dark cabaret and operatic falsetto, was brilliant.
The first song set up the scene: Cinderella the crack whore, controlled and pimped by her evil stepmother and Cinderella’s expectation to meet and be rescued by a Prince Charmer, a famous rap artist. The next few songs, tell about Cinderella’s dead mother who was also a whore, more about the evil stepmother, and Cinderrella’s aspirations and dreams and monologues à la vagina. Cinderella also comes and demonstrates to a number of male audience members what her job entails. OK… then what? Then a song titled Evil, about the …er.. stepmother.. and then, lots of cavorting in the aisles and on audience (all male) laps, peruading them call the stepmother ‘evil cunt’. At some point, the stepmother’s skirt and wig unravel and Cinderella exhorts the audience to call her ‘ugly cunt’; this the men do enthusiastically. After the interval, there’s a song called, wait for it…. yes, you’ve guessed it: ‘You’re Evil.’ In Sinderella’s words, one may ask, ‘Where’s the fucking story, you cunts?’
It is mentioned in passing by Cinderella in one of her songs about what a typical crackwhore she is, that Prince Charmer, after few weeks of a-courting Rella, has fallen prey to and died of cancer, just like her mother. Apart from the technical failing of, hmm, going nowhere with the fairytale (nevermind that there was so subversion of the story, there was simply no story, reconstructed or unreconstructed), there are many aspects of this show that I found disturbing. What the audience seemed to enjoy most were the profanities. Every time there was a ‘fucking’ or ‘cunt’ or ‘blowjob’ accompanied by Cinderalla’s ‘interactions’ with the audience (mostly male), there was lots of laughter and clapping. The show was nought but men in drag constructing and donning female psyches, and with the male and some female audience’s help, sundering, eviscerating them. ‘I want to pour poison into your cunt,’ sings Cinderella to her stepmother. Bottomline is, it was drag misogyny masquerading as ‘alternative’ and performed for the entertainment of male and female misogynists. There is such a thing as misogyny among women, and it was exhibited by women in the audience, thankfully, only a few, standing and clapping at key moments of the performance. They might well have been applauding the comedy or the music, or the sheer outrageousness of the show which is refreshing after a year of behaving well and ‘normal’, but I consider it misogyny, even when it isn’t active or passive hatred of women, but the choice to be ignorant of it when it is expressed by someone else.
There was a song sung by the original trio in the group, while Cinderalla stepped out to ‘change’. It was the best five minutes of the performance. They should do more of the dark, operatic songs with unusual pauses and run riot with the melancholic drag queen in surreal setting motif. To sum it up, if you want to retell/reinterpret Cinderella, please get beyond the first act.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Belle De Jour Meets Bridget Jones
Take That, Chick-lit Bitches!
Choice extracts from the Diary of Felicity Arnold
Saturday, 21/04/07
Smoked my last ciggie. I'm in fathoms-deep shit. Can't work because my mind is crawling with feelings for the one guy who is utterly wrong for me. He is fat, obnoxious, married and catholic, and morally, on the other side of the realm from me. When we hug, his belly comes between the top half of my body and him. Now I'm so emotionally entangled. The thing began as pity for poor bloke obsessed with me. Investigating the pity, I found it was partly amusement, sadistic amusement in watching him wriggle, and partly self-congratulatory, sychopant-seeking revelry in hearing him pour out his adoration for me. Now he's eaten part of my brain and left a gaping need it seems only he can fill. I spent an entire day moping in pyjamas, hurrying in the bathroom lest I miss his call. He's been calling everyday lately. But of course, he didn't call today. Had tons to do which I didn't. Worse, he's having a baby anytime now. The wife's probably in labour as I speak. God I miss the bastard.
