Saturday 31 March 2018

Essay on poetry Journey

Crafting Poetry
January-April 2018
___________________________________________________________________________________________________


I must admit the class workshops was therapeutic. Quite surprised at classmates
honesty in baring their thoughts in it. Since I missed the midterm submission of 6 poems.
Restarting from scratch to finally pen down. I was quite critical of it since
I am never good at words. I found myself recollecting unrecorded experiences of life,
esp inaudible instances and moments which was undeciphered. I found myself also
waiting in the present to let words come in from what I see and observe
everyday. Switch my thought towards what I am actually doing at the moment, this
is a renewed experience for me because I find my thought process which used to
be constantly muddled up ranting out bits by bits in raw unprocessed emotive words
. The drafting piece has lots of lines unused yet it was fun to pick add or delete....
playing with sentences and googling grammer synonyms has led to richer vocabulary...
learning new words and awareness on grammar accuracy, left me
wondering if the gift of words is an inherent or an acquired skill.
Poetry is a safe space to vent...a space to hammer,
transform and give strength to our  language and celebrating the crafted mind.


The deep concentration and feeling of the moment as a
waiting period for words to flow was the fuel of the first Poem
‘I breathe’. The Villanelle structure was birthed when I placed
the rhyming of words. From the words itself brings meanings
and new resonance which I connect the dots with migratory
familial spaces to society to political. I didn't intend to but it turned
out into a new stream of thought. It has music element on which
i traced a friend’s who is musician and his absence after his
death and the current grief has led me to understand what is
this present now. Wrote this poem in waves of heightened
emotion and fear. The poem further led to the emphasis on hands
as a major subsequent themes in the rest of my poems.
Speaking of the past history and upbringing has been a major
topic in my everyday engagement to decipher...and the
everyday working of hands stood out as a major theme in the
rest of the poems as well...I am noticing...through the hands
is what comes the eating of fruit good or bad, a metaphor of
nurturing role or brought even the possibilities of Eve giving fruit
to Adam. Holding thy hand as a representation of the Creator.
Poems I infused in is things from pre acquired beliefs, things
from lived visuals and silence in my writing is also used as a
main drive  for noting down such non-verbal experiences. I
enjoyed the repeated techniques of villanelle. From this birth
the direction to reality, was rewarding. The poem didn't not
succumb only to private sphere but also moves in legal matter
and even political and cultural catastrophe. In short its best
to write in bad moods, so sometimes I’d write when I am
physically hungry.


I took weeks to finally finish the draft of ‘April’. Found the theme
most challenging to write. putting in bits of past experiences
and the poem April meant to have this resonance of the many
years of april counting from decades in dreading the coming
month of 2018 which is next month. The dates was important
and I resorted with time calculation because of the important
events in April. The familiar sights in the approaching summer
like the cassias always seemed like weeping peacefully. it was
also times of goodbyes to loved ones and celebrating of their
birthdays and anniversaries. However it was after the political
performative poetry workshop, I find the family as politically
socio-economic structure and a closest confide of everyday
interactions. I also wanted to see how my perspective would
change after spilling out an uninterrogated past emotions.
The performative style was different in every performative
poem that I listened for hours. Some are lyrical and narrative and
some sounded more like a resistance in an angry protest, an
urgency. Angershatters and breaks into a mess, I still feel the
poem needs to be edited and I am not satisfied in terms of  laying
it out everywhere, I don't understand myself where to put,
what to add and delete or what I wanted to express and in
consideration of what audience I am speaking to. There are too
many characters in thought...I also took advantage of writing
some excerpts from the movie scripts 'Jungle' in the life story
of amazon trekker survivor...i like the way the red ants falls on
him and bites him where he planned this to wake himself up
from psychological hallucination. After writing this poem I fear
no more and ready to embrace the April month.


I enjoyed the visual possibilities of ‘Poetry of everyday objects’
 and transferring it into humane sensibilities...I feel I should
work more on the visualisation in writing poems, this may blend
well with my artwork practice as well. The wristwatch
stemmed on the four line poem exercise from the class, to ‘dig
in the sublime thought as the brand’ talk against the popular
capitalist things we consume everyday. Basing the worth of an
object by branding is a rejection of the particular worth of a
gift. The rest of the objects i picked were dearly loved objects,
that which I am familiar ad remember where it come from,
 was an easier path to bring out sensibilities in a tea bag, red
velvet cake and Tea tree essential oil. Though honestly
overnight, I guess objects that we continue to use everyday
will bring more nuances as I spend more time with it.


