BlogAdda's Book Review Program: Musings of a Wanderer

I signed up for the BlogAdda book reviews program when I saw that this book was up for grabs -- "Musings of a Wanderer" by Shreya Chatterjee.

No, we're not related even though we do share a surname. And no, I didn't choose this book because we share that surname.

I chose it because it's a book of poetry. And I love poetry.

But truth be told, I did not love Shreya's poetry. Not all of it.

Shreya's poetry is mostly an outpouring of her feelings. Now I am all for offerings of these outpourings, because I believe that it is quite central to good poetry. However, having said that, much of Shreya’s work seems to be like a first draft; the feelings that must have gushed within and found an expression in words must have been hurriedly caught and put down on paper before disappearing altogether, for we know how ephemeral a thought can be. But once the thought has been captured, it must be prodded, teased, fretted over and had hair-torn-out-in-clumps until perfection is attained. I know how easy it is to get too close to one's own work and that chopping a word here or slicing a verse there feels like we are butchering a small part of ourselves, but this kind of attachment does not make for good writing. It makes us too sensitive and it makes us stupidly stubborn.

Yes, I identified with many of her thoughts and feelings, after all, poetry is universal and that's what binds us. Some of her insights into the world around us as well as into her own soul are poignant and thought-provoking. You understand what she is trying to say and where she is coming from and you can’t help but smile a little wistfully. What I loved most about this collection is the little foot-notes that she added to some of her poems, giving us a peek into the inspiration behind the poem. Poetry is, after all, very personal, so it's a privilege to be given an insight into what thought, word, picture or moment gave birth to the idea of a poem.

That Shreya has a giant love for poetry is obvious. Unfortunately, that is not enough. She needs to nurture it like a mother nurtures her child and she can't give into it's stubborn, wilful tantrums. She must deal with her poems with a firm but loving hand and do what's best for them. So if words and whole verses need to be dropped, scratched and rewritten, then so it must be, for only then will the end results make us cry with pride.

Shreya has a long way to go, but she has started upon the journey bravely and boldly. Some of the poems written by this Wanderer do show remarkable promise, there’s no denying that. Had she worked on her craft a bit more and had her work fallen into the hands of an editor who understands the craft of poetry, and, more importantly, cares about poetry, this collection would have been far more impressive.

This review is a part of the "http://blog.blogadda.com/2011/05/04/indian-bloggers-book-reviews". Book Reviews Program at "http://www.blogadda.com" Participate now to get free books!

Frogs and Snails

He stood there in front of me. My seven-year-old son in a pair of worn-out, once-upon-a-time white Crocs, three-quarter pants, an oldish yet very comfy-looking t-shirt, a huge smile on his face revealing an over-sized front tooth next to a gap where it's partner should've been, and a huge bandage above his left eye, shielding his three stitches from the dirt, dust and grime of the world. In his hands, was my iPod; in his ears, were the head-phones.

He was giving me that huge, disarming smile of his because he'd just noticed me standing and watching him jump about while loudly and discordantly singing Jon Bon Jovi's "Shot Through the Heart."

He was the very picture of a boy.

Frogs and snails, indeed.

It's,

frogs and snails

and bruises and stitches.

It's

puppy dog tails

and insects and itches.

It's

dirty hands

and skinned knees.

It's

messed-up paintings

and the summer breeze.

It's

those pretend-to-be-brave voices

in the middle of the night.

It's

those cuddles and snuggles

as you're calming away a fright.

It's

those lullabys they ask for,

those cookies they beg for;

those stories they wait for,

those goodies they crave for.

It's

those gap-toothed smiles

and those sparkly, bright eyes --
equivalent to
the cherry on top of the cake.

It's

when those faces crumble
and those tears flow like rivers,
that you can physically
feel your poor heart break.

It's

lots of lovin' and huggin'

and sticky kisses galore.

It's

these things that make their mamma's hearts

greedy for more.

Poetry; Out of the Mouths of my Babes

So the EO is sitting next to me patiently as I am arm -deep in a pile of Transformers (the spoils of the birthday), trying to assemble them and keep my cool at the same time. The procedure is delicate, complex and nerve-wracking, which explains why I feel like a neuro-surgeon operating on the spinal cord of a neonate.

My EO, overwhelmed, suddenly exclaims, "Mamma, I love you like December!"

