पतंग
घरकी खिड़की के पास खड़ा हूँ!
देख रहा हूँ
सामनेवाले 'बाल उद्यान' के बीचोबीच
खड़े नीम के पेडकी
डाल से फसी हुई
एक पीली पतंग!
खुले आसमान मे
फिरसे उड़ान के लिए
उसकी ज़िद, वो खीचतान
और हर कोशिश के साथ
डाल की पकड़ का और मजबूत
होते जाना!
पतंग की फड़फड़ाहट
और उसका फटकार
वहीं के वहीं बिखर जानेकी बेबसी!
मैं खिड़की बंद कर देता हूँ
लकिन पतंग की वो फड़फड़ाहट
मेरे कानो मे गूँजती रही!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
પત્નીને
કશી ખરીદીએ મોકલી
કે પછી
ટેલિવિઝન પાસેથી
ઉછીનો સમય મેળવીને
હું કવિતા લખવા
બેઠો હોઉં છું
ત્યારે
એક સદ્ ગત કવિમિત્ર
મારી પાસે આવીને
બેસી જાય છે.
કવિતા પૂરી થાય
કે તરત જ
તે મને પ્રશ્ન કરે છે
‘કવિતા છપાય ત્યારે
તને પુરસ્કારની રકમ મળશે ખરી ?’
હું તેની સામે જોતો રહું છું
તો તે કહે છે :
‘મારાં કાવ્યોના પુરસ્કારની રકમ
મને મળી હોત તો
હું હજી જીવતો હોત.’
- ભરત ત્રિવેદી
કશી ખરીદીએ મોકલી
કે પછી
ટેલિવિઝન પાસેથી
ઉછીનો સમય મેળવીને
હું કવિતા લખવા
બેઠો હોઉં છું
ત્યારે
એક સદ્ ગત કવિમિત્ર
મારી પાસે આવીને
બેસી જાય છે.
કવિતા પૂરી થાય
કે તરત જ
તે મને પ્રશ્ન કરે છે
‘કવિતા છપાય ત્યારે
તને પુરસ્કારની રકમ મળશે ખરી ?’
હું તેની સામે જોતો રહું છું
તો તે કહે છે :
‘મારાં કાવ્યોના પુરસ્કારની રકમ
મને મળી હોત તો
હું હજી જીવતો હોત.’
- ભરત ત્રિવેદી
Friday, August 21, 2009
Poem
In my drawing room
I found a little yellow lizard
cocking its head, looking at me,
flicking its tongue like a flame.
I got up quietly from the sofa,
reached at it quickly with a broomstick.
She disappeared
like she never was-
left her tiny tail
tossing and turning-
on the white marble floor.
I found a little yellow lizard
cocking its head, looking at me,
flicking its tongue like a flame.
I got up quietly from the sofa,
reached at it quickly with a broomstick.
She disappeared
like she never was-
left her tiny tail
tossing and turning-
on the white marble floor.
The Open Window
The Open Window
When I play the piano
my neighbor slams her window.
When she comes out
to water her plants
I let my dog bark to its heart's content.
She stares at my dog
and whispers something that
makes my dog bark even louder.
Last night
I saw an ambulance,
the paramedics taking her from the house.
This morning
I sat by the piano a long time-
looking
at the open window.
When I play the piano
my neighbor slams her window.
When she comes out
to water her plants
I let my dog bark to its heart's content.
She stares at my dog
and whispers something that
makes my dog bark even louder.
Last night
I saw an ambulance,
the paramedics taking her from the house.
This morning
I sat by the piano a long time-
looking
at the open window.
Monday, October 16, 2006
Dear Diary
I wrote a poem this morning
and posted it hurriedly
on three poetry boards
including one on my own blog: Hamburger Mill
My friend Mark Mussolini
would be first to comment as usual:
A lovely poem, dude!
My other friend Ron
who is a bartender at Yesterday's
would be next to respond:
This has to be one of your finest, brooks!
My aunt Lucy is always eloquent
She would say something like:
Lovely poem, but I don't know what it means.
