sad poetry in english alone – short sad poetry in english 2019
sad poetry in english alone “When you see a bird, do you think about me?” This is a question which was once asked by Neetu Das, whose pictures and birds have poems made their own style. Indian birds find themselves in the readers of Nityu, an enthusiastic audience. In the last few years, he has pointed out the possible beauty of the wet crow and the secret of painting the Oriental White-eye. His poems bowed to the other intestines, and also arrested the world by sight. His hometown of Guwahati inspired poems on courtesy, like “How to cut a fish”
The first book of Das’ poems, Boki, was published by the Visual Artists Collective in 2008. His second poems, Cyborg proverb, comes nine years later through the publication of Paperwol. She studies English literature at Indraprastha College for Women, University of Delhi. Das spoke to Scroll.in about the joy of translation, bird photography and the invisible labor of writing, teaching and others. Excerpt from interview:
“You taught us … / how herbs can be sunburn.” When you share a birdish fact like this in a poem, then you are reading the reader who has learned you. Is it deliberate – sharing small secrets mysteries? It’s a kind of teacher, I guess. In this poem Sunburn Heron is a guide-like comment that was made by a boat-boy, time. In the reproductive wings, the Indian Pond Heron looks very different from its regular brown and screaming. The time, whose life was one with the beach, said that summer came in the sunshine in the sun. I remember being surprised by the precision of the image. During the same boat ride in the backwater of Palomel, he compared the mangrove roots to Bob Marley’s hair. I believe that time is a poet. When I first met him, he was sixteen years old; He is now twenty-four. He has his motorized boat and calls himself Captain Sammy.
Bird Secrets: I like this method. Many birds are secretive, shy, “cage”. They do not reveal their secret at first glance. They require long periods of observation in the field. The textbook tells you zero. In fact, this desire to share the acquaintance gained after labor is present.
“Like Jesus, a Cormorant sits / in surrender: wet, alone, / meditation.” This image actually represents your poem – the way it respects the distinctive identity of each bird. How do you nail down a perfect image for a bird? I do not believe in reaching a perfect image for a bird. There will be an estimate. Photographing birds are similar to the process of writing poetry. You have to wait for the bird to emerge, find the right light (so that it can go to the bird’s eye flash) and look for the best perspective to look at the general perspective and looks great universal. For the second time, you just run away with your camera and expect that the bird is there, well, it is waiting for you. So even with poetry. You do not even have anything, even experience, and a poem hopes to emerge from leaves and big flowers.
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I saw a bird in love instinct and I saw the need in my daughter. His mother is the only source through which he can feed and I need you, in my land was my seed … So why is cruelty in your eyes the only thing I can read
You often asked if they were shaved, did they often think that they could not see it?
Still alive, even though the moon shakes up the pain, even if there is pain, there is nothing wrong with the ______________________, after which there is moisture in the life.
One aspect of birds and bird photography that has troubled me for some time is that the birds have their place in the form of other animals. What do I see when I look at a bird? When I enlarge it beyond recognition and make it more fast-paced, clear in the eyes, what should I do with it? A bird-image “descending” seems violent to me, but this is what I do.
When you were in Sangam House, you had painted a bird every day. Why did you choose to pursue that activity during a writing residence? I need patience, silence and humility which demands birds. The hardness of waiting for the birds is mainly about coincidence. It teaches you that nothing can be taken. However, if the time is right / mature then everything is possible. Writing for me is also about coincidence. Right light, right dust, right tilt of the wings, right touch of words …
Many of these poets are inspired by your frequent journey. How does the journey shape your writing? Is it compulsive for the material? Is it Relative Relax? Nowadays, I usually travel in search of birds. Any writing that is peripheral with the main purpose I like to travel alone or with another person – usually my partner, or an old friend. The first visit of Ladakh in 2010 was tremendous in all the senses of this word. Now I have gone to Ladakh four times and every traveler feels like a skin extension. I have written a journey about my first visit – some of the series Cyborg is in the proverb – but I have many more poems that revolve within me.
