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The Paradigm -- Nammalwar

Guest poem sent in by Ravi Rajagopalan
(Poem #1381) The Paradigm
 We here and that man, this man,
     and that other in-between,
 and that woman, this woman,
     and that other, whoever,

 those people, and these,
     and these others in-between,
 this things, that thing,
     and this other in-between, whichever,

 all things dying, these things,
     those things, those others in-between,
 good things, bad things,
     things that were, that will be,

 being all of them,
 he stands there.
-- Nammalwar
           (ca AD 850), Tr by AK Ramanujan

We had a recent bereavement, and in my grief, trying to sleep and failing, I
picked up this slim volume called "Hymns for the Drowning: Poems for Vishnu
by Nammalwar" by AK Ramanujan, and read this gem. I had purchased this book
in Chennai recently to better acquaint myself with my ancestry. When I read
this poem I felt things fall into place for me, and even as I write this I
can feel the emotions well up due to the loss of a long-awaited one.

Nammalwar is often called the greatest of the Tamil poets who sang songs in
praise of Vishnu (known as Alwars) and was the one of the creators of the
Tamil Bhakti cult. He is supposed to have lived between AD880 to AD930, from
a peasant family, and apparently died at the age of 35. He composed more
than a thousand poems, and the work from which this one is taken
("Tiruvaymoli") is the best known. By the time he died his influence on the
common man was so profound that statues of Nammalwar were installed at most
Tamil shrines where they are worshipped to this day, and his songs are
celebrated and sung by people every day in Tamil Nadu. Not many poets are
revered this way.

The doyen of Tamil scholars, Prof A K Ramanujan, the translator, taught for
many years at the University of Chicago and died in 1993 at the age of
sixty-four. The original poem in Tamil is a simple gem of pronouns and
semiotic pointers, and it goes to the genius of Prof Ramanujan that he has
managed to create through translation what I thought was a beautiful piece
of verse in itself.

The poem is addressed to Vishnu, the Preserver of the Universe in the Hindu
trinity. Nammalwar was a devout man, and truly believed that Vishnu is
immutable and inclusive, of people and things, birth and death, joy and
sorrow. In this poem, Nammalwar plays on Tamil pronouns to point to each of
us present and not present, man or woman, and every object, dead or alive.
The poem is one long sentence, and starting with the 'we' at the start, and
the "he" - denoting Vishnu - at the end, Nammalwar manages to create a sense
of one-ness and inclusion. However, as Prof Ramanujan says, Nammalwar
manages to point to a central stillness or oneness - "He stands there".

To quote from Prof Ramanujan - since I cannot better this - in a poem like
this "grammar becomes poetry, and poetry becomes theology. If one may be
fanciful, the 'present perfect' here describes both a grammatical form and
the form of the divine. Conceptions of god are enacted by word and syntax;
furthermore, god's one-and-manyness becomes the living word to be uttered,
danced to, sung and chanted in temples as these poems are to this day".

For me, I began to feel the stillness underlying our lives and the process
of coping with loss is just beginning.

BR

ravi

The Ideal -- James Fenton

       
(Poem #1380) The Ideal
 This is where I came from.
 I passed this way.
 This should not be shameful
 Or hard to say.

 A self is a self.
 It is not a screen.
 A person should respect
 What he has been.

 This is my past
 Which I shall not discard.
 This is the ideal.
 This is hard.
-- James Fenton
An reader (who wishes to remain anonymous) sent me this poem, saying "I
loved it - it's concise, but it speaks volumes." I loved it too, if for a
slightly different reason - this is one of those poems that appears to be
drifting on aimlessly, until you reach the ending, and the whole suddenly
crystallises. The final two lines,

  This is the ideal.
  This is hard.

not only form a wonderful conclusion to the poem, but by their minimalist
form lead the reader to reevaluate the language and form of the previous
verses. Viewed in isolation, the second verse tends perilously close to
doggerel; as part of a larger whole the awkward construction only reinforces
the 'voice' of the poem.

Note the somewhat unusual use of rhyme and metre to give the poem an
*unpolished* air (or, perhaps 'unsophisticated' is a better word) - contrast
this with Poem #186, which claims to do this, but does not.

martin

Rain -- Naomi Shihab Nye

Guest poem sent in by Nelson JS Santhosh
(Poem #1379) Rain
 A teacher asked Paul
 what he would remember
 from third grade, and he sat
 a long time before writing
 "this year somebody tutched me
 on the sholder"
 and turned his paper in.
 Later she showed it to me
 as an example of her wasted life.
 The words he wrote were large
 as houses in a landscape.
 He wanted to go inside them
 and live, he could fill in
 the windows of "o" and "d"
 and be safe while outside
 birds building nests in drainpipes
 knew nothing of the coming rain.
-- Naomi Shihab Nye
Comments:

I don't know much about the poetic merits of this modern piece. But what I do
know is that Naomi takes a stereotype, turns it upside down and shows what
strange waters can flow from the most unexpected of places if you can see
them. I have always known that a dunce is not so a dunce if you don't look
for them. So many of these so-called "dunces" were some of the best friends
I had, guys who would gang up & beat seniors who ragged me while
"intellectuals" watched in fear. Whenever teachers slapped these "dunces", I
would always want to scream at them, but I had to quietly satisfy myself
with splashing ink on their clean shirts and sarees when they weren't
looking. That was once upon a time, but I still fill the windows of my "o"s
and "d"s and don't even leave out the tiny half-moon of "e" ;-)

