Remember me? I am Professor Sheth.
Once I taught you geography. Now
I am retired, though my health is good.
My wife died some years back.
By God’s grace, all my children
Are well settled in life.
One is Sales Manager,
One is Bank Manager,
Both have cars.
Other also doing well, though not so well.
Every family must have black sheep.
Sarala and Tarala are married,
Their husbands are very nice boys.
You won’t believe but I have eleven grandchildren.
How many issues you have? Three?
That is good. These are days of family planning.
I am not against. We have to change with times.
Whole world is changing. In India also
We are keeping up. Our progress is progressing.
Old values are going, new values are coming.
Everything is happening with leaps and bounds.
I am going out rarely, now and then
Only, this is price of old age
But my health is O.K. Usual aches and pains.
No diabetes, no blood pressure, no heart attack.
This is because of sound habits in youth.
How is your health keeping?
Nicely? I am happy for that.
This year I am sixty-nine
and hope to score a century.
You were so thin, like stick,
Now you are man of weight and consequence.
That is good joke.
If you are coming again this side by chance,
Visit please my humble residence also.
I am living just on opposite house’s backside.

Nissim Ezekiel (1924—2004) was an Indian poet, professor of English Literature and critic who grew up in the Jewish-Indian ‘Bene Israel’ district. He split his life between England and India, teaching at different universities. One of his distinctive features is the embracing of ‘Indian English’ (sometimes Hinglish) which can be seen in this poem in the lines such as, ‘Other also doing well, though not so well.’ Here the theme of time passing and progress links into the professor’s use of the dialect, a suggestion to not fight change, as it will occur anyway.

How do you do?
No, I am not Chinese.
No, not Spanish.
No, I am American Indi-uh, Native American.

No, not from India.
No, not Apache.
No, not Navajo.
No, not Sioux.
No, we are not extinct.
Yes, Indian.

Oh?
So, that’s where you got those high cheekbones.
Your great grandmother, huh?
An Indian Princess, huh?
Hair down to there?
Let me guess. Cherokee?

Oh, so you’ve had an Indian friend?
That close?

Oh, so you’ve had an Indian lover?
That tight?

Oh, so you’ve had an Indian servant?
That much?

Yeah, it was awful what you guys did to us.
It’s real decent of you to apologize.
No, I don’t know where you can get peyote.
No, I don’t know where you can get Navajo rugs real cheap.
No, I didn’t make this. I bought it at Bloomingdales.

Thank you. I like your hair too.
I don’t know if anyone knows whether or not Cher is really Indian.
No, I didn’t make it rain tonight.

Yeah. Uh-huh. Spirituality.
Uh-huh. Yeah. Spirituality. Uh-huh. Mother
Earth. Yeah Uh’huh. Uh-huh. Spirituality.

No, I didn’t major in archery.
Yeah, a lot of us drink too much.
Some of us can’t drink enough.

This ain’t no stoic look.
This is my face.

III.
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter-bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

XV. 
“Tell brave deeds of war.” 
Then they recounted tales, —
“There were stern stands 
And bitter runs for glory.” 
Ah, I think there were braver deeds. 

XXXV. 
A man saw a ball of gold in the sky; 
He climbed for it, 
And eventually he achieved it- 
It was clay. 
Now this is the strange part: 
When the man went to the earth 
And looked again, 
Lo, there was the ball of gold. 
Now this is the strange part: 
It was a ball of gold. 
Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.

XXXVII. 
On the horizon the peaks assembled; 
And as I looked, 
The march of the mountains began. 
As they marched, they sang, 
“Aye! We come! We come!”

Stephen Crane (1871—1900) was an American poet, journalist and novelist. Although his life was short and troubled, he still achieved fame thanks to his reports of the Spanish American war (not to mention a couple of scandals with prostitutes…). His most famous work is probably the novel The Red Badge of Courage, a book about the American Civil War. His psychological study of the effects of war, not to mention his stark prose style ladened with irony, was a great influence on later writers, most notable Ernest Hemingway.