For many of my friends, the zoo only appears as the final product: a picture of a bird on a screw in a beautiful setting. Occasionally, because it includes a certain type of travel and equipment, birds also appear different, foreign, full of fantasy, “sexy”. For me, the zoo can mean the above, but there is a lot more. This “too much” mainly translates into translations of birds in the form of body, in the issues of materiality.
Birding is the struggle to get up before the morning. This is the weight of many heavy objects on my back, shoulders around my neck. It’s hiding every inch of my light sensitive skin. It has eyes and ears in the state of constant and extreme alertness. It is hours and hours of study. It is in the brain while the body is placed on the ground, drawn by the metal and glass gravity. My constant endeavor is to see that this effort has disappeared. Some people can say that this pain will result in poetry. This is not the case for me.
Poems about your father’s dementia are very different from the rest of your work, which is not personal in the traditional sense of the word. Was it challenging to write or incorporate these poems? My father’s dementia has two poems in Syborg proverb. It was written a while back and the second had ended almost a decade after a slow down in 2015. Both were difficult to write and toss in “the method in my letters”. Surprisingly, a person entitled “Dementia” is formed almost entirely. It was not necessary to edit it. I wanted to include these two poems to match the “non-personal” mode in this collection of Sad poetry pics
There are poems in this book, the discovery of sexuality as a young girl, which is appropriate to feel at that age that are rejecting. “At the age of eleven” is a poem that discusses the stages of menstruation at the place where I was born: Guwahati. A eleven year old girl is already a means of social control. His needs have been briefly wiped out and destroyed. I can not say that I subscribe to the Blakean ideas of innocence and experience. A child is also a desirable person and should be kindly understood.
You translate Assamese legend into English. Let us talk a bit about that process. I only translate a short prose story. This option calls itself a lot about my process. People generally talk about translation as the only course of action. However, I feel deeply connected during this act. I am related to the author, my first language, I think I am sympathetically involved with each word. Translation is the closest to poetry, in that sense. I keep Walter Benjamin in mind, “Any translation that intends to make the transmitting function can not transmit anything other than information.” It says, “A symbol of bad translations” is. Translation information is not transmitted. This is too much.
In “How to teach Jane Eyre”, you write, “Do not tire / tire in one day / one decade / day.” How does literature literature read and write? This is a tribute poem and therefore, almost all words are quotes directly from the novel. The interesting thing is that Jane Ayre, when she decides to leave Lodud and go to a new place, says, “I was tired of an eight-year-old daily routine”. She decides to leave teaching in Los Angeles to find a well paid job of a governess in the tragic orbital classes. I can not imagine leaving the class space for anything. My full passion has come from the day-to-day conversation with the students. As a result of my education from Pandita Ramabai, there was a novel series on her life, Robert Browning was responsible for the long phase of theatrical monologues. Whatever I say in my lecture, it turns into poems. Once, while teaching Lyotard, I talked about myself to the Hacball The phrase got its way into a poem. In nearly twenty years of teaching, I learned a lot from students intervention.
If you can read contemporary poetry books which are not in the curriculum, what will they be? At present, it will be wonderful to teach poetry of contemporary people in India. These are so exciting time for us: language is so much neglected in language, thought, subject matter. Very wise!
Is there another book in work? What will happen next? I have been writing poetry sequence for some years: some trips, and a series on Assamese dishes. I think they will be completed in a few months. I’m not sure I’ll publish them soon, though. It took me nine years to go from Boki to Cyborg proverb, therefore, whatever promises I make to myself about being practical in relation to publication, can be a result of the eyes. I want to publish some copies of my exam-thread superhero, Tagman. This is definitely the next one.
This interview was published in the slant’s issue on June 22, 2018. Want more Asian American news, media and culture? Subscribe to your inbox, get free newsletters for every week’s Slant Newsletter.
When it comes to writing with the Filipino experience, Isabel Yap is definitely a writer who comes to mind. A Filipino writer of speculative short stories and poems, a Clarion Writers Workshop Alumna from Yap, and his work has appeared in Tor.com, Uncanny Magazine, Best Strange Tale of the Year and more. She also runs a Twitter account full of authors’ advice.