The following independent poem - Unfinished lines starts with
symbolically known historical elements like Auguste Rodin's
hands and ends with Kintsugi a japanese art of mending broken
pottery by Gold. I took more pleasure in using those popular
forms to create a meaning of the love poem in a couplet. This
poem is largely an inaudible expressions except for the
whispering, giving more emphasis on the potential of invisible
lines. This was purely playful. Using the traces from object
poetry and inaudible but experiential expressions except for
a whisper.  In another independent poem ‘Here’ I thought of
one theme ‘here’, as a space to talk. A certain space, certain
person, and certain conditions and intentionally made it into
a meditative poem. As a reminder as well, because out of my
habit to write notes wherever I walking, sitting, at any given
time, I thought why not make a poem which is set as a note
reminder to enhance the journey of authenticity.


Altered beauty, a response poem from Nitoo Das ‘Geeta
sings thumri’, I followed the same pattern of  four stanza, seven
stanza and two stanzas gave boundaries and did brought
of meaning in its shifts. Getting to read Nitoo Das’s works and
the aim to bring out its interiority .has brought focus on the
concern of editing and directional mechanism of technology
and media.  The concept of movie director’s portrayal and the
larger scope of media is huge and vast to generalise it all in.
So i narrowed down into an everyday social media level because
that way is also a public persona and what are we do
without reexamining consumption of visual in the
advertisements and media.


Power of short words, short poems, it's been short four
months of poetry but I shall use this as another quiet space for
venting out. Sometimes I wonder if i edit too much or just let
the words flow with the mix of emotions filtering by time. I
enjoyed the reading and editing of friend's poems, seeing
different insights of weakness and strengths of each poems
and how all these is an integral experiences expressed in
crafted text and filling our blog. At one point I was shocked
too when people laughed at a certain opinion which is against
my faith and I struggled  to break out from their one
dimensional background. But eventually I came in peace with
it that all those exercises stays in the classroom and
renewed respect even in difference of opinions was what
shape me. Sir's example of punctuality and preparedness
was which led to birth of poems. A simple act, what is in
poetry is expanding its nuances from that very simple act.
Words are still blunt and spread everywhere as I draft but
the draft i think is a gold mine to always go back when lost.


________________________________________________________________________


Written By,
Gracelia Gangmei


MA VISUAL ART

Friday 30 March 2018

Altered Beauty (Geeta Sings Thumri)


Shutter, snaps and shots
Vain disdainful selfies
A mastered smize
Chicken hands poses
Female gaze. male gaze
Like some hideous trick of fate
Sardonic laughs

House of cards

Easily destroyed by flick of finger
Weighing by rectangular pixels
whats on background
whats on foreground
A new name: Naturally filtered frame.

Carefully lined large khol eye
s

A moon face. scarlet lips
Curls, straight or highlighted hair
Whats really your natural hair?

Ed, I'm thinking our loud

Maybe you both found love right where you were!

Fabricating her porcelain body

A bigger booty standing on 3 inch heels
Pulsating curves, spasmodic movements
Flushed blushes. Fat talks

Go on for the stage the pedestal

Making moths into butterflies
Top designers steals from flora and sunsets
Perform in-front of the lens
Record. edit. until you forget
What food actually taste like

You framed me

Into your definition of beauty
Eloquent captions. Pitch Perfect Smule
I shall not yield
to the media pageant!
My beauty is my breathe
Until I grow aged silver locks
And Smile a
a wrinkle smile.

Here

So much freedom as I sit
I see none but feel all
waiting waiting
I am a waiter
I only wait for you
To feel Your Images more
A room divider
In veils…in shades…
Just You and me
Here.
Tolerant safe space
Uttering my slippery tongue
Help me!
With this ongoing disturbing images
Old flames burning
As I sit with You
You stoop down
To cleanse my feet
How could You?
I buried my face on my knees
My green lens replaced by Your loving Lens
Cleansing me layer by layer
Your Blood slashing the poisonous purple veins creeping on my back
I see only darkness dying
Clapping with thankfulness
In my shakened serenity
I sing You a love song
My cleansed feet ready to walk
To those You love
Release my ears like You hear
To listen broken voices
Grasping every solitude
To talk to You
To hear You say each day
‘I am Your Pillow
Your Confide.’

Thursday 29 March 2018

My Left Arm


“Get help…”
Before
an unwanted
amputation.

Breathe
in cycles.
In and out.
In and out.

Before colours
of ‘a new you’
even start
to come to life.

Or bloom
a new tinge;
a crack
in the bone.

