Work

I see:

Everyday on my office desk,
a someone, diligently
slow poisoning his soul.

Half dead eyes,
still drawing comfort,
by feeding out-grown infant dreams/full bodied unborn fears.

Every June, young recruits,
on welcome tour of invisible gallows,
infant dreams clinging to their breasts.

Dead man in sterile corner office,
sometime looking at paper flowers,
placed on his desk, with longing.

Well fed death rejoicing,
flaunting stealth weapon of  silent violence-
monotony of office work.

-Pulastya

Morning

The sun is out,
And busy,
Painting the world
On canvas of night,
With its rays-the golden brush.

-Pulastya

Morning Rain

Crooning rain
Caressing glass panes with gentle patter,
Little flowers of raindrops waltzing till day-break
Gliding rising-falling on liquid silver;

Rising smell of aroused earth,
Moaning wind eavesdropping through half open window,
Dusky silvery cloudy sky
Basking in the doused sun’s after glow;

My love!
It’s a magical morning,
When you come like that-in your elements,
To wake me up...

-Pulastya

To a photograph with red-eye effect

All I remember of you is “ a dark eyed, always hassled girl”. Never even suspected that when indulgent your irises could be overflowing wine from two goblets of eyes. Or, is it that mythical deadly evil of feminine beauty revealing itself full blooded in those crimson eyes, in a rarest of the rare moment of lapse of vigil; and is captured by the photographer in the very instant!
And, blessed is the photographer-for it’s almost never that naivety in craft actually helps you augment the beauty of something already beautiful: when innocence of the act fully fills in for creativity, when doing nothing is doing the best.

-Pulastya

Time and language

And then isn't language repository of time? And isn't this why time worships it? And isn't a song, or a poem, or indeed a speech itself, with its caesuras, pauses, spondees, and so forth, a game language plays to restructure time? And aren't those by whom language " live" those by whom time does too? And if time "forgives" them, does it do so out of generosity or out of necessity? And isn't generosity a necessity anyhow?

-  Joseph Brodsky

(Elaborating Auden's famous line " Time...worships language." Essentially meaning that it's the language which makes time - past and future, present is only shortest possible fragment of time- tangible. Time past is preserved as memories- collective or individual- and future is conceived as fantasy, but both of these need the body flesh of language to express themselves in the physical world. And it's only humans who have concept of time among species for only they have a language evolved enough to capture the dimensions of time. only humans have a conception of past and future, all others live only in present and thus have no perception- or need- of time.)

Rain

Rain touches it divine….

And, when rain touches the woman by my side!
Well, what do you call moonlight sitting next to you in human form on a cloudy night ....

(Blessing, I guess!)

Cold breeze,
Washed verdant hills,
Rising petrichor,
Wine….

Skin burning with sensations,
Eyes see nothing but beauty,
Lungs filled with perfume,
And taste buds brimming, for a kiss....

(Rain is happy hour of senses, I guess!)

-Pulastya

Face

No one is a Christian
because Jesus had a beautiful face;
and yet his face is most adored.

That is the thing about faces:
a face is like water,
it always takes the form of observer’s getting use to it;
to find beauty in it
one just have to look long enough with love.

A beautiful face is proportional arrangement of six elements-
sixth being the imagination;
and what is love if not a kindled imagination.

-Pulastya

Vidyapati

I recently discovered Vidyapati, 14th century legendary Maithali and Sanskrit poet. While reading a poetry anthology I was captivated by the imagery of a poem describing the inner feelings of an ageing woman lamenting the receding of her physical beauty, and the incidental feelings caused by realisation of transience of physical charm. The source of inspiration for the poem was a poem of Vidyapati. A little research on the Net led me to this colossal, hiding in the plain sight, poet abandoned to be discovered through the eye of foreigner in English translation.  When I read a few of his love poems, they oozed with so much passion and sensuality, I knew that likes of Neruda were merely his minions.

(it may sound bit brash to some. please remember that some of the brashness, I suspect, in expressing sensuality has been ‘added in translation’ due to directness of English words in expressing such feeling, in Hindi, Maithali, or perhaps even in Sanskrit, language itself helps you express such feeling more obliquely; then there are lot of colloquial expressions which are untranslatable without magnifying their coarseness manifold to our ears. )

Few example:

Poem 1.

Cosmetics do no good:
no shadow, rouge, mascara, lipstick-
nothing helps.
however artfully I comb my hair,
embellishing my throat and wrist with jewels,
It is no use- there is no
semblance of the beautiful young girl
I was
And long for still.
My loveliness is past.
And no one could be more aware than I am
that coquettishness at this age
only renders me ridiculous.
I know it. Nonetheless,
I primp myself before the mirror
like an infatuated school girl
fussing over every detail,
practicing whatever subtlety
may please him.
I cannot help myself.
The God of passion has his will of me
and I am tossed about
between humiliation & desire,
rectitude  & lust,
disintegration & renewal,
ruin & salvation.

( translation by : Steve Kowit)

Poem 2.

For heaven's sake, listen, listen, O my darling:
Do not dart your cruel, angry glances at me,
For I swear by the lovely pitchers of your breasts,
And by your golden, glittering, snake-like necklace:
If ever on earth I dare touch anyone except you,
Let your necklace turn into a real snake, and bite me;
And if ever my promise and words prove false,
Chastise me, O darling, in the way you want to.
But, now, don't hesitate to take me in your arms,
Bind, bind my thirsty body with yours; bruise me
With your thighs, and bite, bite me with your teeth.
Let your fingernails dig deep, deep into my skin!
Strangle me, for heaven's sake, with your breasts,
And lock me in the prison of your body forever!

Poem 3.