We caught the phone with Yap, and talked about the difference between the Filipino and Filipino American experiences, why he writes the speculative story, and why does Twitter console him to be unhappy together.
Andrew Hsieh: Can you give us a quick introduction before we start?
Isabel Yap: I am a Filipino writer – I write short stories, mostly speculative diversity, hence science-fi, fictional horror. I really like doing all the genres, and I also write poetry, although not recently. Outside of this, I work in technology, as a product manager recently.
AH: You mentioned that you are a Filipino writer, and in the past we have talked about why you can not consider yourself a Filipino American. How do you recognize
IY: It’s funny. On my Twitter profile, I wanted to know “Manila girl” as one of her “brief things.” [Laughter] I recently changed it to “Filipino” because I thought, “Maybe I do not want to use ‘girl’ as a pigment for myself.”
But I mean, I was born and picked up in the Philippines. When I was 20, I went to the states, so when I went here I was already an adult. And I think of myself as an immigrant, but I am not an American citizen, and I do not know what the limit would be for a US to say to myself. I do not know where it is in my future.
But I was talking to another author yesterday, who came here from Hong Kong, who is ethnic Thai, and works a lot with Kundeman, which is an Asian American writing foundation. And I asked him, “So do you recognize as an Asian American?” Because he and I went around the same age And he said, “Not really, but kind?”
And both of us – I like that we were both, like this – obviously we live in America now. We are probably going to be here for the foreseeable future. We pay attention to Asian American issues. But I do not know what we are. [Laughter] I do not know if I would say to myself.
I know as Filipino, and I grew up – oh, here’s one thing in which he said I strongly recognize. He said that he did not – he does not have the same legacy in heritage that Asian Americans who grew up in the US feel, It was not present for us only. We were in our major culture so far for most of our lives, so we do not have the same feeling. The things we worry about and stress and our parents or whatever is in heritage are very different from the people who grew up here.
And when I went to the states and I went here to land in Santa Clara, I realized, I am an Asian student. I’m like a foreign student. The people I have been hanging with are foreign Asian students. And this was what I was thinking more about the race and more deliberately about being a person of color. And when I went to the writing community, it was very stressed.
And this is in my kind of fiction workshop – I wrote a story using the words of Tagalog, and I did italikis, because this is what was used to bring me back home because I write in English. And it became a big discussion for the class. Like, “Why is he doing italicis to his words? Is that the second thing? Is it deliberate? Is he writing for a white audience?”
And I was like “O God”. [Laughter] I have never thought about these things. I was like this, I write what I write. So I have been made to identify myself as another [laugh] in terms of going here, and is living in London for a year.
It was also strange, because when I am now in other countries and I talk to the people, they all agree that I am from America, and I tell them, “No, I’m a Filipino.” And they say, “But you sound like an American?” [Laughter] And I feel strange about it, but I know why they say so. Because I calibrate my English for more sound like an American, now when I am speaking English.
I think specially in California, I have commented on my pronunciation to people, “You do not sound the Filipino” with everything “You sound phillippino.” For me, this is very interesting, because I can not hear your own pronunciation. But when I meet someone from Manila, I can hear it. Like, the way I talk to, I talk, so this is the only time when I know what kind of pronunciation I have. For me, this is interesting in California, where there are more Filipino, I get a full range of “You do not utter utterance” to do “Filipino sound”.
AH: You mentioned that class you had discussed on whether you were harassing yourself for a white audience – it is affected by how you write today? Has this forced you to think of which audience you are writing for?
IY: The main layout that I received from that conversation was that I probably should not now italicize my words. And you know, from where I am coming, even in the Philippines, we do this, I do not care if an editor asks me to change it, but I will not do it for starting. And it’s like answering people, “Whom are you writing for?”
‘The point of my teacher, which was really amazing, when you used to italicize it, it used to draw attention to the text. This is a word that is not in English, and therefore it seems that you are catering to a white audience. Whereas if you leave it there, it’s like your background, you can read it and take the text, and you can recognize this word or not. This is a small adjustment for me, because I do not have any strong opinion on this, but now I say this in my story.