My ardent critic Peter Piper
will come up with a statement:
A typical Bharat Trivedi poem
that lacks imagination, social consciousness,
and it's totally devoid of any creativity whatsoever!
Before the day is done
I will thank each one individually
saying the same thing:
It's so nice of you to read my poem and comment.
Late night
I will hold my lucky pen and
write down the poem in my diary
very meticulously.
and posted it hurriedly
on three poetry boards
including one on my own blog: Hamburger Mill
My friend Mark Mussolini
would be first to comment as usual:
A lovely poem, dude!
My other friend Ron
who is a bartender at Yesterday's
would be next to respond:
This has to be one of your finest, brooks!
My aunt Lucy is always eloquent
She would say something like:
Lovely poem, but I don't know what it means.
My ardent critic Peter Piper
will come up with a statement:
A typical Bharat Trivedi poem
that lacks imagination, social consciousness,
and it's totally devoid of any creativity whatsoever!
Before the day is done
I will thank each one individually
saying the same thing:
It's so nice of you to read my poem and comment.
Late night
I will hold my lucky pen and
write down the poem in my diary
very meticulously.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
The Art of Critiquing
O my fucking god!
This silky cow is so beautifully
Black!
This poem is one of the finest poems that I have read in years. The most striking thing about this gem is its brevity. I read somewhere that long poems are almost always written by the laziest of poets. They start a poem but are too lazy to stop. But this poet is not lazy by any means. He knows how much is too much.
They say that a true poetry starts with a surprise. A poet is an eternal wonderer. In this poem it seems the poet is wonder stuck by the seer beauty of the beast and who is always there to share your joys and sorrows other than the almighty, omnipresent lord? A poet has no religion other than his own craft. Here he doesn’t say O my Allah, or O my Rama, or O my Jesus, or O my Buddha but very rightfully says: O my god. Did you notice that the “g” of the god is not capitalized? Why so? A poet is a creator himself. Kinda equal to god in many respects and this poet is aware of that perhaps that’s the reason he has used simply stayed away from the tradition of using the capital G in this instance. I particularly liked the use of the word fricking instead of fucking not for any political correctness of the use but because of the sound effect of the line- O my fricking god sounds a lot better than O my fucking god. According to lynze the sound effect- in a layman’s term onomatopoeia, is perhaps the most important thing in a poem. Brooks and some others put more weight on the presence of the poet in the sense that the experience should be heartfelt and not just a reportage of an even from a bystander’s view point. Interestingly the presence of the poet in this piece is so noticeable that you can hardly miss it.
“This cow is so beautifully…” I couldn’t help noticing the choice of the word “This”. This means 'this' and not 'that'. He says this meaning that he is very close to the cow physically as well. People thing that cows are stinky but I would say that may be so but that’s only from the sensory point only. Have you ever thought of the inner beauty of a cow? Cows are symbols of beauty and strength come to think about it. The word silky is open for many interpretations. Silky like a cat or silky like a rug or silky like a night? Could it be that the poet is proponent of beastiaty? Or simply animal lover like those PETA people? The debate can go one for hours or even days.
I can imagine that the poet was from the hassle and bustle of the urban life. "Pastoral poems have played a major role in our western literature. Let’s look at the historical perspective. Pastoral - A highly conventional mode of writing which celebrates the innocent life of shepherds and shepherdesses in poetry, plays and prose romances. Pastoral literature describes the loves and sorrows of musical shepherds - usually in an idealized Golden Age of rustic innocence and idleness. English pastorals were written in several forms including the eclogues of Edmund Spenser's The Shepherd's Calendar (1579) and Shakespeare's As You like It (c. 1599) to Lyrics such as Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd to his Love (1600). A significant form within the tradition is the pastoral elegy Pastoral poetry was eventually succeeded by more realistic poetry of country life written by John Clare, George Crabbe and William Wordsworth".