All my inhibition left me in a flash,
When he robbed me of my clothes,
But his body became my new dress.
Like a bee hovering on a lotus leaf
He was there in my night, on me!

True, the god of love never hesitates!
He is free and determined like a bird
Winging toward the clouds it loves.
Yet I remember the mad tricks he played,
My heart restlessly burning with desire
Was yet filled with fear!

poem 4.

Oh friend, I cannot tell you
Whether he was near or far, real or a dream.
Like a vine of lightning,
As I chained the dark one,
I felt a river flooding in my heart.
Like a shining moon,
I devoured that liquid face.
I felt stars shooting around me.
The sky fell with my dress,
leaving my ravished breasts.
I was rocking like the earth.
In my storming breath
I could hear my ankle-bells,
sounding like bees.
Drowned in the last waters of dissolution,
I knew that this was not the end.

Says Vidyapati:
How can I possibly believe such nonsense?

कवि की निजी पीड़ा और पाठक:

रुदन और क्रंदन दोनो पीड़ा व विवशता के समागम की ही उत्पत्ति हैं, बस शब्द का अंतर  क्रंदन का दर्जा ऊँचा कर देता है, क्यूँकि रुदन में शब्द नहीं होता।

और कवि अभ्यासी क्रंदन करने वाला नहीं तो और क्या है! पाठक यह जानते हैं। कविता में यूँ भी अक्सर यह पता करना मुश्किल है की इसमें वर्णित दर्द  निजी है या बस देखा हुआ।ऐक सुघड़ कवि की निशानी है इस फ़र्क़ को छिपा लेना, और पर-पीड़ा को भी निजी सा अभिव्यक्त करना।

वैसे पीड़ा अनुभव की तीव्रता का प्रत्यक्षता से गहरा सम्बन्ध है। परोक्षता से पीड़ा का अनुभव क्षींण होता है।फिर कविता में तो शब्द प्रयोग से जन्मी दूरी की परोक्षता के साथ साथ किसी और का अनुभव प्रयोग की परोक्षता भी सम्भव होती है। अतः कथा मे व्यथा सुन कर रचनाकार की पीडा बांटने कोई नहीं निकल पड़ता।

यूँ भी कवि, अपनी या परायी, किसी की भी हो पीड़ा को कविता रूप में बाज़ार में बेचने तो आता ही है, धन ना सही प्रसिद्धि और मान के लिए। और बाज़ार में  जूता देखा जाता है किस की खाल खिंची जूता बनाने में कौन पूछता है। भाव जूते से जूता मिला कर तय होता है, रंग, संरचना, कारीगरी के पैमाने पर, जिसकी खाल खिंची वो कितना तड़पा मानकों में से ऐक नहीं है। वैसे भी खाल खिंचने की तड़प का जूते की उत्कृष्टता से कोई सम्बन्ध नहीं है चाहे वो कारीगर की अपनी खाल से ही क्यूँ ना बना हो, उसे तो बस कारीगरी का ही मोल मिलेगा।

कवि का दर्द इस लिये है की कभी कभी भावावेश में अपनी ही खाल का जूता लेकर बाज़ार में आ बैठता है और अतिरिक्त मूल्य की उम्मीद करता है। वस्तु सत्य यह है की कवि की पीड़ा का कारण कविता की उत्पत्ति की सम्भावना को बढ़ाना नहीं था, बल्कि कविता तो मरहम बन कर आयी, और मरहम को बाज़ार में बेचने कौन जाता है और वो भी इस भावना के साथ की इस मरहम को पाने में मैंने बहुत दर्द झेला?

किसी की निजी डायरी या आत्महत्या पत्र की दो दुख भरी पंक्तियाँ व्यक्ति विशेष के मर्म से ऐकाकार कर देती हैं, चाहे वे अति साधारण संरचना में ही क्यूँ ना हों, क्योंकि वे निजी हैं। कविता निजी नहीं होती। ऐक वशिष्ठ रूप में संरचना का प्रयास व किसी भी रूप में प्रकाशन की अभिलाषा निजीपन को ख़त्म कर देते है, ऐक प्रकार से बाज़ार में ले आतें हैं, अन्य कवियों से मुक़ाबिल करते हैं, प्रतिस्पर्धा में उतारते हैं। और प्रतिस्पर्धा में प्रदर्शन का महत्व है, दर्शक उसी का आनन्द उठाने आते हैं, त्यारी का कष्ट और तरीक़ा कोई नहीं पूछता, प्रतिस्पर्धी अर्थात अन्य कवि पूछें तो पूछें।

फिर, पीड़ा की कविता लोग परमार्थ के लिये नहीं पढ़ते। परोक्ष रूप मे दर्द भाव का आनंद लेने के लिए पढ़ते हैं। इससे उन्हें या तो स्वयं की  उत्तम स्तिथि पर अतिरिक्त संतोष प्राप्त होता है या फिर अपनी बद अवस्था में भी ऐक प्रकार का मनोवेज्ञानिक सहयोगी मिलने का अनुभव होता है। पाठक को कवि की पीडा समझने हेतु समाज सेवी का बोझ देना उचित नहीं है।

कवि की पीड़ा उसकी उर्वरा भूमि है पाठक को तो बस उसकी उपज का मूल्य तय करना है। पीड़ा की उर्वरा भूमि का वैसे भी कोई ख़रीदार नहीं होता, यह तो गले पड़ती है। इस पर जो उगता है उसे परोसने लायक़ जो बनाए उसे कवि कहते हैं।

फिर कोई कवि अपनी अति संवेदनशीलता से दूसरे की पीड़ा को भी बँटाई पर ले सकता है।

-पुलस्त्य