As one limb
lays numb,
silent
and hurting.

Memories
of yesteryears
wash and amass.
Spring floods.

A shift
in sleep
does not help.
Pity party.

Tears are alright.
Pain is alright.
Alone is here.
Alone is now.

Life is sadnormal.
And arms
are extensions
of oneself.

Response to Nitoo Das' The Poetry of Everyday Life: I


The Poetry of Everyday Life: I (i)


A.C.

A flick of the switch.
A respite, or annoyance;
I bring a drop in the atmosphere.

Tubelight

An invitation.
Open to all. Or none.
Intimate, physical; public.
In broad daylight.

Wristwatch

Shackles, literal restraints.
Time bound and routinely,
I organize life,
and reveal your (de)merits.

Photograph

smiles galore.
coffee cups and airports,
White Lies and denim jackets.
Timelines paused. smiles, again;
memories and tears.

unfinished lines


_

Centennial sway of Rodin's hands
Unraveling our arms

Sculpted legs
Sinking in deep naps

our consummated kiss,
its taste no one will have its recipe.

Dilated pupils and wet eyes,
Whispering make my love fly home safe.

Highlighting a moment of unutterable groaning
A cracked golden radiance of Kintsugi.

_

GraceliaGangmei

Wednesday 28 March 2018

The Poetry of Everyday Life: I


_
A wristwatch

From a beating heart flows streams of steel and gold 
Ballet hands shifting scapes
Steady the 6 crystals of shame and 6 crystals of honor 
Only your sublime thought is the brand

_
a tea bag 

Bravest one
Dipping in hot water
seeping out from your fabric
a Smokin' scarlet
 whirling fumes.
_

Red velvet cake

My scarlet bodice
A bride in white cheesy icing
Kept aside for a special memory
Spoiling tongues
 Disobedience melting
Shared sweetness
is freeing.
_

Tea tree essential oil

Pouring to purify
Invisible yet so present
Biting ruthless aroma
Acne, allergies and flu flee
Healing skin and air
A lingering promise

_
GraceliaGangmei

How to (not) trust

There aren't people left to trust
Giving you a box full of lies
Where the wicked guise as just

In dog days a friend's a must
To shoulder and absorb your cries
For there aren't people left to trust

Sometimes you need a thrust
To see spaces with new eyes
But the wicked still guise as just

Even today my faith is rust
And longs to see blue skies
Are there people left to trust ?

Hopes crushed in sand and dust
Do you not hear their woeful cries
And still, the wicked guise as just

 It isn't easy for people to mistrust
For it requires you to be wise
There aren't people left to trust
Still the wicked guise as just

Tuesday 27 March 2018

Response to Nitoo Das's how to cut a fish

Why Did I Learn to Fry Fish

At the age of sixteen,
I begged my mother to teach me how to fry fish
She taught me how to pass squishy and slippery
Pieces of fish under cold running water
And how to pick the odd plastic like scales from the skin.

Since I had always loved fish,
The stagnant watery smell that filled the tiny kitchen
Didn’t bother me because the idea of biting
Into hot succulent flesh and crispy skin of cooked fish
Helped me go through the slimy process of making it.

Massaging a mixture,
Of salt, red chili powder and turmeric powder
Onto raw fish pieces is not as easy as you might think.
One has to be careful not to squish the raw fish
 So hard that the fish bones stick out and prick you.

Since that day,
I have never let fish bones prick my hands
Neither while eating nor while preparing it.
I learned countless fish recipes from my mother,
Cooked them for her and gorged on them myself.

But now that I’m a bride,
The joy of frying and even eating fish is gone.
As I wash the raw fish pieces under the running water,
The pungency of boiling hot mustard oil and raw fish,
Assault me while I serve my life sentence in the kitchen.

I put on my armor,
A perforated ladle and the lid of the wok,
To stop the bubbling oil from scarring me more.
I battle with the fish while my real enemy was outside,
Watching television in the drawing room.

Irritating fumes spread,
Through the whole house when fresh juicy fish
Hits the smoking mustard oil in the wok.
My husband yells as usual to turn on the exhaust,
As they make even his nose and eyes water.

Today however,
I refuse to blow away the fumes that make him tear up.
The water in the fish evaporated with lots of loud, roaring bubbles.
They sound like applause or the firecrackers during Diwali,
Today the bubbles loudly ssssssssssshed  my husband for me.

Inertia


Oh how I hate change,
It never inspires me.
And how I love routine,
It never bores me.

I hate getting out of bed in the mornings,
No matter how much needs to be done.
And I love remaining seated on the metro,
Even if the next station is my destination.