His poetry received much less attention—yet it was here that Crane may have been the most innovative. He called his poems ‘lines,’ and as we see here, wrote in free verse years before Ezra Pound did. Written in 1895, The Black Rider and Other Lines can almost be read as a thumbnail sketch of the poetry which would come to dominate the 20th Century: fragmentary, symbolic, “un-poetic” but with a mastery of image and cadence, obscure language that nevertheless conjures a magnificent awe, and questioning the reality of God or how far man can take control of his life in the face of fate.

Invent it now. Your own place,
Your own soil. All inferior
Localities are done with.
Yet how is it to be made
Without things remembered? Sun
Thrown in fistfuls, and the sand
Of that ripe apricot; wind
Spiced with thyme and lavender
Blowing from one hill, at one
Season. But these bring with them
Disasters—the imperfect
Friendship broken, and the perfect
Love unconsummated. Sand
Which burns the foot, hill blocking
The view. So invent it now,
And arrive after the long
Voyage, alone, having left
A companion at each
Port, a love in all the
Hot bedrooms, all the stifling
Cabins.

           It is before dawn.
There is a cove with a few
Bare rocks. Your feet cling to them,
Naked, as the rest of you
Is naked. Women come laughing
Down to the shore. You call out,
Expecting to be embraced.
They strip and bathe, brush by you
Without a glance or a cry
As the light swells and brightens. 

‘What have you known of loss
That makes you different from other men?’
- Gilgamesh.

When the desert refused my history,
Refused to acknowledge that I had lived
there, with you, among a vanished tribe,

two, three thousand years ago, you parted
the dawn rain, its thickest monsoon curtains,

and beckoned me to the northern canyons.
There, among the red rocks, you lived alone.
I had still not learned the style of nomads:

to walk between the rain drops to keep dry.
Wet and cold, I spoke like a poor man,

without irony. You showed me the relics
of our former life, proof that we’d at last
found each other, but in your arms I felt

singled out for loss. When you lit the fire
and poured the wine, “I am going,” I murmured,
repeatedly, “going where no one has been
and no one will be… Will you come with me?”
You took my hand, and we walked through the streets

of an emptied world, vulnerable
to our suddenly bare history in which I was,

but you said won’t again be, singled
out for loss in your arms, won’t ever again
be exiled, never again, from your arms.

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly to prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned.
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be supprest.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

Queen Elizabeth I was Queen of Engl—oh, you knew that one? This actually, is a poem that speaks for itself well, especially if anyone is familiar with her supposed affair with Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. The tension between public duty and personal passions are the obvious focal point of the poem, but let us instead mourn softly the time when our leaders took pride in literacy and education…

I am going to bring back Solomon
Who don’t like it, complain to the Commission
None of them going to tell me how to run my country
I defy any one of you to dictate for me
I am no dictator, but when I pass an order
Mr Speaker, this matter must go no further
I have nothing more to say
And it must be done my way
Come on, come on, come on, meeting done for the day
This land is mine, I am the boss
What I say goes and who vex loss
     I say that Solomon will be Minister of External Affair
     If you ain’t like it, get to hell outa here!

I am going to do what I feel to do
And I couldn’t care less who vex or who get blue
And if you want to test how ah strong in an election
Leh we bet some money, ah giving odds ten to one
I control all the money that pass through this country
And they envy me for my African Safari
I am politically strong, I am the weight of town
Don’t argue with me, you can’t beat me in John John
Who’s not with me is my enemy
And dust will be their destiny
     I say that Solomon will be Minister of External Affair
     If you ain’t like it, get to hell outa here!

Who the hell is you to jump and quarrel?
Look, P.N.M is mine, lock, stock and barrel
Who give you the privilege to object?
Pay you’ taxes, shut up and have respect
I’m a tower of strength, yes
I’m powerful but modest…unless
I’m forced to be blunt and ruthless
So shut up and don’t squawk
This ain’t no skylark
When I talk, no damn dog bark
My word is law so watch you’ case
If you slip you slide, this is my place
     And I say that Solomon will be Minister of External Affair
     And if you ain’t like it, get to hell outa here!

‘The Mighty Sparrow’ (Slinger Francisco, 1935—) is a calypso singer born in Grenada but living in Trinidad for the majority of his life. (You can listen to this song at this link: http://bit.ly/KtfUwT). His influence over the Caribbean calypso tradition cannot be overstated, and his moniker “The King of Calypso” is more than earnt. Calypso, with it’s strong focus on social commentaries, is an important part of the literary tradition (like Edward Braithwaite or Derek Scott).