My jaws dropped and I was stupefied! My son was waxing eloquent! My son was being poetic! Yes, I was truly stupefied. ANd stupid.

Instead of enjoying the sheer spontaneity and beauty of the line, I asked him to explain what he meant. So he sweetly and innocently tried to make his dense, poetry-less Mamma understand.

EO: What is the first month of the year?
Stupid Woman, a.k.a. M4: January.
EO: And the last?
M4: December.
EO: So I love you like that. Like from January to December.

I actually though he meant, December because of the holidays, the Christmas parties, the snuggles, Santa Claus and every fun thing that the month stands for.

I loved his explanation just fine. :D
***************************************************************
And then there's my little YO.

It's Wednesday evening. Big brother has gone to karate class, so the YO has his Mamma all to himself. They're playing and laughing and tickling when suddenly the YO stops and looks deep into his Mamma's eyes. Something 's caught his attention and he's fascinated.

The following is their conversation, and if this is not poetry, then what is?

YO: Mamma, tomaar eye-jhey 'YO' baby. (Mamma, you've got 'YO' baby in your eyes).
M4, smiling to herself: Heinh, baby. (Yes, my baby).
YO, coming closer to get a better look: Oi to, 'YO' baby. (There he is, 'YO' baby).
M4: Heinh, my baby.
YO: Tumi dekho. (You look).
M4: Aami dekhtey paarchhi to. (But I can see you).
YO: Naa, tumi dekho. (No, you look).
M4, goes all cross-eyed: Ei je, dekhchhi aamaar 'YO' baby ke. (There, I can see my 'YO' baby).
YO, satisfied: Tumi dekhchho? (screws up his face into an adorable epression) Eibaar aami dekhchhi, aamaar eye-jhey Mamma achhey. (You can see? Now I am looking at the Mamma in my eyes).

So many expressions ran through my head at the end of this conversation -- the eyes are the window to one's soul... the apple of one's eye... the eyes have it...

All I know is that this apple of my eye is an intrinsic part of my soul, and at this perfect moment in time, in his own, perfect, child-like way, he expressed the same sentiment about me.

Hymns for the Lonely

Hymn XVIII

A slight touch of sadness
walks across my soul
and I shiver
with feelings unfelt
in a very long time.

My sighs stretch out
to cover me whole
and I walk
through breaths
of wasted words.

Weighed down
by moments
of a life
half-lived,
my soul clings
to my bones
like rotting leaves
to earthworms.

And that's what I do.
I wallow in dust
and dirt
and mud.

And I rot.

Hymns for the Lonely

Hymn XXIII

When loneliness
seeks out,
reaches for,
meets
and touches
loneliness,

sometimes,
just
sometimes,

the truest friendships
are formed.

Haiku

The grey quickly spread
Covering the waiting world.
How bright the green looks!

Haiku

Pregnant with expectation,
The world holds its breath,
Awaiting cloud-burst and rain.

Where The Heart Is

A cottage in the hills
is what I want,
where my sons
can breathe
and live free.
Red cheeks
a-glow with life
and laughter
mirroring the apple orchards
in bloom.
We can follow
trails through the jungles
and see where brooks
lead us,
maybe discovering
a waterfall,
a picnic spot
or two.

Or build me a
shanty on the beach;
water-baby that I am.
Let me see my sons swim
like slippery little seals
and full of the joy
of dolphins
as they splash about in water,
brown,
roasted
and healthy.
After a while
I shall forget
about the loss of my fair skin
and just learn to
live life tanned,
sun-kissed
and in sarongs.

Or a flat
in the city
with bright lights
and noise.
We'll deal with the traffic
and smoke.
But there are
galleries to explore,
movies to see
and so much food
to try.
Our boys
will learn to live,
laugh
and succeed.

Build me a house
where ever you please,
but make it a home
with me.

Crowded Room

Sitting in a room
surrounded by emotions and face,
I sit with lost souls
searching for faraway places.

Secret lovings
and longings
locked up inside,
nowhere to go,
just somewhere to hide.

Hearts rolling
and rocking
in gentle despair,
within loving unloveds –
it all seems so unfair.

A mirror before me
do I suddenly see
and I look myself totally
full in the face.
I acknowledge the fact
that I’m a lost soul –
lost for a forever,
in this time and space.

My Mother's Daughter

Wanted to post this yesterday, it being Women's Day and all, but with the EO still battling his fever and the YO gearing up to succumb to it, I never got a chance. Anyway, better late than never, I hope...

