All posts tagged: Jeet Thayil

‘Effluence’ by Ruth Vanita

‘After the ups and downs of the day Manufactured alone in this small room, Aching in more than one way, I press Seven buttons, and am at last in heaven. Who is to be praised like Graham Bell For the greatest, kindest imagining, For knowing that no song can please so well, So heal , as one voice saying two syllables in a tone not reproducible ? Thanks to an era that may blow us both Up any minute, my heart is lifted, I see the stars again , bless a world That has you in it, and that makes you mine Along a line so tenuous, vibrant, fine.’ Effluence, by Ruth Vanita, from The Bloodaxe Book of Contemporary Indian Poets , ed Jeet Thayil, 2008. Reviewed at , Post III  Congratulations to Jeet who made the 2012 Man Booker list with Narcopolis Advertisements

2011 poetry news, and online information for poets.

Given that the Irish Times Books of the Year did not make mention of poetry books for 2011, I thought to add some links to Irish poetry  presses and imprints for those readers of poetry who are not catered for in the list-system. I have to say that I do not think of such ephemera as dates when I approach a book of poetry and my reading included some 2010 volumes (and earlier).  The beauty of poetry is that it is timeless and  poetry books are always relevant. I am going to add links for some poetry publishers, and then some good online resources for readers and writers of poetry. I wonder how many of the books at link will survive the test of time ? (or even taste,  ” So good, so funny, so real, so very, very sad” , is what amounts to review in the article). Irish presses and poetry journals. The Gallery Press  have an eminently worthwhile list of poets and writers, I am adding a link  to their online catalogue for …

A Saturday Woman Poet , Prageeta Sharma.

On Rebellion, by Prageeta Sharma. (for Katy Lederer) “It was not a romantic sentiment , nor self-determined; rather , it was embarrassing. My love of spearheading, from introvert to extrovert, from cowardice to consequence, from the enjambment to the unspecified dunce. It was a sabotage, a reckless moment : a purulent, tawny decree. All temptation puzzled me and drew me in. I dropped out of a large life, I flew over exams, I punched out breakfast teachers with lunch money, toiling over the idea of belonging rather than over upward mobility. I understood how power flung outward into the troves of the cursed ( I felt troubled or cursed all of the time). I wasn’t bearing oranges, limes, or even lemons. All of it blurred together so that a mere suggestion made by an outside force was something to be freely ignored. I could nod off, I could misinterpret, it could be reconfigured as a negotiation. The fog felt like an aphorism. Never lifting, always dull, always an added pull. The tribunal cloud judged below, …

“Purdah I” by Imtiaz Dharker.

Purdah I by Imtiaz Dharker. One day they said she was old enough to learn some shame. She found it came quite naturally. Purdah is a kind of safety. The body finds a place to hide. The cloth fans out against the skin much like the earth that falls on coffins after they put dead men in. People she has known stand up, sit down as they have always done. But they make different angles in the light, their eyes aslant, a little sly. She half-remembers things from someone else’s life, perhaps from yours , or mine – carefully carrying what we do not own: between the thighs, a sense of sin. We sit still , letting the cloth grow a little closer to our skin. A light filters inward through our bodies’ walls. Voices speak inside us, echoeing in the spaces we have just left. She stands outside herself, sometimes in all four corners of a room. Wherever she goes , she is always inching past herself, as if she were a clod of …

“The Lace World” by Monica Ferrell

The Lace World. (after a piece of sixteenth-century Breton lace) How eerie it all is, as if linked by synapses; a face stutters out of the cloud of lace, a tiny decorative lion dances in a frieze, a woman, needy arms outstretched, holds on to thread bulwarks against some unseen flood while her body dissolves into netting, the knots widen and widen until the limn of her is finished, she melted to loops of distance … and isn’t that how you’ve transformed, once-love, while this strait sleeping-car, this time spirits me away from you and that night we lay two palms folded to each other in prayer: how the cat yowled to be let in! and the moths, darting abortively forward, all ended up by clinging to the screen in the sleep-sacs of their wings, while I rolled to the top of my tongue that word which would end everything and like Sisyphus, let it fall. Nothing brings that second back, yet nothing gets lost; hours that separate me from you only tighten the memory-chain, …