The absence of a title is quiet remarkable here. It shows the poet's confidence in his work. Why under estimate the sensibility of our reader? A title is a window to a poem. Whoever said that must be a carpenter and not a critic. Why we need a window anyway? To sneak in a poem like a thief? A window by the definition is supposed to be very small but what we fine is that the windows i.e. the title are sometimes longer that the poem itself!! A fancy title is often a sign of a weaker, insecure poet. e.e cummings should be our role model.
When you critically examine a literary piece you can’t effort to ignore the diction. The poet says this cow is so beautifully black! Mark the word “beautifully” immediately followed by the word “black”. What’s most striking is the fact that the poem ends on a single word- Black! For thousands of years the colored people of the African nations were ignored by the civilized people. Here the word “black” is isolated for that reason. Poet’s social consciousness is very remarkable I might add.
I find the haiku shape of this poem very suggestive. The Hindus recognize the trinity – Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh in the same way we Christians believe in the father, the son, and the holly spirit. But in the literary sense it also signifies to the satyam, shivam, and Sundaram. That what is true is pure and what is pure is beautiful. The black cow embodiments all these three elements. This spiritual facet of the poem can hardly be ignored by any serious student of poetry.
If someone notices a Sonnet in this poem he is right. The poet has very meticulously built the suspense for the final word- Black. All colors ultimately take refuge in color black. Black is beautiful and so is the black silky cow.
This silky cow is so beautifully
Black!
This poem is one of the finest poems that I have read in years. The most striking thing about this gem is its brevity. I read somewhere that long poems are almost always written by the laziest of poets. They start a poem but are too lazy to stop. But this poet is not lazy by any means. He knows how much is too much.
They say that a true poetry starts with a surprise. A poet is an eternal wonderer. In this poem it seems the poet is wonder stuck by the seer beauty of the beast and who is always there to share your joys and sorrows other than the almighty, omnipresent lord? A poet has no religion other than his own craft. Here he doesn’t say O my Allah, or O my Rama, or O my Jesus, or O my Buddha but very rightfully says: O my god. Did you notice that the “g” of the god is not capitalized? Why so? A poet is a creator himself. Kinda equal to god in many respects and this poet is aware of that perhaps that’s the reason he has used simply stayed away from the tradition of using the capital G in this instance. I particularly liked the use of the word fricking instead of fucking not for any political correctness of the use but because of the sound effect of the line- O my fricking god sounds a lot better than O my fucking god. According to lynze the sound effect- in a layman’s term onomatopoeia, is perhaps the most important thing in a poem. Brooks and some others put more weight on the presence of the poet in the sense that the experience should be heartfelt and not just a reportage of an even from a bystander’s view point. Interestingly the presence of the poet in this piece is so noticeable that you can hardly miss it.
“This cow is so beautifully…” I couldn’t help noticing the choice of the word “This”. This means 'this' and not 'that'. He says this meaning that he is very close to the cow physically as well. People thing that cows are stinky but I would say that may be so but that’s only from the sensory point only. Have you ever thought of the inner beauty of a cow? Cows are symbols of beauty and strength come to think about it. The word silky is open for many interpretations. Silky like a cat or silky like a rug or silky like a night? Could it be that the poet is proponent of beastiaty? Or simply animal lover like those PETA people? The debate can go one for hours or even days.
I can imagine that the poet was from the hassle and bustle of the urban life. "Pastoral poems have played a major role in our western literature. Let’s look at the historical perspective. Pastoral - A highly conventional mode of writing which celebrates the innocent life of shepherds and shepherdesses in poetry, plays and prose romances. Pastoral literature describes the loves and sorrows of musical shepherds - usually in an idealized Golden Age of rustic innocence and idleness. English pastorals were written in several forms including the eclogues of Edmund Spenser's The Shepherd's Calendar (1579) and Shakespeare's As You like It (c. 1599) to Lyrics such as Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd to his Love (1600). A significant form within the tradition is the pastoral elegy Pastoral poetry was eventually succeeded by more realistic poetry of country life written by John Clare, George Crabbe and William Wordsworth".
