Seth, Vikram;
The collected poems
Penguin India, 1995
ISBN 0140255729
topics: | poetry | english | india
I can't really make out what I think of Vikram Seth as a poet. The Golden Gate moved me profoundly as a Pushkinian narrative, but I liked it more perhaps for its californian plot rather than the poetry. Some of his poems I do like, such as Profiting below, which I had typed in a long time ago when I encountered a copy of the Humble administrator's garden. An occasional turn of phrase or an image will move me, but somehow the whole often evades the final high. I would say that he's a bit below 50% on my page-fall-open test - i.e. under half the poems carry a spark perhaps. - Mar 2009
Uncomprehending day, I tie my loss to leaves And watch them drift away. The regions are as far, But the whole quadrant sees The single generous star. Yet under star or sun, For forest tree or leaf The year has wandered on. And for the single cells Held in their sentient skins An image shapes and tells: In wreathes of ache and strain The bent rheumatic potter Constructs his forms from pain.
Some days I am so lonely, so content. The dust lifts up. The trees are weatherbent. ... Some days I feel a sadness not of grief The shadows lengthen on the earth's relief Salinas flows by like a silver shawl A girl waves from the mission wall.
The fact is, this work is as dreary as shit. I do not like it a bit. While at it I wander off into a dream. When I return, I scream. If I had a lover I'd bear it all, because when day is over I could go home and find peace in bed. Instead The boredom pulps my brain And there is nothing at day's end to help assuage the pain. I am alone, as I have usually been. The lawn is green. Day after day I fill the feeder with bird-seed, My one good deed.
A plump gold carp nudges a lily pad
And shakes the raindrops off like mercury,
And Mr Wang walks round. 'Not bad, not bad.'
He eyes the Fragrant Chamber dreamily.
He eyes the Rainbow Bridge. He may have got
The means by somewhat dubious means, but now
This is the loveliest of all gardens. What
Do scruples know of beauty anyhow?
The Humble Administrator admires a bee
Poised on a lotus, walks through the bamboo wood,
Strips half a dozen loquats off a tree
And looks about and sees that it is good.
He leans against a willow with a dish
And throws a dumpling to a passing fish.
Evening is the best time for wheat Toads croak. Children ride buffaloes home for supper. The last loads are shoulder-borne. Squares light up And the wheat sags with a late gold. There on the other side of the raised path Is the untransplanted emerald rice. But it is the wheat I watch, the still dark gold With maybe a pig that has strayed from the brigade enjoying a few soft ears.
To make love with a stranger is the best.
There is no riddle and there is no test.
To lie and love, not aching to make sense
Of this night in the mesh of reference.
To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
And understand, as only strangers may.
To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
Preferring neither to prolong nor part.
To rest within the unknown arms and know
That this is all there is; that this is so.
[tr. Faiz Ahmed Faiz (Urdu)]
Last night your faded memory came to me
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly, in the desert moves thew breeze,
As to a sick man, without cause, comes peace.
Sunday night in the house. The blinds drawn, the phone dead. The sound of the kettle, the rain. Supper: cheese, celery, bread. For company, old letters In the same disjointed script. Old love wells up again, All that I thought had slipped Through the sieve of long absence Is here with me again: The long stone walls, the green Hillsides renewed with rain. The way you would lick your finger And touch your forehead, the way You hummed a phrase from the flute Sonatas, or turned to say, "Larches--the only conifers That honestly blend with Wales." I walk with you again Along these settled trails. It seems I started this poem So many years ago I cannot follow its ending And must begin anew. Blame, some bitterness, I recall there were these. Yet what survives is Bach And a few blackberries Something of the "falling starlight", In the phrase of Wang Wei, Falls on my shadowed self. I thank you that today His words are open to me. How much you have inspired You cannot know. The end Left much to be desired. "There is a comfort in The strength of love." I quote Another favourite You vouchsafed me. Please note The lack of hope or faith: Neither is justified. I have closed out the night. The random rain outside Rejuvenates the parched Foothills along the Bay. Anaesthetised by years I think of you today Not with impassionedness So much as half a smile To see the weathered past Still worth my present while.
Across these miles I wish you well. May nothing haunt your heart but sleep. May you not sense what I don't tell. May you not dream, or doubt, or weep. May what my pen this peaceless day Writes on this page not reach your view Till its deferred print lets you say It speaks to someone else than you.