******************************************************
My Mother’s Daughter

I am Eve’s daughter.
Yes,
I am she.
Still punished,
castigated
raked over the coals.
For what?
A bite?
Lust?
Running around naked?

For being human?
For
being
woman?

The joke’s on you.
I revel in my body;
it’s curves,
dips
and valleys.
I feel,
I think,
I lust,
I live.
I have a brain!
No puppet am I!
I love making love,
having sex,
making babies
having them too…
The act of creation
is mine!

I am Eve’s daughter.

I am Draupadi’s girl-child.
Her blood
is on your hands.
Her shame,
smeared in your psyche.

She whored for five men,
the God of Fire
her witness.

Not enough.
Humiliated,
stripped
shamed
and exhibited
in front of the lusting world’s eyes.

And for what?
For being beautiful?
desirable?
For bedding five men?

For being a queen.
For
being
woman.
And,
because
you
could.

Yet,
it was not enough.

Today,
You murder me in my mother’s womb;
drown me in tubs of milk when I’m born.

I dwindle in number.

Who will wed you now?
Who will you rape
in your marital bed?
Don’t expect me to whore
for you again.

I have a voice.
I will laugh,
scream
and curse.

I am not my mother.

I am Eve’s daughter,
Draupadi’s girl-child
am I.

Wistfully Yours...

I wrapped myself
in the night sky
and came to you;
the stars hanging from my ears,
moonlight in my eyes.

You fed the bonfire
with past hurts,
bitter words
and wasted moments.
In it’s glow
we found the music
that we feared
had been lost to us forever.

Morning drenched us
like an ice-cold bath.

Looking wistfully
at the embers,
we carry on…

The Rock of All Things

I hang your name
about my neck
and it dangles
between my breasts.
Sometimes a pendant;
beautiful
light,
inobtrusive
yet reassuring me that
it's there.
Sometimes a boulder;
burdening me
with the very idea of
your existence.

Rock,
boulder,
diamond
or coloured glass,
it changes face
with the varying moods
of my love
and indifference
and reminds me
of your place
in my Book.

Fat Poem

Hey diddle, diddle,
The fat and the frizzle...
My thighs shake all on their own.

My tummy's all lard,
Of the jelly-type, that too...
And my hips are way past over-grown.

'Me' Time, 'Me' Rhyme

I'm no good
at twisted conversations
and smiles that
can't be read.

I hate pretending
I don't eat;
I look and
am well-fed.

I love to write
and cook and smoke,
and read books
lazing in my bed.

Not the brightest
bulb in the box,
but no dumb airhead
am I.

I think,
I have opinions;
I follow the news;
I wonder 'Why?'.

Eccentric,
eclectic,
electric...

Yes,
all of that,
that's me.

Faithful,
sensitive,
passionate...

You get
whatever it is
you see.

My Boys

You listen to stories
with such rapt attention;
you build the movies in your head
and I know you take the lead,
you become the prince on a heroic adventure,
I can see it all happening in your eyes.
My little boy,
growing up
and how!
But to me,
you’re still a child,
a baby.

And you,
my small one,
my little, teddy bear.
You hide behind the curtains,
you climb up on my back;
you munch on chocolates and cookies
and go chasing after bouncy balls
in screaming delight.
My little one,
a baby yet.

After the day is done
and the night has come,
you nuzzle your heads
into my neck
and they fit so well
because they belongs there.
I sing you a lullaby,
or two,
or three,
at times you sing along too,
and before long
it’s your gentle breathing
that I am listening to.

Earth child,
wind child,
my sunshine,
my sunbeam,
my sons,
my little boys.

One with moon dust in his eyes,
The other with star shine.
One with a heart
that’s a river wide,
The other with a laugh
that’s a liberty bell.
My Gallant Knight,
my gentle soul,
my elder one.
My Pixie Prince,
my trickster heart,
my younger one.

I want to be the mom
who lets you spread your wings and fly.

I can be that mom
Who lets you fly planes across the oceans
Or go backpacking round the world.
I can be the mom
Who lets you bang on drums for a living
Or put on ghungroos to dance.

I can be that mom
Who let’s you struggle
To see your celluloid dreams come true,
Or whips up omelets in a restaurant
Or designs dresses out of peacock colours
and gossamer silk.

Yes.
I can be her,
I can be that mom.

