Suma Subramania... 的个人资料Suma Subramaniam照片日志列表更多  |  工具 帮助 |
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1月3日 Striped Water PoetsStriped Water Poets“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.”T. S. Eliot 9月17日 3:15 experimentIt was the night of 31st July when it began. I set the alarm of my clock to 3:15 am like many others who participated in the experiment from different parts of the world. "How am I going to carry it forward? " I thought, knowing how lazy I'd been for a long time, "How am I going to wake up to the alarm, and force myself out of the warm comforter, follow the trail upstairs and start writing a poem? " I shrugged , not thinking about it anymore and sunk into the silk pillow on our king-size pine bed. 7月25日 A love poem from Old IndiaA poem by Shilabhattarika, translated by Andrew Schelling 7月21日 A poem by Thomas Hubbard
A poem by Thomas HubbardTo Be, Or Not to Be 6月28日 A poem by Stephen DunnFive Roses in the Morning - Stephen Dunn March 16, 2003 On TV the showbiz of war, so I turn it off wishing I could turn it off, and glance at the five white roses in front of the mirror on the mantel, looking like ten. That they were purchased out of love and are not bloody red won't change a goddammned thing --- goddamned things, it seems, multiplying everyday. Last night the roses numbered six, but she chose to wear one in her hair and she was more beautiful because she believed she was. It changed the night, a little. For us, I mean. FeedbackTo turn interesting ideas into writing that continues to evolve for years requires a lot of discipline...Sometimes we write, we make mistakes. It is best to admit them quickly and get on with improving our other writing. Writers who do this kind of writing work are the moving force behind generations. My job is to create this space for that opportunity, to clear out the rest of the opinionated thoughts and keep it at bay.A poem by John KeatsWhen I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be - By JOHN KEATS “Poetry is Greek and Latin to me,” said one of my friends once. He did not open a single page of the book I presented to him. As adults, we sometimes abandon this talent and enter the spirit of playing games, designing software, searching money stocks, assuming that poetry is irrelevant. We enter into a temporary world, where we jump with joy at a match of cricket, or get carried away by a friend’s funny experience. According to Psychologist and scholar, James Hillman, each of us is born with an ‘accorn’ or image of our calling and we spend our lives unfolding towards it and driven by it. Hillman says, that a daimon (described in Plato’s Republic) comes to earth with each of us, assigned to see that we fulfill our purpose and live our pattern. But sometimes, there exists a conflict between living sensible and living for the moment. The following poem is a Shakespearean sonnet, by John Keats and is based on such a theme. John Keats (1795-1821), was an English lyric poet, who was regarded as the epitome of the Romantic writer. Keats was born in London on October 31, 1795 as the son of a livery-stable manager. His first book, Poems, was published in 1817. Some of his greatest works were written in the late 1810s, like "Lamia", "The Eve of St. Agnes", the great odes including "Ode to a Nightingale", Ode To Autumn" and "Ode on a Grecian Urn". Lets now take a look at the Shakespearean sonnet in context. When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain Before high piled books, in charact’ry Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of reflecting love --- then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. In this poem, Keats lists the things that he believes gives life meaning. He lists things that he would regret having not done if he had died. The poem describes the fear that the author holds inside himself, and as it progresses, the poem gets difficult for the speaker as it gets tougher to justify the fear to a universal situation, and finally he ends it on a note of defeat. Keats almost stands all alone, stranded at the end of the world, before death has even made such isolation necessary. In Lines 1-4, Keats describes his fear of dying young, much before his chance of ‘harvesting’ the fruits of his labor for poetry. In Lines 5-8, Keats describes philosophically, his romance for learning the riddle of his own existence. Although whether or not he lives ‘to trace their shadows’, or to realize the ‘truth’, he knows, he would not be able to uncover the mystery if he dies, and he will then die in sheer ignorance. In Lines 9-12, Keats speaks of the love of his beloved, which he fears he will never experience after his death. He suggests that love has to have a ‘faery power’, ie., the power of fairies who are immortal. He fears he would lose it all. In Lines 13-14, his fear of death leads to the ultimate question of Keats’ very own existence. He finds himself standing at the edge of the big, wide world, and the two things that he holds very important in life, ‘LOVE’ and ‘FAME’, dissolve into a space of vacuum or ‘nothingness’. It is interesting that Keats, who also died at a young age of 26 in the year 1821, spoke about the fear that he would cease to be. Reading this poem was a way of filling myself with the sounds of contemplation about life and death. Depressing as it was towards the end, where his sense of words communicated heightened experiences of the world, the thought sifted into another perspective of looking at things we like to do, or do with complete satisfaction, before one dies. And for poets, it would rather be, to write another poem. Why not write poetry, to create a world where we hear our voices sing tunes of a melody of words? Why not celebrate life and poetry, to experience depth, more than death? Why not just write poetry? 6月18日 A poem by Rabindranath TagoreA poem by Rabindranath Tagore
Authorship
You say that father writes a lot of books,
but what he writes I don't understand.
He was reading to you all the evening,
but could you really make out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us!
Why can't father write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother
stories of giants and fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath
you have to go and call him an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him,
but he goes on writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If I ever go to play in father's room,
you come and call me,"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say,
"Don't you see that father's at his work?"
What is the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil
and write upon his book just as he does,
- a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i, - why do you get cross
with me then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wates heaps and heaps of papers,
mother, you don't seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with,
you say, "Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and
sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?
6月13日 A Poem by Ted KooserA poem by Poet Laureate Ted KooserA Happy Birthday 5月19日 Writing to meFrom Human Resource Management to poetry and short stories has indeed been a quantum leap for me in the last one and a half years. I have been writing for quite some time now and the whole experience is something that I really enjoy doing. I like getting up in the morning thinking about a poem. If no idea strikes, I’d write about how my day is and how I feel. I’d write stories. It has given me immense pleasure, and I feel a sense of satisfaction after my first draft. And that’s not all, I seem to like going back to it every time, because it is not just a job- but an enjoyable job. There are times when I finish one whole poem in an odd moment, and other times when I get caught up with a single word for many weeks. Writing hasn’t been easy. It has needed great concentration to read, and even more to write. My first efforts haven’t been always rewarding. Nevertheless, even the most layman work occasionally lifts into the distinct and different, and kindles a warm response inside me. And that is worth a great deal, despite what the literary market has become in the recent years. With all the contemporary plays and films, experimental writing, anti-realism, individualism and intellectualism, the literary market place has opened its arms to the increasing literary craftsmanship. I’m enjoying this literary life, curling up with books, attending poetry readings, joining literature circles and societies and making wonderful friends who share similar interests. There are so many of them…Good poets and writers…who earn little or nothing from their efforts…but the pleasure of writing has been a sufficient reward. The whole writing process is an exploration and Im surprised at where the journey has taken me. So I will just write and continue celebrating it. As Gloria Steinem put it, “Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else,” that is what writing is to me. |
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