(a little later)
Still no phonecall. Need to get out of this. I'm still pretty sure all he wants is to fuck me; that's how it started. He yearns to bone anything remotely resembling a pussy on legs, as a rule. Why would it be different now? Sharing a few jokes is tops but when it comes to brass tacks, all he wants is a rough and tumble in the sack. Grabs me to cop a feel everytime I'm too near him, and I'm the type to let him; now it's affected my brain. And EVEN if he does harbour real feelings for me, which, he says he does, but I'm doubtful of, there's no way he's gonna shake up his comfy home atmosphere, with all his moneyed crazy as coots cath. circle of friends who are crawling with kids and his utterly complacent wife who thinks (I know, I know, a bit judgemental of me) a husband is a necessary tool to help one produce chidren (the lord's little blessings), and sex is a bitter grease to necessitate the process. Aw... why wouldn't he call?
Friday, 27/04/07
That was last saturday.
Monday - I sat on his lap in 'our' cafe and confessed I'd missed him over the weekend. Let him drag me to my place and curled up in bed with his erection nestling against me and his love words in my ears.
Tuesday - Dropped keys down to him early morn, kissed him, rolled on top of him and said, let's have sex and get this whole nonsense out of the way. He refused to fuck; said 'I've waited one and a half years not for a quick fuck. I want the whole deal. Mistress. Proper. Stayed in bed four hours. Chatted online while attempting to do office hours, went to his office around 5.30, almost fucked standing up (bled a little), stayed till 9.30.
Thursday - Four hours in bed again. Then online chat. Then he came for a quick cuddle before he left home to wife, gave me four-five lovely old books he'd bought at this book stall on ----. Too short a while. I sent 'xx' as a text. then I texted 'It's been three hours since you left, and I'm still wet. x.' The wife read it. He told her (I'm listed as Dave) 'I had a water fight with this guy called Dave, and he's a bit gay is why the x.' I also left teeth marks on his shoulder - very distinct. He stopped at his garage before entering house and hit himself with a spanner type thing and made it into a big industrial type injury to cover the teeth marks. Said to me, 'Actually gpt sympathy from the wife. Tee hee.'
Friday - Today. Went to meet P--- for goodbye drinks, as she's leaving to Australia. He came in, and I had to pretend he was the same and I was the same and nothing has changed between us before everyone. I felt sick. He slipped out when I was saying goodbye to her and told me to come up to his office for a hug, but his colleague was standing at the entrance and I was feeling funny already so I said I had to go and left.
Feel sick.
He called and I told him and he said, Can I see you monday and I said I don't know and he said I won't give you a choice, I'll just tell you I'll see you monday. Then I texted 'You left the untreated corn saplings in proof 4 acetate instead of 3. Call me if you want it switched.'
Choice extracts from the Diary of Felicity Arnold
Saturday, 21/04/07
Smoked my last ciggie. I'm in fathoms-deep shit. Can't work because my mind is crawling with feelings for the one guy who is utterly wrong for me. He is fat, obnoxious, married and catholic, and morally, on the other side of the realm from me. When we hug, his belly comes between the top half of my body and him. Now I'm so emotionally entangled. The thing began as pity for poor bloke obsessed with me. Investigating the pity, I found it was partly amusement, sadistic amusement in watching him wriggle, and partly self-congratulatory, sychopant-seeking revelry in hearing him pour out his adoration for me. Now he's eaten part of my brain and left a gaping need it seems only he can fill. I spent an entire day moping in pyjamas, hurrying in the bathroom lest I miss his call. He's been calling everyday lately. But of course, he didn't call today. Had tons to do which I didn't. Worse, he's having a baby anytime now. The wife's probably in labour as I speak. God I miss the bastard.
(a little later)
Still no phonecall. Need to get out of this. I'm still pretty sure all he wants is to fuck me; that's how it started. He yearns to bone anything remotely resembling a pussy on legs, as a rule. Why would it be different now? Sharing a few jokes is tops but when it comes to brass tacks, all he wants is a rough and tumble in the sack. Grabs me to cop a feel everytime I'm too near him, and I'm the type to let him; now it's affected my brain. And EVEN if he does harbour real feelings for me, which, he says he does, but I'm doubtful of, there's no way he's gonna shake up his comfy home atmosphere, with all his moneyed crazy as coots cath. circle of friends who are crawling with kids and his utterly complacent wife who thinks (I know, I know, a bit judgemental of me) a husband is a necessary tool to help one produce chidren (the lord's little blessings), and sex is a bitter grease to necessitate the process. Aw... why wouldn't he call?