I hate getting rid of old hair bands,
Even if the elastics have all rotten.
And I love collecting old perfume bottles,
Even though their scents I’ve forgotten.

I hate deleting apps from my phone,
Even if I haven’t used them in the longest time.
And I love re-reading Agatha Christie novels,
Even though I remember the culprit of every crime.

I hate listening to Lady Gaga’s Joanne,
I know exactly which note will break my heart.
And I love re-watching 10 minute Youtube videos,
Even though I remember the exact jokes that made me laugh.

What is it that I’m clinging onto?
I haven’t even made that many memories.
Neither is the present quite so terrible,
That I need to fantasize about past centuries.










 

Trainwreck


I am very good at being calm and collected,
Actually I’m just really good at pretending to be calm.
Afraid to be called a hysterical woman or an angry feminazi,
I’ve started keeping calm little man in my head.

When a man makes me uncomfortable in the metro,
And I want to scream and gouge his eyeballs out.
The calm one startles me and makes me take a deep breath,
A breath so deep that my fucking throat hurts.

While I splutter and cough he takes over,
And tries to make sense of the train wreck in my brain.
By this time, the culprit or perhaps the victim of my anger,
Has already gotten off at some platform.

The little calm man knows how to manage,
The various trains in the busy railway station.
Where each fucking thought comes crashing into one another,
Onto this made up platform inside my head.

The calm one is tinkering in the control room,
He is stopping some trains and letting others pass.
The ones he lets pass are full of questions and thoughts,
Designed to invalidate my anger and confuse me.

Maybe he was just looking at my too- long hair,
The hair which I have curled and dyed a bright green,
Or was he looking at my large breasts which I can’t seem to hide,
No matter how many safety pins and buttons I use.

Leaning lazily against the walls of the control room,
The calm little man is ignoring the controls.
He is confident that these thoughts will consume me,
And help me maintain the facade of a dignified calm.

However an angry train cuts clean to the platform,
So powerful that it derails all other thoughts.
It beckons me as its doors smoothly slide open really wide,
And after I enter, they shut tight and trap me in.

The true injustice of the world blacken the windows,
Suffocating inside this train I bang on the doors.
The calm one quickly muscles me out and banishes the thought,
And saves me from boiling in my own rage.  

The calm one steals control of my body from me,
Muting my tongue and paralyzing my fists.
It both scares me and comforts me to know that he ensures,  
That my anger just reddens my neck and cheeks.

The calm little man tells me to check my body,
I try to stop the adrenaline from the flight or fight mode.
In the voice that sounds disturbingly similar to my mother’s,
The calm one praises and comforts me.



Response to Nitoo Das's Geeta Sings a Thumri

Dear Stefani Joanne Germanotta

“Love is objectified
By what men say is right
Scheiße, scheiße be mine
Bull shit, be mine
Blonde high-heeled feminists,
Enlisting femmes for this
Express your womankind,
Fight for your right” 

The bucktoothed sixteen year old me
Half whispered, half sang those words
In a science class in a convent school
While balancing equations of carbon molecules.

I often dreamed of your teal wigs,
Waiting desperately to color my own hair
Going through the same limitations you underwent,
When you blow-dried your hair at your convent.

I was just one of the many, many millions,
Who called you Gaga or Mother Monster
Your crazy music videos enraptured and transported me,
And your screams outside the White House inspired me.

Like countless others I was broken hearted for you,
When rumors flew that Luc broke your heart.
But seeing you kiss Taylor in your mother’s wedding dress,
Made it seem that you were happy more or less.

While singing Sound of Music at the Oscars
You showed us your giant engagement ring,
Goddess of Love, you took us to Venus,
Your neon costumes made us Partynauseous.

But slowly you started showing us your hand,
You spoke of your hip trauma and rape,
Along with our mother, we monsters came of age,
And you started taking off your wigs on stage.

And on the set of your first single off Joanne,
Because of your simple t-shirt and makeup,
You were worrying about us:
“Do you think that like some of my older fans
are going to be disappointed that I’m not all dressed up?”

And many did end up disappointed Stefani,
I’m sorry that our fantasies trapped you in Gaga,
And it wasn’t just you in a Perfect Illusion
We too had been enjoying a Perfect Illusion.

“I can’t help realize that when
I sold 10 million records
I lost Matt.
I sell 30 million,
I lose Luc.
I get the movie,
I lose Taylor.
It’s like turnover”

Not just the wigs and costumes and makeup,
But the illusion of a Mother who would always protect us,
It was painful to see the toll it, no, we took on you,
You started singing about the raw and hurting you.

