Showing posts with label Shayan Rahman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shayan Rahman. Show all posts

Monday, 30 April 2018

Self- reflective essay

As a Film Studies major student, I have always been occupied with watching movies and reading a lot of critical theory essays to figure out what films are doing as a communication device in the daily life of any individual. On the same journey, I had to amalgamate those essays into most of my papers regarding how we understood a particular film, a genre of films or a whole decade of filmmaking as an art form. And trust me doing that has been hard and tedious. I would say that this is the sole reason for me to take Crafting Poetry as my elective course. And as a break from all the other very theoretically charged laboring I had to work my way through to complete my Masters, this course was a day at the spa for me (sorry if this sounds corny). And to clear it out, I am not saying that working for this course was easy, but it was cathartic enough for me to work anyway. At the beginning, I was sold by the fact that it was a practice/workshop-based course and that I just had to write poems for it, even though I struggle with poetry in every form. And all the other electives that I had signed up for did not meet my expectations. This course delivered as it had promised. At the beginning we were obviously introduced to the forms and kinds of poetry we would be dealing with in order to produce something substantial. I wasn't familiar with most of them but was keen to know what they are. We began by learning about Love Poetry and read few heartwarming poems in class trying to decipher and understand each and every line, phrase or word that was projected on the white screen. And as a practice, each of us had to write and submit a poem of our own, every week on Tuesday. Love poetry, according to our coordinating professor, Akhil Katyal was the genre that was an easy gateway to enter the realm of poetry. Well, it was. But because I had dealt with the Romantic era in my Bachelors, I had a preconceived notion of how I had to write my first love poem. I thought to infuse the poem with all my feelings was a good strategy, but after I had uploaded the poem and read the pieces written by my classmates, I understood the huge gap in quality between my poem and theirs. It did embarrass me a little, thinking how the others would judge it. Noting all of this, I had a clear idea of the standard that was set and how hard I would have to work to craft a worthy enough poem. The discussions in class were interesting but there were some instances (that I am unable to pinpoint) when the idea revolving in the room never really caught my attention. I felt lost in the speed of the conversation and therefore never spoke in class on that day. But mostly the class was a space where most ideas that were brought up front were discussed as much it was possible so that the concerned poem was seen from every angle. Thereafter every time that a poem was written by me and the ones that were discussed in class, I tried to do my best to work for it. Throughout the course, we wrote a Love poetry (as aforementioned)Villanelle, Ghazal, Nonettwo Political poems, City poem and responded to Nitoo Das's poems after having read them. This very variety of poems in the course was a good way to know one's strength and weaknesses. And personally speaking, tackling the Villanelle was the hardest assignment for me. Even though thinking and writing creatively has been my strength, this did not work for me while I had to write poems, as just having ideas and finding words to fashion it into a poem to express it did not come to me naturally. I had to do a lot more to write a poem than what I had imagined to. It was fun, but I will not do it as regularly as one might after finishing this course. I have learnt a lot for sure, about poems in general and in specific which I have converted into class notes for me to refer to in the future. I feel like I have largely expanded my literary analysis but I won't say the same for my poetry writing skills. I do not exactly know how far I have come from where I started, but I think I have upgraded from a bad poet to an ok poet. I really wish that such a course was a part of the curriculum for every semester where one could enhance or develop their creative streak.  

Finally, I would really like to thank Akhil sir for conducting the course and each and every class with all his commitment and utmost interest, which is one reason why I have turned up for almost each and every Crafting poetry class. I found his way of teaching really comforting (if that makes any sense) that is hard to experience these days. I also really want to thank Himanshu and Simpy to write such lovely poems. I have enjoyed reading them. And I also would like to thank every classmate for contributing in class and on the blog. I hope the blog stays alive.  

Saturday, 7 April 2018

I wish I could

I wish I could go
back in time,
Where I could
touch your skin,
kiss you again
and ignite fires so bright
that the stars
would shy and
look away.

A rainbow ~ Haiku (independent poem)

A rainbow swam past,
Colorful and beautiful 
tropical fishes

Response to Nitoo Das' 'On the shyness of birds'

There is incessant noise 
in the city, as if the blinding light 
blocking out the sky was not enough. 
They never spread their wings, but oh,
do they spread far and wide; but their songs 
are nothing to shake a tail-feather at.
The squabbling and screeching 
of fighting roosters, 
the mimicry of parrots finding their voices, 
the chattering of gossiping hens, 
eagles that stalk  only to swoop in 
screaming at the first sparrow to cross their paths, 
the pigeons who don't just wake alone
to be about their business, in the morning. 
They also remain awake and call out into the night 
sometimes longer than the old owl in the park.  

Friday, 6 April 2018

Response to Nitoo Das' The Poetry of Everyday Life: 1

Bed

I think we give our beds' too little credit. 
As in, I mean, our mattresses. 
Think about it: 
It is the first thing we grasp at when being shaken awake by nightmares. 
Our hearts are unburdened and begin to relax  
when our eyes finally rest on the old thing. 
And how many times do you REALLY get a new mattress? 
These things know our history. 
They know every person you’ve had sex with. 
Every time you’ve cried yourself to sleep. 
Every time you’ve spent hours of pointless,  
though soul easing, time just listening to music. 
All the times you’ve painted your toenails and gotten  
some glittery green on the bed sheets. 
All those wet dreams you’ve had? It knows them too. 
When you come home and no one else is there 
no mother, no father, no sister, no brother, no aunt,  
no uncle, no grandmother, no grandfather, no friend,  
no foe, no anyone 
the damned mattress knows that you and it are the only ones there.
And how many times has it failed you? It conforms to your form. 
It is hot when you must resist the cold. 
It is cool when you must be cooled down. 
It has cradled you when you’ve been deathly sick. 
It has cradled you and your child  
when you’ve been fit to burst from your belly. 
And really, really, how many times have you gotten a new mattress? 
That thing knows things, you know. 
Lots of things. 
And that old mattress will continue to keep its fabric lips sealed 
and just let you know that it knows those things
Because it’s your damned mattress. 
And it only exists to generously take in and humbly never give out. 


Backpack

I am your backpack 
I carry books and
stories too heavy. 
I am stained 
with ink and oil, 
you're not sure how. 
You toss me on the ground 
for God knows how long 
and look for me 
when I am under your bed 
Or hidden under the sweaty pile of clothes 
You reattach me to your shoulders 
and my straps ache. 
Let someone else carry it. 
Just for a bit.