P K N Panicker

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PKN Panicker: Slant of Light

Book Review

M Mohankumar

Slant of Light

Anthology of Poetry

Thiruvananthapuram: Folio Publishers-Distributers. 2011

Pages: 85. Price: Rs 160

Relaxed and philosophical

M Mohankumar is a familiar name in contemporary Indian English Poetry. This is his seventh book of poems, others being Pearl Diver (1988), Half Opened Door (2000), Nightmares and Daydreams (2002), The Moon Has Two Faces (2004), The Diwan’s Discomfiture and Other Poems (2007) and Late Rains (2009). Mohankumar retired as Chief Secretary, Government of Kerala, and lives at Thiruvananthapuram.

M Mohankumar’s Slant of Light is a collection of 77 poems, his seventh. I had occasion to place a review on his earlier anthology Late Rains in Muse India (Vol. No.34, Nov-Dec 2010). I am extremely happy to see that the poems in this one show a much greater degree of maturity in thought and consequently less sentimentality. Whereas Late Rains reflect an agony, almost of a personal nature that could be discerned not only in the lines he wrote but also in between, left unwritten, the poems in this collection are reflective of a comparatively relaxed, lighter mood and more philosophical. Mohankumar is geared up to have a relook at the world and adapt himself to the changed realities.

Let us take these old bells down.

They have been ringing the same old way

for centuries, oblivious of changed times......

Let us take these old bells down, melt them

and mould them into new bells, new bells

to produce music pleasing to gods,

whom we have installed in our hearts.

    (Let Us Take Theses Old Bells Down, p 85)

His observation in the first poem in this book is evocative.

Life triumphs in the midst of suffering death.

    (Palimpsest, p 11)

He is witness to the fall of butterflies to the ground with broken wings. For him every hope about tomorrow is a butterfly that -

soars and soars

till the cross-wind

blows it off its course.

    (Hope is a butterfly, p 12)

Mohankumar turns extremely sarcastic when portraying certain incidents that hurt his sensitivities – happenings in his backdoor (Thiruvananthapuram) when the famous Malayalam poet A Ayyappan died on the footpath on October 21, 2010 and the goof-up by the Kerala government in organising his last rites. I do not wish to go into the details, but the following lines etch an un-erasable picture in our minds.

They have put him in cold storage,

and have got busy with other things.

Surely they will give him a fitting funeral

as soon as they can spare the time......

Peace after a long struggle;

quiet after a frenetic life.

Silent and helpless, he waits.

Icy fingers bite into his flesh

    (Cold Storage, p 15)

Everything that could be said of the poet, his admirers, nature and depth of his bonding between them and the goof-up - everything that needs to be told, is neatly and precisely narrated in those 22 lines. Nothing is left untold. Those icy fingers bite not only into his flesh but also into the consciousness of the inept in the government – sarcasm at its best. He continues:

On a flower bedecked platform

lies the dead poet, draped in white,

peace on his face, eyes slightly open.

There is a touch of smile on his lips,

As though he is watching the whole

‘charade’ with mild disdain.

    (Death of a Poet, p 60)

Through ‘Design’ (p 16), ‘Razing the House’ (p 17), ‘Rite of Passage’ (p 18), ‘The River’ (p 19) and ‘Cries and Rattles’ (p 20), the poet travels through the routines of life and explores the meaning and depth of relationships, the demolished hopes and frustrations, the ecstasy of growing up and the blossoming of life that reveals her tender charms, shyly, to the lover’s gaze. He would not mind sparing a few lines to look at what could happen after ‘departing from this world’. How did everything begin with? With a bang? But why bother about all that?

Did the universe begin with a bang? ......

Far-off events. They don’t bother us,

earth-bound mortals that we are.

What bothers us is closer home:

    (Cries and Rattles, p 20)

Even as the poet turns philosophical, he looks to the real world around him with a profound submission:

We have come all the way.

When you lead, I cannot resist.

    (Rendezvous, p 21)

But Mohankumar is not one who would lean back on the chair and while away the time. His mind is full of questions. He is not inclined to leave even the great Buddha without throwing an inconvenient one at him – and relevant too.

the Buddha spoke of death.

The body, he said, falls apart

like a worn-out cart.

What of the brand-new carts,

and carts that are sturdy,

that get smashed

and fall apart?’

    (Falling Apart, p 22);

and in ‘Tremor’ (p 22) he concludes that the way of the world is such that ‘as we rub our blurred eyes we could see our future reduced to hazy heaps of ruins.’ Even though ‘we board with hopes of a bon voyage, seldom are we in command’ (The Voyage, p 23). ‘The Night Train’ (p 31) is yet another example of the sharpness with which he approaches a subject and the force that he puts in every word that he uses. Except for his penchant to associate the darker side of life with night, it could equally have been a day train as well.

In the silence of the deep night,

I often hear it hurtling past,

faster than a bullet train.

Sometimes, it stops by.

(I would hear the creak of brakes.)

Then it carries a neighbour away.

One night it will stop at my gate.

And then I will sleep-walk

into this long-distance train.

    (The Night Train, p 131)

His affinity and love for nature could be measured in his nostalgic narratives of the green that was around him in his younger days. He finds time to look back at ‘The Album’ (p 42) and reminisce the good old days.

In those far-off days, when I was a child,

people in the village lived in houses

thatched annually with palmyrah fronds.

The trees grew everywhere, on vacant

lands, on the ridges of the paddy fields,

straight into the sky, dark and gaunt,......

Versatile leaves; sweet, fleshy fruits;

refreshing toddy, the sturdy trunk itself-

these were their generous gifts to us...

In the dead of the night I could hear

the whining of the palmyrah trees-

till they disappeared one by one.