Friday, 27/04/07
That was last saturday.
Monday - I sat on his lap in 'our' cafe and confessed I'd missed him over the weekend. Let him drag me to my place and curled up in bed with his erection nestling against me and his love words in my ears.
Tuesday - Dropped keys down to him early morn, kissed him, rolled on top of him and said, let's have sex and get this whole nonsense out of the way. He refused to fuck; said 'I've waited one and a half years not for a quick fuck. I want the whole deal. Mistress. Proper. Stayed in bed four hours. Chatted online while attempting to do office hours, went to his office around 5.30, almost fucked standing up (bled a little), stayed till 9.30.
Thursday - Four hours in bed again. Then online chat. Then he came for a quick cuddle before he left home to wife, gave me four-five lovely old books he'd bought at this book stall on ----. Too short a while. I sent 'xx' as a text. then I texted 'It's been three hours since you left, and I'm still wet. x.' The wife read it. He told her (I'm listed as Dave) 'I had a water fight with this guy called Dave, and he's a bit gay is why the x.' I also left teeth marks on his shoulder - very distinct. He stopped at his garage before entering house and hit himself with a spanner type thing and made it into a big industrial type injury to cover the teeth marks. Said to me, 'Actually gpt sympathy from the wife. Tee hee.'
Friday - Today. Went to meet P--- for goodbye drinks, as she's leaving to Australia. He came in, and I had to pretend he was the same and I was the same and nothing has changed between us before everyone. I felt sick. He slipped out when I was saying goodbye to her and told me to come up to his office for a hug, but his colleague was standing at the entrance and I was feeling funny already so I said I had to go and left.
Feel sick.
He called and I told him and he said, Can I see you monday and I said I don't know and he said I won't give you a choice, I'll just tell you I'll see you monday. Then I texted 'You left the untreated corn saplings in proof 4 acetate instead of 3. Call me if you want it switched.'
Thursday, August 07, 2008
08/08/08 8 months 4 days
What do I lose if I lose him?
I'd lose everything and nothing. Because he is everything, but so am I.
ps- Need to talk less and kiss more.
I'd lose everything and nothing. Because he is everything, but so am I.
ps- Need to talk less and kiss more.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Real Indian Writing?
A House For Mr Biswas
By V.S. Naipaul
I’ve always been uncomfortable with most of ‘Indian English’ fiction that stagger the shelves. Even if one or two of the writers actually live in India, and have not been living in England or the US since their Oxbridge-Harvard days, they are from the upper echelons of Indian society, the super-sophisticated, westernised, English-speaking cream, and their fiction is everything they are. http://www.pugmarks.com/week/writers.htm Half of them went to St Stephens (the Indian Eton) and on to oxbridge.
I did not imagine that Naipaul, of all people, Trinidadian, only Indian twice removed, would portray a world and people I know intimately. The vast Indian middle class, people with their eyes to the west but feet firmly entangled in a history and culture which they view with myopic eyes, and with little understanding. The people in Naipaul’s early novels (of the mid twentieth century) are the family I’ve grown up with.
Mid to upper caste, not necessarily Brahmin, lower-middle class to middle class people, who slave themselves to educate their sons. Tellingly characterised, is their pride in being old-fashioned juxtaposed with their pride in their children holding new-fangled views. Says Mrs Tulsi in pg 211 about her son disagreeing with her views: ‘…Owad is going to college, reading and learning all the time. And I am very old-fashioned.’ She spoke with pride in Owad and pride in her old-fasionedness.’
