Sunday, March 2, 2003		Books

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Bad times for writers of verse
Suresh Kohli

IT is heartening to learn that a number of senior poets in English who hold the potential to sell well are backing a new publishing venture from Cochin, Yeti Books. Many like Dom Moraes, C. P. Surendran and Keki Daruwalla, not in sheer disgust alone I presume, have withdrawn manuscripts of their new collections from established mainstream publishers like Penguin and Rupa. Surendran’s Canaries on the Moon has already appeared under the Yeti imprint. And while Dom’s new collection, after waiting endlessly in the Penguin India’s neglected trays, is next on the Yeti list, Keki has found a willing supporter in the otherwise reluctant Ravi Dayal. The Map-Maker, modesty priced at Rs 95 in hardbound contains 30 new poems. That, however, does not mean Indian English poetry is flourishing. Much indifferently brought out sponsored junk continues to find favours with assorted publishers. And therein lies the malady.

When these apologies of even bad verse manage space on the overcrowded shelves of bookshops, invariably pushing the good stuff backwards, it is sure trouble for poets and poetry. The situation can also be pathetic, especially in India. Unlike writers and novelists, unless you are one of the self-proclaimed infallibles like V. S. Naipaul, Salman Rushdie and Vikram Seth (Khushwant tells me that Seth hates the sight of his publisher son-in-law Ravi Dayal because the latter wrote somewhat unfavourably about one of the books), poets tend to appear psychosomatic when confronted with unsavoury reaction to their works. Surendran wrote a most unpoetic letter to the editor of The Hindu (which the paper even refused to acknowledge), using Times of India stationery (another unparliamentary act) when he found some of my comments unpalatable. Another young woman continues to cast angry sideway glances whenever in close proximity because she thought one had over-reacted to her use of the thigh-and-breast imagery.

The result: One almost stopped reviewing Indian English poetry that one had otherwise rightfully sought to promote. It is most unfortunate that, especially in the absence of specialised literary journals, newspaper book editors in India generally consign poetry collections to the waste paper basket. Unless, of course, the poet himself has managed to persuade or influence a book reviews editor. And this is mainly because of this somewhat selfish attitude of poets themselves, many of who work for leading newspapers in the country. Newspaper reviews at best serve as notices or free advertisements for selected books published, more so, for poetry collections. So poets need to be patronised. Any means deployed to promote individual or collective works should be encouraged. Poets themselves should be more tolerant of criticism, rather than taking comments as an affront to their creative endeavours. "And through his fingers the poem/slipped./The wind took it without a pause,/Hummed in his ears/Blew it to the stars."

Surendran’s tone continues to be disturbing and pessimistic despite a more mature outlook (the editor may have another angry letter coming his way). There is nothing wrong in the way a poet looks at his environment because all reflections are essentially individual perceptions. Dom appropriately describes Surendran’s verse as "fierce, bitter, and imbued with the sense that the world is a hostile place." His images are stark and at times vividly shocking. His humour dark and unrelenting. His outlook full of sarcasm, and inherent irony is the hallmark of poetic breath. "He sat down/On the glowing grass, and lifted his hands/To his eyes, as if raising a heavy book,/And covered his face. In the infinite dark,/He realised/The poem made no difference/To the universe of light."

Ravi Dayal has also brought out a slim collection of debutant Smita Agarwal’s poems, Wish-Granting Words. Unknown to most, I guess, almost all her few poems have found place in important literary journals at home and abroad. So much so that she is a constant feature in all the shortlisted entries in the Poetry Society annual collections. And then, of course, there has been novelist Anita Nair’s refreshing attempt at giving vent to her more poetic feelings in Malabar Mind by Yeti Books again. Poems that indeed, deliberately perhaps, attempt to provide a taste of the Kerala spice. Nair’s imagery seems to have been, generally, culled out of the mundane day-to-day existence. Nothing earth shattering as far as imagery and metaphor are concerned. No brashness of tone, or anger gone berserk.

It is the simplicity in her expression that makes these verse attempts readable. There is neither pretence, nor a conscious attempt at making the thought intricate. "I like my body to be loved/touched, stroked and desired./I am a woman who lives to fulfil/her nerve-end longings./I paint these days/splashes of colour:/a lone fish/three women in brown." The lines remind one of the early Kamala Das. Straight, direct statement-like, no-holds-barred expressions that seem to celebrate rather than bemoan the fact of being a woman. Therefore, more appealing in the simplicity of content and directness of approach: "This morning/I sought you/Not knowing what it was/I sought."