And you can not escape the question of who my audience is, and for whom I write, especially if you are of any kind of minority, give quotation quotes. [Laughs] If you are a color person, if you are a quick person, then you may be asked that, especially if your story does not always come from your perspective.
But my answer to that question has always been, “I write for whatever I want to read my content.” I really do not want to choose who I am writing for. If someone can read my work and take something from it, then I am really happy. But I have to qualify it, if you have to force me to choose a group, then I am writing for Filipino students. As such, it is the viewer who makes me the happiest, when someone tells me that he wrote something which I have written. ‘Because I essentially write for myself. I am able to write these stories for children in the Philippines, or can write for the Filipino children anywhere else in the world, and now they have the story where it was not the story.
AH: People responded that who is not necessarily the Filipino student?
IY: Yes, I mean, when people are not Filipinos, they read my work, they say, “It’s really interesting, it really is different.” sad poetry about love I’ve got the foreign word twice
AH: Oh boy.
IY: Yes. And I read my review, even if many people say that you should not. I just want to know. And I know that some people have said, especially stories that are in the Philippines-centric or in the Philippines, “it was difficult to follow, it was difficult to understand, I wish they had explained this word further , Or something else like this cultural. ”
I once wrote a story about this festival which was called the Chaityas Festival, and it was a story that the reader who is not Filipinos.
I only saw and heard Dylan Thomas. De mortuis …. Maybe I am inappropriate to remember him; But this memory is deeply engraved as a symbol of greatness for me; And it is with this sign that I will always remember this man and poet whom I did not know.
It was a public reading of poetry in a university. Three o’clock – who read poems at three o’clock in the afternoon? – Large lecture room was half full of students, visitors and faculty spraying. The introduction was rigorous, formal, academic, and distant. Then the poet proceeded for the lecture. Not only was this poet. There was no lean, sensitive face with Greasian curls and dreams, look very far in his eyes familiar to Dulle Thomas by Young Augustus John who became a trademark for every edition of the works of the poet. (It is fortunately on the cover of the present quantity.) Instead, the man behind the lecture was quite stupid and stocky, a muscular face, a furious, almost angry, an eye, a forceful jaw, a haircut, a wrinkle suit And a loose collar and tie.
It was time to absorb the initial shock; Because he had trouble finding his bearings behind the lecture. She easily appeared unstable, nervous and sick. The notes he was reading were written on loose sheets, which looked like a paper scrap. As soon as he was shifting them sharply, he probably put them in some sort of order, they got trapped on the floor. She fell down, scrambled after him and plagiarized them in strange signals- everything cursed in sotto voice boycott. Then he poured himself a glass of water; Not only was he He caught the water pitcher with a huge hand and placed the target of glass down; But he missed it; And a steady stream of water ran from the pitcher to the floor. There was no doubt that he was unstable. No laughed There was a deep silence in the room.
Dylan Thomas’ writing desk, on which he placed a photo of Walt Whitman Halfton archive / Getty Images
Then he started reading from his notes without a word of greeting. If he is ashamed to read quickly and half-hearing; But whatever he wrote, was excellent as an introduction and commentary for his lessons: quick, sharp pen sketches of poets – he looks like a catch on Hardy riding a bicycle or catching the best in live portraits in a family group The table, and the subtle, sensitive insight holds the heart of the poem with a sympathetic eyes and ears and an attitude is love, hesitation and disorganized like That these confessions were not meant to be, as they were not, before the college audience to read public. Let’s finish it as soon as possible, because I’m suffering – he used to say and almost said in these words. And then the initial shock gave way to the wave of deep sympathy between his listeners; Because he was clearly suffering. It was some kind of anger, and he responded with a hidden humiliation and suppressing anger.
Let’s get it so that I can read a poem. When he arrived for books from his side, he was getting an adaptation. There was nothing unstable about his hand and voice. He rose from a returning crotch in the currency of princely independence and self-reliant separation. She was alone with poetry. And reading it redeemed anger and purified the feeling of shame. They read like it was the work of worship.