The absence of a title is quiet remarkable here. It shows the poet's confidence in his work. Why under estimate the sensibility of our reader? A title is a window to a poem. Whoever said that must be a carpenter and not a critic. Why we need a window anyway? To sneak in a poem like a thief? A window by the definition is supposed to be very small but what we fine is that the windows i.e. the title are sometimes longer that the poem itself!! A fancy title is often a sign of a weaker, insecure poet. e.e cummings should be our role model.
When you critically examine a literary piece you can’t effort to ignore the diction. The poet says this cow is so beautifully black! Mark the word “beautifully” immediately followed by the word “black”. What’s most striking is the fact that the poem ends on a single word- Black! For thousands of years the colored people of the African nations were ignored by the civilized people. Here the word “black” is isolated for that reason. Poet’s social consciousness is very remarkable I might add.
I find the haiku shape of this poem very suggestive. The Hindus recognize the trinity – Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh in the same way we Christians believe in the father, the son, and the holly spirit. But in the literary sense it also signifies to the satyam, shivam, and Sundaram. That what is true is pure and what is pure is beautiful. The black cow embodiments all these three elements. This spiritual facet of the poem can hardly be ignored by any serious student of poetry.
If someone notices a Sonnet in this poem he is right. The poet has very meticulously built the suspense for the final word- Black. All colors ultimately take refuge in color black. Black is beautiful and so is the black silky cow.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I sit by the window
My neighbor has been raking leaves
since early morning.
The mailman arrived
but he was awfully late today.
I gather my mail.
The man is still raking leaves.
The school bus drops off
a bunch of noisy kids as usual.
The man is still raking leaves.
I stand by the window- watching
the sun slants down, when a heavy wind blows.
I look out the window.
He isn’t raking leaves-
he is staring at me.
since early morning.
The mailman arrived
but he was awfully late today.
I gather my mail.
The man is still raking leaves.
The school bus drops off
a bunch of noisy kids as usual.
The man is still raking leaves.
I stand by the window- watching
the sun slants down, when a heavy wind blows.
I look out the window.
He isn’t raking leaves-
he is staring at me.
The River
Playing all by herself,
she sang.
One early morning
I walked up to her
and asked: what are you singing babe?
She didn’t answer. I asked her again.
Again, she didn’t answer.
I got mad, took a rock and threw it at her.
She snagged it like a catcher.
As I was collecting more rocks,
a crow came by and said:
Stop throwing rocks you fool!
I chased the fucker for a mile,
got tired, took a seat under a mango tree.
Mango tree knows everything.
She called the crow and asked:
Can you take him back to the river?
The river sang quietly.
I said: Can we be friends?
With a twinkle in her eye
she said: Won’t you shake my hands?
I saw the crow race for the mango.
As she came closer,
a tree nearby trembled in the wind
she sang.
One early morning
I walked up to her
and asked: what are you singing babe?
She didn’t answer. I asked her again.
Again, she didn’t answer.
I got mad, took a rock and threw it at her.
She snagged it like a catcher.
As I was collecting more rocks,
a crow came by and said:
Stop throwing rocks you fool!
I chased the fucker for a mile,
got tired, took a seat under a mango tree.
Mango tree knows everything.
She called the crow and asked:
Can you take him back to the river?
The river sang quietly.
I said: Can we be friends?
With a twinkle in her eye
she said: Won’t you shake my hands?
I saw the crow race for the mango.
As she came closer,
a tree nearby trembled in the wind
A Saturday Afternoon Poem
“A poem is never finished,
only abandoned”
by its creator
for the vultures to feast on
when he is no longer
able to carry it
because it has gained
so much weight
eating popcorn, hotdog
and candies in the public park
where one is supposed to breath
the fresh air, and
watch the young girls run
in their sweaty shorts-
pink, purple and naked white...
only abandoned”
by its creator
for the vultures to feast on
when he is no longer
able to carry it
because it has gained
so much weight
eating popcorn, hotdog
and candies in the public park
where one is supposed to breath
the fresh air, and
watch the young girls run
in their sweaty shorts-
pink, purple and naked white...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)