Monday, October 19

Poetry Assignment -3

In this assignment, we had to read up Aidan Andrew Dunn's workshop and write a poem on a mundane object. I, ofcourse, cant reproduce the entire workshop here but I can provide the link of an extremely powerful poetry by Aidan Andrew Dunn.



My own attempt is a feeble one, but my tutor Mac,says keep writing and keep re drafting.

So this is the first draft

This chair, made of the finest Burma wood,
belonged to my great great grandfather
handed down to me through generations of
poisoned grand fathers and snake bitten uncles

This chair, once a shrub, in an illegal plantation
meant for a tropical rainforest, reduced to log
Brought to India, by the sea, where men died
tired of their vomit, their bodies let into the sea.

This chair, lay alone and offended in a godown
in old Delhi, from where my great grandfather
brought it, and our carpenter, an underpaid
talent, smothered its sadness into a chair.

This chair, stayed with the family, is family.
It rested my great grandfather, the vain landlord
as he smoked the water pipe and ordered
his child bride, her breast full of longings

This chair, where my grandfather full of his
British education and ideas, sat, with pride
The "Rai Bahadur", admonishing his boys
For their lack of English grace and etiquettes.

This chair, sat vigil against the dark door
when my grandma, a lady of steel, huddled
behind, to avoid the nocturnal police raids
For an uncle caught on the wrong side of Raj

"This chair", my senile grandma gushed,
"was where my father was conceived" in a
toothless grin.” “A very unlikely thing", said
mom and did her best to change the mood.

This chair, where I saw my father, sitting
A fading bureaucrat, with my mother sitting
across, in a fiber chair, their defunct marriage
lay across the table with their three children

This chair, I brought to my lonely apartment
from my home of twenty years, I sat in it
sipping wine, happy with my Bombay life
the old town holding me back in the chair

This chair, stayed with me, in it I saw one ex
his head buried in a pair of silicon implants
I threw him out of my life bag and baggage
And wiped the chair clean for new beginnings

This chair, I have decorated with an orange
cushion and lovely mirror work, bought at
Jaipur, it will be my witness, my testimony
That I led my life well, with love and dignity.

I need to rework on this and especially the ending which I think is Maha cliched.

1 comment:

Amitabh said...

Poetry is only rhyme, imagery, verbal trickery and visual alignment.....

Good poetry is like photography....(note, I did not say like prose...).... the most important asset for a poet is an eye, an eye for slaying the obvious, an eye to slant with a slur.