There is this fascinating movement that seems to have sprung up in the coffee places and bars of Delhi, in the last few months. Its this variegated group of poets who form a reading group / spoken word collective that goes by the name of (yes I know), ‘Poetree’. A friend of mine frequents these gatherings, and apparently there are now over a hundred amateur poets who attend semi-regularly to read out stuff. There are, I am informed, three groups who are particularly well represented. There are the retired civil servants and professionals, who write about lost childhood loves and often touching vignettes from lives that have spanned many experiences and many decades. There is the kurta-kajal crowd who write about waiting, water, Valium, wordplay and, naturally, coffee table love. Finally there are those who just listen. Rumour has it there is even the odd poetry groupie.
Thus with nothing better to do, I went along with S to one of these things, hoping to be amongst the silent listeners (no not the poetry groupies). Alas it turned out that we were in the midst of a particularly lean period, with a tiny handful of people in attendance thanks to a combination of post New Years hangovers, a marriage season in full swing and freezing cold weather. All of which meant we were forced to be active participants.
And so S read out bits from a poetry book and was told by an admiring 50 year old gentleman that her voice sounded like condensed milk. I kid you not. That line is so ridiculously cheesy I’ve resolved to use it to make fun of people every opportunity I get. Meanwhile I was forced to go up on stage and had to quickly improvise. So here’s what I came up with – a somewhat honest assessment of the superficiality of all the poetry I’ve written (and pretty much as bad). In an ode to engineering geekiness, I’m commenting this a la MATLAB.
%Since this was truly impromptu, how better than to begin by ripping off that masterwork, ‘Aphorisms’, that Mallesh and I put together.
I scribble aphorisms on napkins, Stories of roses in long black hair. In search of a dyadic cadence, And a word that rhymes with orange.%Next we kill time by paying homage to the organizer of the whole thing (an admittedly good poet), who before reading some of his work %had gravely informed us that “poetry is the resonance between throat and ear” (an analogy I found well meaning, but somewhat %unfortunate in that any sentence with throat and ear in it instantly brings to my mind images of white coats and a stethoscope).
Downstairs the roar of laughter with alcohol Yet I stand here, listening to you tell me, That poetry is the resonance between throat and ear. Wondering what I could give you, To lighten this rather sombre atmosphere.%Finally we decide to address the rest of the poem to a randomly chosen attractive girl in the audience, since that is de rigeur in % these situations. One needs a muse and all that, especially when its clear that another few seconds of free verse are needed and %your brain long since walked away in disgust.
And so, like so many poets do I hold the night air in the palm of my hand, Pluck the starlight from your eyes, And shape from them – pretty phrases, elegant words.
And I send those your way, Empty and beautiful And whisper to you, ‘There is meaning here, if you only knew where to look’
It went down better than I expected, helped enormously by muted lighting, an increasingly well primed audience, a nice mike, what Stephen Colbert would call ‘gravitas’ in delivery, and an utter lack of other bakras on the night. Smart alecky cynicism aside, its nice that things like this are happening in Delhi – makes the city a bit more vibrant.
PS: On a completely unrelated note, it is with the greatest of pleasure that I note that Sachin Tendulkar has been awarded the Padma Vibhushan. It is with some shock that I learn that Pranab Mukherjee has decided that he deserves the same honour.
