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The trouble with Dom has been his poetry over the years, despite
the intervening days, months and years of fine, delightful prose
that read as well. "It came, it went, it heard his step, it
hid." For some years, he "couldn't find it." Lost
as it was somewhere between the freshness of John Nobody and
the seasoning of Serendip. Not 'options', however, stolen
for he had to 'atone for it' - the shutting of the door to
"the clear and darker seasons of (your) mind." The
imagery is stronger, more taut, intense and precise though the
same cannot necessarily be said about the lines that try to
contain them. His recent work seems to celebrate all that was
found missing in his earlier poetry: "personal choices,
moral relationships and the active self in society."
Not all poems
necessarily work, or even seemingly sound or appear complete.
'Once' is one example. The same can be said about Derelictions,
Body, Invocation and a couple of others. But then every dull
aberration is followed by a brilliant reaction or observation in
a perfectly crafted poem, like, for instance, The black rind
of a brassiere,/ hung from a chair, destroyed my history.
Emphasis conveys it all because "rich orchards of flesh lay
wasted", as "if strangers ever settle in your arms,/
they will always come disguised as me." Therein lies the
drift, the change in Dom Moraes. And since it is a compilation
of his best, one does not have to seek too far. A Beginning
might have been the start, Typed with one Finger is
certainly not the end even though he writes in this title poem:
Every word that I
wrote was true
this way or that,
meant to praise
whatever was worth
it on earth.
Indeed, if one
were to examine Moraes' poetic journey, it can be said without
any doubt or reservation that while the later poems demonstrate
"a clarity (he) once did not possess" in terms of
personal feelings or emotional outbursts, the early work is
characterised by the distant or the impersonal. But then this
change is not without a latent problem, being carried away by a
feeling, thought or emotion. At times, it is even just the image
that dictates the course. Lines often sound like banal
statements, residual to the poet but meaningless to the reader.
The personal refusing to become universal, intended or
otherwise. "Infestations of darkness destroy my words/and
if the conclusion of darkness is dawn/I should know it, having
watched the suns/rise slowly, set quickly, in many places."
While there are many that leave a lasting impression, like some
of his middle period poems, it is certainly Brevities that
takes the cake. Divided into six subsections, it can also be
called a tribute to women in general, or a more personal love in
particular. The same could also be said, in a different context,
about Reconciliations. However, sample the following Goddess
from Brevities:
She shapes her
sari with herself, flows
within it, past
admirers at windows.
I confess I feel
envy for her clothes.
Suppose from
temple stone a goddess had
Stepped into flesh
to drive admirers mad,
That would be she.
Goddesses went unclad.
This is unusual.
Moraes has never been found indulging in such a blatant sensual
expression, notwithstanding images and metaphors that evoke
sensuality.
She also,
sometimes. But no vedic forests
ever beheld such
amply ripened breasts.
Close to my body
her smooth body lies.
When her nightmare
comes, at first she murmurs,
And then no
goddess but a lost child cries,
Fiercely clutching
my hands, that I am hers.
If things go out
of sync it is natural. He certainly appears clumsy handling a
naked expression. That's perhaps why awkwardness creeps into the
concluding lines. Or the feeling of something missing, a word or
an image, perhaps. But then you cannot quarrel with Dom Moraes
for that.
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When I am not there in the maze