Shama, Mr B’s wife, holds her ‘bureau’ close to her heart, a piece of steel furniture with a secret locker that I’m intimately acquainted with, as it travelled many one bedroom tenements with my parents and me. The one steel bureau (Godrej most preferred) that comes with the dowry and lasts an entire lifetime, how did it survive the boat to Africa and then all the way to Trinidad?
The sullenness that characterises familial relationships, boy am I familiar with that. I come from a people that only smile at strangers, because they feel warm and friendly only with strangers, for whom they throw open their doors and hearts. With family, one is usually sullen. Like Mr B’s sister Dehuti, whose sullenness holds no meaning, and is an attitude fixed by habit, simplifying relationships (pg 326)
School. I remember how strange and exciting my English lessons used to be, how exotic the idea of playing pranks and sharing picnics. In our school, there simply was no time for play. Bullies did not exist because of the limited time we spent in the play fields unsupervised. I suffered school just like Mr B’s son Anand, who realises that ‘Pranks’ were only permitted in English Composition. (pg 403). Like Anand, we had to endure ritual before every exam (He was given many blotters, many pencils, a pencil sharpener, a ruler and two erasers, one for pencil, one for ink. Shama, braving his anger, sprinkled his shirt with lavender water when he wasn’t looking. She put a dry lime in his pocket to cut bad luck) pg 496.
While by no means can I call Naipaul's writing, Real Indian Writing, as, of course, India is one country characterised by its resistance to be characterised, whose identity is its many identities, whose voice is its plurality. Naipaul's diasporic Indians are the most real for me; these are the people, the masses, that masala-movies were originally made for; these are the conservative, ever-suspicious, comical Indians with hearty sullenness, who indulge in everyday melodrama to survive the hammering mundanity of their ration-shop-lives.
I belong now to a new caste (separate from the society from which it has been released, pg 604), created by the very education for which my parents have slaved, like Naipaul’s parents slaved. I can see why Naipaul has been consistently famous for being bitter and twisted, and terrible at relationships. Patrick French’s excellent biography attempts to throw light on him, and as French says, how hard and how terrible it must be for Naipaul to have struggled desperately to move from the margin to the centre, and I imagine, how excruciating to find himself viewing the oppressed, his own people, through the eyes of the oppressor, to whose side he’s crossed? (Emanuel Litvinoff)
By V.S. Naipaul
I’ve always been uncomfortable with most of ‘Indian English’ fiction that stagger the shelves. Even if one or two of the writers actually live in India, and have not been living in England or the US since their Oxbridge-Harvard days, they are from the upper echelons of Indian society, the super-sophisticated, westernised, English-speaking cream, and their fiction is everything they are. http://www.pugmarks.com/week/writers.htm Half of them went to St Stephens (the Indian Eton) and on to oxbridge.
I did not imagine that Naipaul, of all people, Trinidadian, only Indian twice removed, would portray a world and people I know intimately. The vast Indian middle class, people with their eyes to the west but feet firmly entangled in a history and culture which they view with myopic eyes, and with little understanding. The people in Naipaul’s early novels (of the mid twentieth century) are the family I’ve grown up with.
Mid to upper caste, not necessarily Brahmin, lower-middle class to middle class people, who slave themselves to educate their sons. Tellingly characterised, is their pride in being old-fashioned juxtaposed with their pride in their children holding new-fangled views. Says Mrs Tulsi in pg 211 about her son disagreeing with her views: ‘…Owad is going to college, reading and learning all the time. And I am very old-fashioned.’ She spoke with pride in Owad and pride in her old-fasionedness.’
Shama, Mr B’s wife, holds her ‘bureau’ close to her heart, a piece of steel furniture with a secret locker that I’m intimately acquainted with, as it travelled many one bedroom tenements with my parents and me. The one steel bureau (Godrej most preferred) that comes with the dowry and lasts an entire lifetime, how did it survive the boat to Africa and then all the way to Trinidad?
