LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD TO PROF.MURALI SIVARAMAKRISHNAN

LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD TO PROF.MURALI SIVARAMAKRISHNAN

LIFETIME ACHIEVEMENT AWARD TO PROF.MURALI SIVARAMAKRISHNAN

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Review of Conversations with Children

Conversations with Children  by S. Murali.  Puducherry Co-op Book Society, 9, Jeevantham Street, Ashok Nagar, Pondicherry 605008. 2005. 38pp. Paperback. Rs.60.00. ISBN 81-87299-10-06.

S. Murali is a painter of repute, and a literary critic who has specialised in Indian literary theory and aesthetics. He is Reader in the Department of English, PondicherryUniversity.  Conversations with Children, his second collection of poems, lives up to the promise of  his first collection, Night Heron (1998); however, unlike Night Heron, it has no illustrations.

The twenty-five poems here have a variety of themes — the title poem deals with the problem of communication, while “My Father and R.K.Narayan” is a moving tribute, mourning both his father and the eminent writer,  who “died a few days before R.K.Narayan did.” As in the earlier collection, love of nature is an important theme; “The Bleeding Tree” which laments over deforestation has an allegorical quality about it. Some poems, such as “I Like to let the word fly about”, “There’s no Wisdom in Poetry” and “Afterward” deal with the art and craft of poetry. Some poems are based on the Puranas. There are five poems about Krishna, and his miraculous childhood exploits. There are poems expressing the feelings of Eklavya, Garuda, Krishna, Karna and Kaikeyi. “Amba Upanishad” expresses the anguish of Amba, the princess forcibly brought to Hastinapur by Bhishma to be his brother’s bride; she confesses, “I had not known enough of hate/ Before now, to hate so much . . .” In “I, Bahuka”, the protagonist wonders who he really is, the glorious King Nala, husband of the beautiful Damayanti, or the dark, ugly Bahuka he became when bitten by a serpent. Murali’s poems are characterized by careful craftsmanship. His free verse  experiments with a number of stanza forms, such as four-line stanzas and three-line stanzas. Some poems have a refrain, but  he avoids rhyme.

The title poem is representative of his work – there is deep thought, a feel for human relationships, closeness to nature,  and striking imagery. “Conversations with Children” is a meditation on the way children casually avoid listening to adults and their sermons about “general rules of behaviour”, and  “dos and don’ts”. The imagery is  concrete, and original:

Like cows in the mid-stream of highway traffic

nonchalant they stand, letting each word

glide by; dodging and ducking, or with a simple

toss of the head disengaging artha from sabda

                   

as simple as peeling bananas.

Waste water cascade.

 

Most Indians will respond to the unusual image, as the picture of a cow placidly chewing its cud in the middle of the road springs to mind.  The next image, of peeling a banana, starts on a new line, to highlight the ease with which unpleasant conversation is side-stepped, for it is considered only “waste water”.   Two lines are used as a kind of refrain, occurring thrice in the poem:

Fly away, fly away word –

there’s just not any  space for you.

But the poem is not a facile condemnation of the younger generation; it is only after “long years of wandering” that the poet has realized that “Conversation is all”, earlier he was among those who thought that “it’s all conversation”.  “Now my children beside me” indicates that it is an older (and wiser) man who is speaking. There is a note of hope as he sits with his children;  communication can take the form of responding together to nature, its fury and its beauty:

Now my children beside me, I sit and watch

the slow fading of light in the new monsoon

trees all agog with words, the wind

and lightning; thunder calls across the sky.

So much meaning being tossed about

in the open. Shall we reach out

and clutch? Conversation is all

 

But they do not understand the importance of  conversation, the response to the plea for reaching out and clutching is negative:

and clutch? Conversation is all

empty dispensation of words

a loose cloud over all

 

And  the poem ends with the refrain: Fly away, fly away word –/ there’s just not any  space for you.”

One does not know (and the  poet probably does not care) how a non-Indian reader would respond to such imagery. Would they slot the cow or the monsoon into the category of the “exotic Other”? Would they be able to understand the reference to “artha from sabda” (and the implied allusion to Kalidasa)? The same questions could be asked about Murali’s poems about figures from Indian mythology. But there is no doubt that these poems are a rewarding experience for the Indian reader; they are thought provoking, and present fresh perspectives on characters like Kaikeyi.