Nelson

Biography:
  [broken link] http://voices.cla.umn.edu/authors/NYEnaomishihab.html

The Horses -- Edwin Muir

Guest poem sent in by Simon Pereira Shorey
(Poem #1378) The Horses
 Barely a twelvemonth after
 The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
 Late in the evening the strange horses came.
 By then we had made our covenant with silence,
 But in the first few days it was so still
 We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
 On the second day
 The radios failed; we turned the knobs, no answer.
 On the third day a warship passed us, headed north,
 Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
 A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
 Nothing. The radios dumb;
 And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
 And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
 All over the world. But now if they should speak,
 If on a sudden they should speak again,
 If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
 We would not listen, we would not let it bring
 That old bad world that swallowed its children quick
 At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
 Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
 Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
 And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
 The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
 They look like dank sea-monsters crouched and waiting.
 We leave them where they are and let them rust:
 "They'll molder away and be like other loam."
 We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,
 Long laid aside. We have gone back
 Far past our fathers' land.
 And then, that evening
 Late in the summer the strange horses came.
 We heard a distant tapping on the road,
 A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
 And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
 We saw the heads
 Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
 We had sold our horses in our fathers' time
 To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
 As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield
 Or illustrations in a book of knights.
 We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
 Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
 By an old command to find our whereabouts
 And that long-lost archaic companionship.
 In the first moment we had never a thought
 That they were creatures to be owned and used.
 Among them were some half a dozen colts
 Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
 Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
 Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads,
 But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
 Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
-- Edwin Muir
           (1887-1959)

A deeply moving poem, I first came across it in the English countryside in
the 1970's when the Cold War was at it's height and the idea of a nuclear
exchange initiating an apocalypse was not too far away.

Now living in Manhattan through September 11th, the idea of a biological
warfare catastrophe seems no longer confined to the pages of science fiction
novels.

The contrast between the purity of the horses and the corruption of
mechanized 'civilization' has a strong elegiac quality.

Simon Pereira Shorey

Biography: See Poem #1233

The Quiet World -- Jeffrey McDaniel

Guest poem sent in by Ivan Krstic
(Poem #1377) The Quiet World
 In an effort to get people to look
 into each other's eyes more,
 the government has decided to allot
 each person exactly one hundred
 and sixty-seven words, per day.

 When the phone rings, I put it
 to my ear without saying hello.
 In the restaurant I point
 at chicken noodle soup. I am
 adjusting well to the new way.

 Late at night, I call my long
 distance lover and proudly say
 I only used fifty-nine today.
 I saved the rest for you.

 When she doesn't respond, I know
 she's used up all her words
 so I slowly whisper I love you,
 thirty-two and a third times.
 After that, we just sit on the line
 and listen to each other breathe.
-- Jeffrey McDaniel
In a time where the Digital Millenium Copyright Act (DMCA) stifles
academic research[1], the European Union is evaluating a combined
medical-record-on-a-card system that would contain a microchip ultimately
able to store any piece of personal information, and bars in Vancouver are
networking to be able to keep track of patrons [2], two things are
certain. One, Orwell is turning in his grave, and two - Richard Stallman's
infamous story 'The Right to Read' is getting scarier by the day [3].

Though mixing politics and poetry is somewhat like mixing two extremely
volatile chemicals, McDaniel, a contemporary poet with a rather
interesting style, seems to do it effortlessly - and powerfully.
Powerfully enough that questioning even the right to read wasn't
appropriate to carry McDaniel's message. Instead, McDaniel went directly
to the source of one of the greatest distinctions between humans and
virtually any other species on the planet: the existence of an elaborate
language that allows for arbitrary, not just survival-mandated,
expression. McDaniel goes beyond just revoking the First Amendment - in
his world, the government restricts how much people can say, a measure
perhaps even more dreadful than dictating what can and cannot be said.

The first two stanzas of the poem flow nicely, including the (obvious)
autosuggestion of good adaptation to the new way; the next two stanzas
carry the real impact of this poem. The image of two lovers on the phone,
unable to speak, makes me cringe. So does the exactness of McDaniel's
detail. Even though he's describing an overarching social condition, he
still sneaks in very precise images - the chicken noodle soup, and the 32
1/3 times he says 'I love you' to his silent lover (167 words - 59 = 108
and -11 for the last two lines of the 3rd stanza = 97. Now 97 / 3 for 'I
love you' gives the 32 1/3).

Ultimately, the last two lines of the poem are a worthy conclusion - an
idea of closure, of acceptance. The lovers know their situation is
inescapable and beyond any capacity for repair - so they sit on the line,
and let their breathing express the love which words may not.

-Ivan

On McDaniel:

Brief bio, with sound clips of two of his poems:
   http://www.salon.com/audio/2000/10/05/mcdaniel/

Interview (by Jaime Wright):
   http://www.jaimewright.ws/int_mcdaniel2.html

References
[1] http://www.citi.umich.edu/u/provos/ or
    http://www.monkey.org/~dugsong/
      - both are brilliant computer security researchers
[2]
[broken link] http://www.canada.com/vancouver/story.asp?id=936FC638-D1F5-4BA0-8E4B-1F4FEADEA16D
[3] http://www.gnu.org/philosophy/right-to-read.html