The sullenness that characterises familial relationships, boy am I familiar with that. I come from a people that only smile at strangers, because they feel warm and friendly only with strangers, for whom they throw open their doors and hearts. With family, one is usually sullen. Like Mr B’s sister Dehuti, whose sullenness holds no meaning, and is an attitude fixed by habit, simplifying relationships (pg 326)
School. I remember how strange and exciting my English lessons used to be, how exotic the idea of playing pranks and sharing picnics. In our school, there simply was no time for play. Bullies did not exist because of the limited time we spent in the play fields unsupervised. I suffered school just like Mr B’s son Anand, who realises that ‘Pranks’ were only permitted in English Composition. (pg 403). Like Anand, we had to endure ritual before every exam (He was given many blotters, many pencils, a pencil sharpener, a ruler and two erasers, one for pencil, one for ink. Shama, braving his anger, sprinkled his shirt with lavender water when he wasn’t looking. She put a dry lime in his pocket to cut bad luck) pg 496.
While by no means can I call Naipaul's writing, Real Indian Writing, as, of course, India is one country characterised by its resistance to be characterised, whose identity is its many identities, whose voice is its plurality. Naipaul's diasporic Indians are the most real for me; these are the people, the masses, that masala-movies were originally made for; these are the conservative, ever-suspicious, comical Indians with hearty sullenness, who indulge in everyday melodrama to survive the hammering mundanity of their ration-shop-lives.
I belong now to a new caste (separate from the society from which it has been released, pg 604), created by the very education for which my parents have slaved, like Naipaul’s parents slaved. I can see why Naipaul has been consistently famous for being bitter and twisted, and terrible at relationships. Patrick French’s excellent biography attempts to throw light on him, and as French says, how hard and how terrible it must be for Naipaul to have struggled desperately to move from the margin to the centre, and I imagine, how excruciating to find himself viewing the oppressed, his own people, through the eyes of the oppressor, to whose side he’s crossed? (Emanuel Litvinoff)
Friday, May 30, 2008
Jazz Black
On me your voice unfolds
Like they say love should
-anon
Jazz black
A Thunderstorm in eyebrows
held tender as at twilight the weeping skies
The jangle and ka-boom of a canon stride
The hunger in your face
As you stare at me
As you stare at yourself
The mountain god made you
With a wisp of a shadow
Mixed with rain drenched earth
The soul of a kite
And shoulders of a pragmatist
Music in your veins
That pulse through to your heart
As this songbird
Perches on you
Shimmering wings that flew
For several summers
South into your arms
Like they say love should
-anon
Jazz black
A Thunderstorm in eyebrows
held tender as at twilight the weeping skies
The jangle and ka-boom of a canon stride
The hunger in your face
As you stare at me
As you stare at yourself
The mountain god made you
With a wisp of a shadow
Mixed with rain drenched earth
The soul of a kite
And shoulders of a pragmatist
Music in your veins
That pulse through to your heart
As this songbird
Perches on you
Shimmering wings that flew
For several summers
South into your arms
Afternoon After
A still grey afternoon of sombre truck
Desiccates the spirit within
That gossamer thing
Suppressed under layers of heaviness
Of successive siestas
Through yawns emptying delight
Freshness of the morning
Given way to optimism
Of clear eyes unclouded by dreams
Of long nights on itchy mattresses
By the side of moist warm bodies
Of stale lovers
Who in evening glow shimmered
Whose bodies undressed glowed velvet
So removed from the late night’s chancing
When to a whirling moth they seemed
Pretty butterflies to drunken eyes
In the dry drunk desperation
Of late early party mornings
When anything would have done
Had done them, being done for
Again and yet again
Desiccates the spirit within
That gossamer thing
Suppressed under layers of heaviness
Of successive siestas
Through yawns emptying delight
Freshness of the morning
Given way to optimism
Of clear eyes unclouded by dreams
Of long nights on itchy mattresses
By the side of moist warm bodies
Of stale lovers
Who in evening glow shimmered
Whose bodies undressed glowed velvet