But can I be the mom
Who kisses you off to war?
Standing straight
and proud,
tearless,
fearless?
Can I be that mom
who sits with photographs in the dark;
a prayer on her lips,
a hope in her heart,
fearful,
tearful?
Safety on her mind,
Life a hope,
a wish.

Can I be that mom
Who pretends everything is fine?
Watching the news all the time,
waiting for phone calls,
e-mails,
letters
or even a post-card or two?
I’ll be proud
no matter what you do,
I’ll be proud
no matter what you choose.

You’re my little boys,
I’ll give you all my best
in the Gods I trust,
and to Them I’ll leave the rest.

Splash

I try to distance myself
as your fingers
make music
on my skin.
Instead,
I squiggle
and squeal
to the chaos
of its’ tune.

I try to dive
through your eyes
and come out unwet.
Instead,
I drench myself
in your smile
and splash about.

I try to imagine
my days
and nights
minus you.
Instead,
you travel through me
like a lingering dream.

Please
let me sleep.
And if I’m awake,
then don’t ever tell me.

The Distant Music That Plays

It's that
lone
wisp of music
that keeps my ears
strained.
Sometimes,
the wind brings
it to me;
sometimes
my sons' smiles.

It's the kind of music
that keeps your heart
restless,
never getting enough.
Like a first-time lover.

It's the kind of music
that keeps your spirit
vigilant,
waiting to soak up it's beauty.
Like an Impressionist painting.

It's the kind of music
that keeps your soul
wandering,
searching for the perfect rhythm,
rhyme
and partner.
Like a lost sheep.

It's that kind of music
that keeps you
awake,
desperate to catch,
hold
and claim for your own.
Like the Siren singing at sea.
Like a childhood memory.
Like a first kiss,
a good kiss.

It's that
lone
strain of music
that haunts me,
calls me,
taunts me.

I sleepwalk my life away
as the Piper plays
and I follow.

Maybe I'll wake up
someday,
when I hear the full song.

But for now,
it's that
lone
strain of music
that sings to me
like a desert warbler,
pining for her love
in the scorching heat;

like a nun
at prayer,
yearning to see God;

like me
in waiting,
waiting to blossom to life,
to love.

I Don't Understand

How?

How come
it's so easy for you to
ask for my heart
only to kick me in my empty chest
without looking up even once
at a face streaming with tears,
it can flood your very existence...
at a pain so visible,
it can sear right through you...
at a love so open,
so all-encompassing,
one can't help but melt in return.

Don't bother looking now.

My eyes are vacant.
And there are maggots
where the heart
used to be.

Lightning Love

It’s a stormy night,
my friend.
Let’s take a walk
through the black
and lose ourselves within it.

Look at the stars,
scattered through the sky
like flowers from a broken garland.

Look at the clouds,
drifting about aimlessly,
like lost ships at sea.

A distant rumble
comes rolling
from the insides of the sky’s belly.
The clouds are going to explode!

Oh, let’s stay awhile longer,
my friend.
I can feel the moon throbbing
and the night air trembling.

Let’s stay,
my friend.
Let’s stay
and get hit by the thunder
and drenched by the lightning.
We’ll let the rain fall
as it likes.

You’re smiling,
my friend.
Just as I knew you would.

Tonight,
I can love you,
my friend,
for you laugh
the laughs of old.

Tonight,
I can love you,
my friend,
for I now know
that you have not forgotten.

Tonight,
I will love you,
my friend,
because you make me want to.

Tomorrow,
me
in my heels,
you
in your tie,
we can be indifferent again.

Moments of Eternity

Here is a present for you
my child.
It is a gift
passed on to us
by Time
itself.
I give to you the joy
of a fresh new morning with
soft sunlight
and dew moist blades of grass.
I give to you the pleasure
of a starless sky
mosaiced with willful clouds
and a full moon
playing hide and seek with each other
in errant abandon.
I give to you the freshness
of a soft, gentle breeze,
redolent with the perfume of the jasmine flower.

Walk upon this Earth,
little child,
and learn to
touch,
feel,
sense
and experience –
each of life’s myriad emotions.
A single smile
can capture a
fleeting moment of happiness.
A single drop of tear
can crystallize
an eternal feeling of sorrow.

I am not immortal
and neither are you,
but know,
that in the beauty of Nature
and the strength of feelings—
there is such a thing as Eternity.
It came with the gift of Life,
which I bequeath unto you.