As you moaned and cried through Fibromyalgia,
Came the sad realization to me that no amount of glitter,
Leather jackets, lace front wigs or latex cheekbones,
Could disguise how you too had skin and bones.

Bones that could hurt and skin that could bruise,
Albeit in the badass shapes of fishnet stockings,
You practiced hard on your choreographed dancing,
While I focused to improve my pathetic writing.

Both of us trapped in a female body of five foot two,
Both of us still trying to understand womanhood,
And the pressure of being our fathers’ daughters
As a monster, I thank you for trying to be my Mother.

“I just don’t like,
I just like,
I don’t know.

I just feel like
My threshold
For like,

Bullshit with men,
Is, its just,
I don’t have one anymore.
I just don’t care,
I don’t know

if it’s
Because I’m 30,
And I’m,
I feel better than ever,
You know?

All my insecurities are gone,
I don’t feel insecure about
Who I am as a woman,
I don’t.

I’m not embarrassed
Or ashamed of what I have.
I just feel like
A more sexier, sensual,
Like all of that shit
Is better.

So what I think happens is,
Is like,
I don’t know.

Well, in relationships,
You have to,
I don’t know…”

I’m sorry you still have to deal with scheiße,
And I’m sorry you don’t have all the answers,
Not everything you say will be metaphors and poetry
I hope you can talk about all your bullshit openly.

It's Not Love




It’s not like I love you or anything.
Don’t get me wrong
and don’t freak out.
It’s just that whenever you are around
I suddenly become fifteen again.
I become the one with floral frocks, falling fast
for the first time -
in confusion (Not love, it’s not love).
It’s just that whenever my phone blinks
and your name flashes on its screen
something somersaults in my tummy.
But don’t get me wrong.
it’s absolutely nothing romantic.
Maybe it’s just hunger you know.
A hunger for your awkward and slightly slanted smile,
the one that squints your tiny eyes almost completely.
It’s really adorable.
But wait, I don’t adore you per say.
It’s really just the smile.
Well sometimes the crooked nose.
But that’s just general.
Nothing deep.

I don’t want you to misunderstand so I’m making it crystal clear
it’s nothing like one sees in cheesy movies
or reads it corny novels.
It’s just that mostly I don’t feel normal when your fingers brush my skin.
But wait
that can happen to anyone per se.
So
It’s not you.
It’s certainly not love.
But I do love your red tie.
It does something to me,
Something that would ruin the innocence of this poem.
.
Do you understand now?
It’s not affection at all.
No romantic feelings.
It’s just that I feel fifteen again
and end up writing
teenage love poems at twenty.
Oh Crap!
Not Love.


Saturday 24 March 2018

April


If I could strike out April,
Cassias will not weep drops of yellow
Mother will not be born nor will I
Nor your parents nor will you
No celebrationsno marriage anniversaries
By clicks of button our directions are made
for flight tickets
of picking of dates
of graduations
of sleepless nights
Many things happen on April
A phone call that shifts the cosmos
Counting how many pills did you popped,
how many needle holes on your skin
A midnight of April
A dreadful dream could've been better
Like a passing away of winter air
Sleeping forever
No need to paint your face
no red lips to enhance
simply comb your ruffled hair
splash your shame
soak your tired skin
Why wait to eat untill the stomach growls
Why strike out April?
The bike bangs the same head
awakening the same pulse
deafening ears, throbbing head
Slowly casacading into the memoir of the fist
'Sshh, speak not if you don't want a fist' 
they sayThe fist that crushes his own brittle sperm and egg
swarm of maroon blood fumes
hard enough to adjust the vision
no sound no cries
Its a fist to get your head right, they say
Only 'sorry,' is all you can say
But April tell me!
who can silence the screams of a baby
Blatant strike on the fontanel!
who remembers the blackout
Who holds the moment of that blackout...
Who handles your nerves
What made you gasps for air
Eyes shut, sobs on the background
Warm drops trickled on your skin,
 it wasn't mine
It was April's.
Gentle sobs gentle hands dabbing the wounds
Wake up from your hallucination!
slowly pull the green shoots, pull yourself out of this mud
Bare it all, skin and bones
Let fire ants showers on you
let it slash, burn, roar and scream
Like a 3-inch rusty nail grinding into your heel
April felt everything
Weight of whispers,
A glance shifts the cosmos
On your knees
Touch the heaven's crystals
A broken body rises on April
There's too much to strike away from April.