Prof. Shyamala A. Narayan

Journal of Indian Writing in English  14.3.2007

 

This Lime-tree Bower my Prison

[Addressed to Charles Lamb, of the India House, London]

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,

This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost

Beauties and feelings, such as would have been

Most sweet to my remembrance even when age

Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,

Friends, whom I never more may meet again,

On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,

Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,

To that still roaring dell, of which I told;

The roaring dell, o’erwooded, narrow, deep,

And only speckled by the mid-day sun;

Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock

Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,

Unsunn’d and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves

Ne’er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,

Fann’d by the water-fall! and there my friends

Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,

That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)

Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge

Of the blue clay-stone.

 

Now, my friends emerge

Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again

The many-steepled tract magnificent

Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,

With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up

The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles

Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on

In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,

My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined

And hunger’d after Nature, many a year,

In the great City pent, winning thy way

With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain

And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink

Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!

Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,

Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!

Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!

And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend

Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,

Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round

On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem

Less gross than bodily; and of such hues

As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes

Spirits perceive his presence.

A delight

Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad

As I myself were there! Nor in this bower,

This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark’d

Much that has sooth’d me. Pale beneath the blaze

Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch’d

Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov’d to see

The shadow of the leaf and stem above

Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree

Was richly ting’d, and a deep radiance lay

Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps

Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass

Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue

Through the late twilight: and though now the bat

Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,

Yet still the solitary humble-bee

Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know

That Nature ne’er deserts the wise and pure;

No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,

No waste so vacant, but may well employ

Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart

Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes

‘Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good,

That we may lift the soul, and contemplate

With lively joy the joys we cannot share.

My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook

Beat its straight path along the dusky air

Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing

(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)

Had cross’d the mighty Orb’s dilated glory,

While thou stood’st gazing; or, when all was still,

Flew creeking o’er thy head, and had a charm

For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom

No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

—-SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

 

Magpie Robin– Our Own Backyard Thrush– Singer Extraordinary

magpierobin

Magpie Robin-A Tribute

 

This tiny bird can stir up a storm in my heart

It writes my life

In clear black and white–

In reverse

All the while

Perching on a tiny branch!

Blue Moon Above the Sea

I have not seen the sun set so peacefully like this evening

Receding from this sea shore with slow valediction.

Here you stand with wide eyes

And gaze at the rising waves, your hand in mine, warm still.

How many dawns have we seen from this tiny corner

Of our world slowly climb up the mounting waves

And close in over the darkening hills! It is all about

Light and shade: nothing more. But I have seen it all

In these wondrous eyes. Day and night, sun and star.

Now the dark closes behind your floating hair. And then

With the suddenness of a flickering star your eyes widen

Again and again: the village by the sea floats up in a sea of light.

Fireworks lighten sky and night—their flares swell

With the sea’s delight as you break into sweet laughter

Letting the night slowly merge with the palm leaves and sand

Your hand in mine, warm still, and a blue moon above the sea.

Dr Murali Sivaramakrishnan

Red Shift In Memory of Cleo, the Muse (9th November 2011)

Cleopatra

For some things we have channels of pure silence:

Here word and image pass side by side

Sometimes submerged

In memory

Like long leaves of thin grass stems in rain

Like huge trees that blend into the quiet of night

Like slow lightning that freezes the monsoon skies

Like the flight of green pigeons against a blue sky

Like the flattened mount of clay and sand

What is else to remember but the sadness that darkens all?

Cleopatra. Cleo, our muse.

Each time the heart recalls your name, your eyes

We look this way and that

Forgetting the distance between a million stars.

Everything is an after thought

Filled with pain and distraught.

Your last wave of that flowy tail.

Your valediction and the tale trailing our deep silence afterward.

All pain is forgotten in time, I know.

All memory will suffer the touch of forgetfulness.

This is life’s simple truth. The plainness of reality for us humans.

Each of us know this, but we carry our precious pain

In an eternal present. You have eased into memory.

I saw the light go out in those pearly eyes.

You taught me to love and to treasure each moment.

The spectrum of silence that now veers between red and blue

Is hastening toward red; all things move from all others.

And it is the light that has gone out of our eyes.

smurals@gmail.com