So removed from the late night’s chancing
When to a whirling moth they seemed
Pretty butterflies to drunken eyes
In the dry drunk desperation
Of late early party mornings
When anything would have done
Had done them, being done for
Again and yet again
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Case For Singledom
Clean Sheets
Compact convenient one person meals
cooked to perfection
and appreciated fully
No pig like grunts in the middle of the night
no nasty yawns that sound and smell like death
no phone calls in the middle of a particularly interesting
bit of prime time telly
toilet seat devoid of dribbles
tables devoid of mug stains
the dishes done when they need to be done, not before, not after
no nasty surprise waiting
when you open the door to your abode
occupied, however temporarily, by your other
nothing precious precariously balanced
making your heart jump
Beautiful Silence
Compact convenient one person meals
cooked to perfection
and appreciated fully
No pig like grunts in the middle of the night
no nasty yawns that sound and smell like death
no phone calls in the middle of a particularly interesting
bit of prime time telly
toilet seat devoid of dribbles
tables devoid of mug stains
the dishes done when they need to be done, not before, not after
no nasty surprise waiting
when you open the door to your abode
occupied, however temporarily, by your other
nothing precious precariously balanced
making your heart jump
Beautiful Silence
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Batman
Winged terror obscuring the moon
Comes flying from beyond
The dark
Telling traces or trails he leaves not
Never to be found or seen
Only imagined
Like shy scent of brine blood spilling
From a hole in the head filling
Your nose
Of murkling molasses, milding mushrooms
A trudging aftertaste of peril
Slow sweet
A grip of bat claw piercing bone so
Dense, descends gliding
The span
Of his wings, petrifying black hearts
That leap as quick as he scales
Mere walls
Muscle and bone in a cave of head
Still as sarcophagus
Batman stands
Comes flying from beyond
The dark
Telling traces or trails he leaves not
Never to be found or seen
Only imagined
Like shy scent of brine blood spilling
From a hole in the head filling
Your nose
Of murkling molasses, milding mushrooms
A trudging aftertaste of peril
Slow sweet
A grip of bat claw piercing bone so
Dense, descends gliding
The span
Of his wings, petrifying black hearts
That leap as quick as he scales
Mere walls
Muscle and bone in a cave of head
Still as sarcophagus
Batman stands
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Points of Light
crushed
ccdim
pupils awash in cataract
blinking blindly
Points of Light
blurred by the window glass
Beckoning string of pearls
white now
ccThere yellow
phosphorescence of
a blue and green sea creature
ancient and wily
luring fresh meat to walk
tantalised towards it
mesmerise with its miasmic
interior of pitch tar
Pliant Penumbra
studded with glitter
like a starlet with potential
like the sky itself
lights
glow
low
ebb
by
ccdim
pupils awash in cataract
blinking blindly
Points of Light
blurred by the window glass
Beckoning string of pearls
white now
ccThere yellow
phosphorescence of
a blue and green sea creature
ancient and wily
luring fresh meat to walk
tantalised towards it
mesmerise with its miasmic
interior of pitch tar
Pliant Penumbra
studded with glitter
like a starlet with potential
like the sky itself
lights
glow
low
ebb
by
Monday, April 02, 2007
Getting Ready
Slick wetting streams
Off the slope of my back
Steam sprouts and floats
Like elusive dreams
Through the gap above
Luminous white curtain
Undrape the towel
And smooth over
Little globules of penetrating
Moisturiser
Little blobs of sweet smelling defeat
Nourish and feed the need
To flatten spurts of thorny
Animal
Cultivate a culture
Of shiny baby necessities
Give me your look
Give me your love
Give me your need
So I can feel
Necessary
I pull over clothes
Over my supple new nakedness
Tempered, perfumed
Acceptable
In civil society
Preferring waxing to
Shelves of stubble
On display counters
Inured to Pain
But open to criticism
Getting ready
To exfoliate
extract and expunge
Off the slope of my back
Steam sprouts and floats
Like elusive dreams
Through the gap above
Luminous white curtain
Undrape the towel
And smooth over
Little globules of penetrating
Moisturiser
Little blobs of sweet smelling defeat
Nourish and feed the need
To flatten spurts of thorny
Animal
