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| Photo credit: Bishweshwar Das |
Wish you were here
Did you have to leave us now?
Who do I tell the story of what I saw in town today?
The marvels, the wonders, the little signs?
Who do I tell about the Book of Kells?
And the books that line the Long Hall above
That Emma's father had told her about?
About Plato, Socrates, Aristotle and the like
Who looked on, while the silent harp turned?
Who do I tell about Thomas Moore, the plaque to Ulysses, or the monument to Yeats,
And the tiny bust of our Gurudev on St. Stephen's Green?
Did you know that Seamus Heaney would be ten years dead today?
And has a beautiful exhibition to honour him
'Listen now again'?
And that James Joyce lives on in every corner of this city over loaded with words?
A city of books, of statues, of memorials and of memorabilia,
Built over Viking ruins,
A bench for the homeless Jesus,
And organ pipes for the naked 'Messiah'.
Who do I tell about all the wonders I saw today,
Wonders that only you could feel and love?
You have been my companion on many journeys,
Ever since Baba left
But not any more
Not any longer
Rest in peace, dear Jayantada,
Did you know that poets like you are immortal?
Did you know that you cannot be simply burnt to ashes that float away over a river bank?
Did you know that your not being there will not make me stop talking to you?
I knew you would betray me one day,
But look what you gave me before you left
A way to find you, to reach you, to share
As I always did
The sounds, the sights the stories that you so cared about;
Here you are -- all that is down on paper now.
Try shutting the women out of your universities,
Try building over our remains,
But we shall still find a way to burst into song
Like sweet Molly Malone
Who still wheels her barrow around the city
Singing Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!
I wasn't meant to come here
Nor were you supposed to go
Life never does what you want it to
But finds a way to live its own
And so will you, and so will your lines,
Who can kill them, let them try.
Stop telling me this is not a poem
It was not meant to be
It is my way of talking to you
In my usual wordy way
You had your way, now let me have mine
And tell you why I missed you in Dublin,
And why you have not managed to escape, my dear friend.
You broke the pact and set me free
So I can write and tell you in a non-poem
How awful it is to be in Dublin
Without you at the other end
To listen to me.
Beautiful communication Meenaxi!
ReplyDeleteAnita Tamuli wrote the comment above; she also sent me the following comment over WhatsApp: I read your piece. Liked the (non)poem very much. You've contextualised the composition very well Meenaxi.
DeleteThanks for sharing.
Thank you, dear Bou.
DeleteIn one sweep of poetic burst you have brought many literary worlds together Meenaxi…Jayanta Mahapatra, poet, would have loved it but your muse and mentor Jayanta da I know has truly set you free and left you with the ‘word’…precious, poignant and perfectly etched to live on now and hereafter
ReplyDeleteDear friend, I know who you are and thank you for your beautiful words.
DeleteMy friend Rakhee Kalita Moral, who is a professor of English at Cotton University, had this to say about my poem:
ReplyDeleteI know your poem says it all -- the grief and the reverence and love that binds you to him
But on another note your poem( tribute) is astounding in its literary flavour
It breathes like a ‘Dubliner ‘ and brings back that city I have known only in my fav authors and the histories I read as a student of literature
The moderns and their myths …and the recurrently haunting Molly from the old Irish songs to the unforgettable Molly Bloom … “I will , yes “
Thank you, my dear Rakhee, for those words of understanding and praise. I know nothing about poetry. But this was something completely spontaneous. I am sure there is no 'word' left in me after this.
DeleteThe words of a dear friend Bibhash Chowdhury, who is also a professor of English at Gauhati University, made me cry all over again. Thank you, dear Bibhash, for understanding so well. Here is his comment:
ReplyDeleteBaideu,
The numbing is outside what words can hold, yet in your words you have gone back and taken him into the fold of poetry, not merely the poetry he wrote, but what he epitomized, by being himself, unbracketed by language and in that bond between you and him which is (not _was_) carved out of life's very being, for he remains the one Jayantada you will know whom no one else will. Grief never goes away, and that is grief's gift to us, it makes us human way beyond we can ever truly be.
Another dear friend Sanjay Dutta had this to say: Read your "non-poem" and I am deeply moved. You are one of a very few left who is still capable of feeling genuine grief at the loss of the world's real gems.
ReplyDeleteMy Irish friend Ucki had this to say about the poem: Dear Meenaxi, thank you for letting me read your “ non” poem. It is so beautifully felt and so sad. Somehow it is Joyceian. Your friend is there with you and will stay. He didn’t really betray you.
ReplyDeleteHow wonderful that your delayed return turned out to be such extra bonus visiting Ireland.
Poet Robin Ngangom's comment after reading my non-poem: Dear Meenaxi, your poem reached out and not only touched me but held me as well.
ReplyDeleteMeenaxi, this is so, so beautiful. Your feelings, your anguish....your anger, even , that he left. And somehow, so appropriate that you were in that city of words , of writers and poets at the time.
ReplyDeleteI know how close you were . I can only hold you close in your grief now.
Mitra Badieo, I know it is you, thank you... Yes, just at the moment that I needed to share everything I saw with him, he just went, forcing me to continue talking to him in this non-poem...You have always stood by me when I have felt alone... thanks again.
DeleteMy dear friend, batch mate and bureaucrat Bhaskar Phukan who is also a writer himself had this to say about the poem:
ReplyDeleteRead your poem on Jayanta Mahapatra written from that most literary of places, Dublin.
Wonderful, vision of a city whose main attraction lay in the celebration of the witten word along with your impressions clouded with the grief, anger , and sense of loss at the unannounced passing away of the poet , a father figure who taught you more about life than verse .
You could bring out the sense of a traveller spilling out his emotional back pack at a sudden bereavement.
Another professor of English and a dear friend Poornima Das, had this to say about the poem: All in all its a good poem and maybe u should keep it as it is.His muse has influenced u. It reads well.
ReplyDeleteWasn't aware that within a mathematician and anthropologist there exists a natural poet.
ReplyDeleteA beautiful tribute to the person who in many ways was a father- figure to you
Thanks, dear girl, for this. I am no poet and this is no poem.
Delete