    (Palmyrah Trees: An Old Man’s Tale, p 34)

As a child, he would often see

flowers glimmering in the evening sky,

strewn over Heaven’s blue, polished floor -

mandara, parijata…

    (Flowers in the Sky, p 37)

His subtle humour is equally pleasing.

I remember certain poets

whose imagination flies so high,

and never touches the earth,

not even once.

    (Rare Bird, p 63)

Modern hanging is a fine art.

So say the experts.

They should know.’

    (Modern Hanging, p 70)

Mohankumar defines poetry in his own way (p 26). Maturity of thought, wisdom born out of long experience, his grip on the craft as reflected in the choice of words, control on emotions and reigning of sentiments, subtle humour and avoidance of unnecessary embellishments are the hall-mark of every poem in this anthology. What I have attempted is to merely pick up a few ‘unwritten words and unspoken thoughts’ between the lines and in the space encapsulating the written ones, leaving the rest to poetry lovers and critiques to pick up.

This space

around the poem

and between its lines

is not empty.

It is filled with

unwritten words

of unspoken thoughts.

    (The Space Around the Poem, p 26)

END

ROOMS

 

Emotions that emanate from deep within a person, articulated as intertwined, well arranged, structured word to word combinations, dynamic and vibrant in their content and emotive aspect forms the essence of good poetry. Emotions from deep within are often reflective of the rich, varied and vast experience of a person, acquired over a period of time and from personal involvement in some form or other. The poems of Boutha Ayyanaar are without doubt, from deep within his heart and hence on reading are able to instantaneously resonate with his fellow humans placed in near identical situations. Mansion Kavidhagal, first published in 2005 bears excellent testimony to Ayyanaar’s sensitivity to contemporary realities, expressed at times in veiled biting sarcasm.   

 

 ‘The moment I stepped inside the city

  the first thing that came into view

  were the horns of men.’

                                                           (Horns p.16)

Living in the prison like rooms of the Mansion, loneliness, slowly and steadily eats into his very being and like most others placed in his position would, the poet tends to be philosophical.

 

              ‘Not knowing which face you like

               and which one I like,

               yet, we keep living

               in love. Don’t we?’

                                                                        (Love p.21)

The poet tries to find new dimensions to love – especially as he is burning and melting under the pangs of separation. The poet, without doubt, is in deep love with his past, his village, the village life, his home, his wife and pines to be back. The city really is not in his heart, though as he confesses elsewhere, he has nothing against it.

             

                ‘Chased by memories

                 pained by the sorrow of migration

                 The heart covers its face

                 in anguish untold.’  

                                                                          (Please Let Go My Hands p.23)

See the exactness of his analysis of the characteristics of the city.

 

                ‘In the solitary room

                 the fan

                 scatters fear

                 everywhere.’  

                                           (The Entire City Is Reeling Under The Grip of Fear p.24) 

The city and the mansion of course do not recognize nor do get familiar with any particular face. In the dingy room of the mansion the poet is alone, except for the room as his companion in spite of the fact that he is in the very centre of the crowded city.

 

                ‘The room and myself

                 keep waiting

                 for a familiar face.’

                                           (The Entire City Is Reeling Under The Grip of Fear p.26)

 

No, that is not totally true –he does have other companions to converse with. Look at his companions with who he converses – the tube-light, the fan, the pillow, the door, the worn-out mirror, dirty clothes. He comforts himself in the fact that his room is a sincere trust worthy friend, with who he can confidently share his secrets.

 

                  ‘We share so many a secret

                   My room which has never told nothing to none

                   is definitely better than my friend.’

                                                                                          (You and I p.30)

The room is definitely better than the friends who betray.

 

The poet also has a definite sense of humour which surfaces occasionally, may be even without any conscious effort from him.

 

                   ‘Even my daughter who is

                     just three years old

                     calls me “Mottai’

                     When asked to show respect

                     she says ‘Mottai Sir’.

                                                                                       (Appearance p.71)

 

As I jot down these lines purported to be a critical appreciation of Ayyanaar’s poems, I should confess that I am doing so without accessing and reading his original work in Tamil. No doubt that every language has its distinct unique beauty and it is rather difficult to have the beauty one transfixed into another in its totality –especially so from such a rich and vibrant language that Tamil is. As such I can only presume that the original will be much more powerful in its semantic and emotive content and reflective of the poet’s rich Tamil cultural mooring.

 

A word about the rendering in English is considered not out of place. Latha Ramakrishnan has more than 25 books translated and published and all are well received and appreciated by the readers. She has done full justice in this instance also. However let us not forget that an expression which is exquisitely pleasing in one language when translated into another may lose its charm. This is all the more so, as the translator herself has stated, ‘in the case of Neo-Tamil poems when the poems are rich and complex with the element of obscurity and multiple meaning’. Having said this, I cannot but observe that her attempt to be as sincere as possible to the original text, at times seems to force her to sacrifice the beauty and expressive exactitude unique to English language. I only wish that a well established translator of the caliber of Latha Ramakrishnan could take a little more liberty to deviate where found necessary and without having to jar the beauty of English.

 

Prabanjan’s forward is very good and brings forth the essence of Ayyanaar’s poems with all the force and vigour that it deserves.

 

Ayyanaar’s ‘Rooms’ is excellent reading material and is a fine example of neo-Tamil poetry of the 1990s, rich in imagery, vibrant with raw life experience at its best.

 

                                                                                                      P.K.N.Panicker. 

ROOMS  by Boutha Ayyanar, Translated by Latha Ramakrishnan, Published by Meenal Publishing House, 3/363, Bajana Kovil Street, Chennai -603103. Published in Chennai Chronicle, Vol.1, issue 2, May 2010