His voice still stays in a bunch of black celluloid cylinders – because everyone listens when he was alive, who did not listen to him, because everyone had asked to share this magic of sacramental sacraments of poetry. It was the tilt and resonance of their Welsh singing voice, they say, maybe …. It was a ritual call to praise the power and glory of words, rhythm, and images in the form of ritualistic instruments to transmit transient transit of experience in endless symbols, sensual depths, and permanent symbols.
They said, “These poems, with all their anger, suspicion and delusion, have been written for the love and praise of God, and if they were not, then I would be a silly fool,” he said in an adventurous confession in the preface Said for their collective poems. There is no doubt about man’s own love. Though private “Some light of my personal struggle from darkness records in the direction of light” they celebrate the love of living and hate for all men to die, against rebirth and rebirth in the nature and nature of rebirth and prayer Prayers are the sadness and misery of real existence The spiritual variation of man is centered around the symbolic work of “holy spring” and poetic touching in its simplicity walks through the succession of symbols – and perhaps limited-in their simplicity: spring and weather, sun and moon, fern hill and Jawwis Hill Wells, rising from sea and ancient trees, lovers and nuts, children and “Cauldron roots” of death. It is a simple task of confirming living and love, through a simple wreath placed on the altar of natural holiness.
But the twenty short stories that are made on the scale of this prose work are not very comic and light-free. Instead the atmosphere is dark and night, almost in Po and Kafka. Stories are peopled with witch, nuts and killers. In “The True Story” murders and pieces of clothing, “The Dress” and “The West” are killed in two other stories. Stories are consumed by dissolving: “Orchard” is on fire; And “The Burning Baby”, the child of sexual intercourse between father and daughter, is set on fire by the Rev. Rice Rise, who believes that their child is the embodiment of the Savior: “The world is mature to the second coming of man,” he says Promotions in the church “Burn, child, poor meat, meat, meat, meat, sick, sorry meat, meat of unclean womb burn back on the dust,” Father prays madly while the dead child burns at the top of the mountain Ui keeps funeral. This is an idolatrous world of Phoenix, which is growing with fire, or in the “trees” of a stupid crucifix by a child on Jarvis Hills, “their trees pull the moon from grass” or “The Mouse and the Woman” , “A madman is screaming like a dog” in the paranormal roof of the paranormal shelter “who used to whistle in the spring.”
This is probably the crazy, miserable world of man’s worst kind of wilderness, and some short stories of some of the pages written in the simplest language have got the most misconceptions with an infinite compassion and love. During the approach of death, “visitor” in his wife dies, “hold my hand.” “And then: Why are you putting the sheet on my face?” “She did not hear him, but stood on the bed and fixed it with an unhappy sorrow.” Or, in the moving story “After the fair”, a woman wanted, lost, amused, and wanted by police, and Circus Fat Man, “I am a fat man, I have no one to touch for obesity,” with whom She takes shelter and goes out to bring out the founder children gathered in the tent of astrologer, a strange holy family on the flight of Egypt. When the child starts crying incomprehensibly, Fat Man and woman get out at night to crank angrily engine on the Dead Fairgrounds:
As soon as the crossroads began … the child stopped crying on the girl’s breast, grabbed his hands together and became angry with him. The night air strikes through its hair, the music gets entangled in its ears. … and so men of caravan found them, Fat Man and Girl spun on their mechanical steads for a continuous growing magic of the limbs, in black with a child in their arms of Sad poetry.
This is a sad world; And despite the supreme achievement of art, struggle for some measure of light should be intense and painful.
He died. And the beginning of a new world for the poet, is another public form of expression from these private confessions of poetry and prose, under which there is a way forward towards another public form of expression, under which a verse in Wilder’s way The radio script under the radio drama Milk Wood started our town, and the script called The Doctor and the Devils created on the old moral theme that ” City gives “- murder; Therefore, “Do not stand in the way of the advancement of medical science” – this new beginning was cut in the threshold by the death in 1953.