This song, written in 1965, is a satire on the late Prime Minister of Trinidad, Dr. Eric Williams (of the People’s National Movement, whom The Mighty Sparrow had previously given his considerable support). Dr. Patrick Solomon, a close associate of Williams—his “intellectual kin”—and the Minister for Home Affairs, resigned in disgrace after what was seen as an abuse of power when he removed his stepson from police custody: “He just pick up he boy and take he home.” Not too soon after, Williams brought back Solomon as Minister of External Affairs, saying to angry members of his cabinet: “Who doh like it get to hell outa here!”

for Anthony Thwaite

In his winged collar
he flew. The nation wanted
peace. Our Perseus!

William Blake, William
Blake, William Blake, William Blake,
say it and feel new!

Love without sex is
still the most efficient form
of hell known to man.

A professional
is one who believes he has
invented breathing.

The Creation had
to find room for the exper-
imental novel.

When daffodils be-
gin to peer: watch out, para-
noia’s round the bend.

I get out of bed
and say goodbye to people
I won’t meet again.

I sit and worry
about money who very
soon will have to die.

I consider it
my duty to be old hat
so you can hate me.

I am getting fat
and unattractive but so
much nicer to know.

Somewhere at the heart
of the universe sounds the
true mystic note: Me.

I am always hungry
& wanting to have
sex. This is a fact.
If you get right
down to it the new
unprocessed peanut
butter is no damn
good & you should
buy it in a jar as
always in the
largest supermarket
you know. And
I am an enemy
of change, as
you know. All
the things I
embrace as new
are in
fact old things,
re-released: swimming,
the sensation of
being dirty in
body and mind
summer as a
time to do
nothing and make
no money. Prayer
as a last re-
sort. Pleasure
as a means,
and then a
means again
with no ends
in sight. I am
absolutely in opposition
to all kinds of
goals. I have
no desire to know           
where this, anything
is getting me.
When the water
boils I get
a cup of tea.
Accidentally I
read all the
works of Proust.
It was summer
I was there
so was he. I
write because
I would like
to be used for
years after
my death. Not
only my body
will be compost
but the thoughts
I left during
my life. During
my life I was
a woman with
hazel eyes. Out
the window
is a crooked
silo. Parts
of your
body I think
of as stripes
which I have
learned to
love along. We
swim naked
in ponds &
I write be-
hind your
back. My thoughts
about you are
not exactly
forbidden, but
exalted because
they are useless,
not intended
to get you
because I have
you & you love
me. It’s more
like a playground
where I play
with my reflection
of you until
you come back
and into the
real you I
get to sink
my teeth. With
you I know how
to relax. &
so I work
behind your
back. Which
is lovely.
Nature
is out of control
you tell me &
that’s what’s so
good about
it. I’m immoderately
in love with you,
knocked out by
all your new
white hair
 
why shouldn’t
something
I have always
known be the
very best there
is. I love
you from my
childhood,
starting back
there when
one day was
just like the
rest, random
growth and
breezes, constant
love, a sand-
wich in the
middle of
day,
a tiny step
in the vastly
conventional
path of
the Sun. I
squint. I
wink. I
take the
ride.

Eileen Myles (1949) is an American poet. Her strength is her frankness (in ‘A Poem’ she writes: “There is an argument/for poetry being deep but I am not that argument”) which makes sharing what I love about this poem harder than usual as it’s the section where she addresses her lover that I think are the greatest part and repeating it would be a game of diminishing returns.

It’s probably the title which is in fact the most intriguing part of the poem—and given the text it’s actually not too hard to imagine Myles choosing it somewhat tongue-in-cheek. But it draws attention to an image that might otherwise be unremarkable, which in turn we can use to give a fuller body to our understanding of the poem. 

It of course fits the idea of the poem, and even as a possible description of Myles’ poetry, but there are other elements. Firstly it fits in with the theme of comfort to the poem, in both reinforcing Myles’ ironic “conservativism” and peanut butter being a staple comfort food (or is that just me). However, the focus on it being low-quality, cheaply bought peanut butter might offer another angle, that of Myles not trying to explain her poetry but actually reassuring a lover she can be happy as a non-radical.