Cultivate a culture
Of shiny baby necessities
Give me your look
Give me your love
Give me your need
So I can feel
Necessary
I pull over clothes
Over my supple new nakedness
Tempered, perfumed
Acceptable
In civil society
Preferring waxing to
Shelves of stubble
On display counters
Inured to Pain
But open to criticism
Getting ready
To exfoliate
extract and expunge
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Tinny
The wood of my desk vibrates
Before you sound
Your need to be picked up
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
I blow my breaths away from
Your sensitive maw
Your ears bring me disembodied
Voices brimming with need
For mindless chatter
I hate you
Though I look at you longingly
Sometimes, and touch you to
See if you would come alive
Startle me with a sudden
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
A trick, if I really think about it
Black and sinister
Like black pudding
Lurid invitation to partake into some
Unimagined sin
Though curiously commonplace
Can it be real
Or am I just hearing voices in my head
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
Bringing news I do not want to hear
Keeping me near persons
I do not want to be close to
A lifeline I do not need
To live
Consuming me like marriage
My ears bleed
As my tongue peels
off banalties like
banana skin
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
Before you sound
Your need to be picked up
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
I blow my breaths away from
Your sensitive maw
Your ears bring me disembodied
Voices brimming with need
For mindless chatter
I hate you
Though I look at you longingly
Sometimes, and touch you to
See if you would come alive
Startle me with a sudden
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
A trick, if I really think about it
Black and sinister
Like black pudding
Lurid invitation to partake into some
Unimagined sin
Though curiously commonplace
Can it be real
Or am I just hearing voices in my head
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
Bringing news I do not want to hear
Keeping me near persons
I do not want to be close to
A lifeline I do not need
To live
Consuming me like marriage
My ears bleed
As my tongue peels
off banalties like
banana skin
Tinny, a cry shattering the air
Monday, March 05, 2007
The Woman (first draft)
I saw a woman in an orange coat and a green hat
who loudly said, 'He was so damn cute'
I was walking and it was raining
the overwrought sky was in a sulk
miserable people huddled with their armpits
fingers in pockets
chin on the chest
And there was this woman
in an orange coat and a green hat
exclaiming loudly
not giving a damn about the weather
not caring that this
was a world of greys and steel blues
of whispers and smiles
and not exclamations!
She was talking to this man
as they were walking along
with their pointys up and out
brown jutting, an affront to the very air
oh how the people behave
these those from the land of orange suns
and indecent mangoes
and head turning flowers
and strange religious pastes
And so I was walking as I said
one step at a time
huddling into my armpits
skirting puddles with stolid shoes
with doubled up laces
and here was this woman
in her orange coat and green hat
throwing her damn into the air
cutting the sheet of rain with her cute
leaving behind her a reverberation
of a remembered warmth
that I left behind on my way
who loudly said, 'He was so damn cute'
I was walking and it was raining
the overwrought sky was in a sulk
miserable people huddled with their armpits
fingers in pockets
chin on the chest
And there was this woman
in an orange coat and a green hat
exclaiming loudly
not giving a damn about the weather
not caring that this
was a world of greys and steel blues
of whispers and smiles
and not exclamations!
She was talking to this man
as they were walking along
with their pointys up and out
brown jutting, an affront to the very air
oh how the people behave
these those from the land of orange suns
and indecent mangoes
and head turning flowers
and strange religious pastes
And so I was walking as I said
one step at a time
huddling into my armpits
skirting puddles with stolid shoes
with doubled up laces
and here was this woman
in her orange coat and green hat
throwing her damn into the air
cutting the sheet of rain with her cute
leaving behind her a reverberation
of a remembered warmth
that I left behind on my way
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