      There are 
455 active volcanoes in the World
      and blood completes
a circuit of the body
             every 23 seconds,
      but you weigh 
40 times as much as your brain
      and it’s impossible
to describe a spiral-staircase [without using
      a finger]
              so watch with one eye 
and listen with the other, i’m about to attempt
      a handstand
              using one finger!

       In 1665
              Robert Hooke
drew a picture of a [*] snowflake, hung it Up
       on a wall
and marvelled on the workings [and
       the Glory]
of God:—
              “There are 36 letters
in the Russian alphabet
              and rhubarb
originated in Tibet, but Miles Davis was
                     a diabetic
                          and an oral culture
              has no
                     Text!”
                     /

              [Now]
                     I may
or “may-Not” know what i’m
      saying [cos
4/5ths of everything living on this planet
      is under the sea, and baritones resonate
better in the bathroom]
                     but if you
stick an elephant in a refrigerator, it’ll explode
      an’ there’ll be nothing but
smoke
       pickle
             and spinach
so don’t try and understand all this
       in English:
             “Sleep
       is an alert process
designed to prevent the brain from going into
              a coma”
              /

       Picture this:—
You’re in the middle of an argument
      so you get-Up
to get yourself a Brandy
      but the Thermometer BURSTS (like
a pimple!) (cos it’s thirsty!)
      you turn round to “laugh”

but it’s… disappointing
       you Wake-Up
and wonder Why
            you’re swimming
            /
        never trust anyone
who sez:“I’m from the Government and
         i’ve come to help” [the vertical-groove
in the middle-portion of the upper-lip
         is called a philtrum
and Pandemonium, is the Capital
         of Hell]

        Consider this
                    [if you like]:—
Karl Marx was a journalist
        Asparagus was mentioned by the Egyptians
Shakespeare signed his name 4 different ways
        and a face-lift takes
                            4 1/2 hours
               /

        [Now]
               i don’t know
what kind of problem Shakespeare [or
        anyone else] had
but it takes 20 seconds for a solution of
        oil + vinegar [in a glass
of water] to separate
        and IBM’s motto is THINK [so
THINK !] make it Up!
        according to
the Copenhagen Interpretation:
        “Something’s there
if something’s there to say it’s there [even if
        it isn’t]!”
                /
       
        what i’m
trying to get at is this: This is This
        That is That
and This’n’That is   .    That
        not   ——————>  That!
so don’t suffer the “cause”
        according to the manual
it’ll take you another 12 hours to clean a 1,000 
   bricks [by
        hand] and 3 days
to learn how to use
                   an artificial-leg
               /
              so you
may want to keep this in mind
    a “raindrop”
             travelling at 25mph is about
    a 5th of an inch wide
and the last thing
              a Pilot does
      before the plane goes down
                 is
              “whistle”
              !
      but if you
              insist [and persist]
on being a BAD EGG
      and on
getting yourself  “exiled” [to an Arab country
       … like
             Ireland]
just remember:——————
            Paper
      is always strongest at the perforations
                                   and
                     any Fool
             can start a sentence.




             ——————
             If you’re
                    listening to this
the only thing you’ll need to know is
             some people
                    “do”
             play the piano better
      with their
                   elbows
             ——————

Pi O (or П. O., 1951) is a Greek-born Australian poet, living in Fitzroy, Melbourne, an area which Pi O has written great, book-length poems about with a focus on the immigrant community living there. Something I admire of Pi O’s work is his fearless use of unorthodox language and typography…if I tried to use bolding and underlining in my poetry I’d feel like I was trying to push it too hard but Pi can skillfully drop in and out of them and make it feel completely natural.

Another thing I love, which is used in abundance in “Everything Poem” is his sense of humour and excitement which runs through the poems. Pi, an anarchist, tends to make his point through absurdity: present the situation as a farce and by following through to it’s natural conclusion the criticism speaks for itself. In “Everything Poem” this means a mediation on chaos, order and the poet’s role in trying to make one from the other. In this case it’s almost the reverse of the norm—Pi takes the supposed order of facts and history—and fragments them so totally we question their order in the first place. The unusual, almost stream-of-conciousness connections also problematize the “logic” of “logical order”.