For Most People

As I`ve said elsewhere, on another Board, it`s not often you see poetry being shared at the Chowk. Here`s my contribution to the cause.

Soup

I saw a famous man eating soup.

I say he was lifting a fat broth

Into his mouth with a spoon.

His name was in the newspapers that day

Spelled out in tall black headlines

And thousands of people were talking about him.

When I saw him,

He sat bending his head over a plate

Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.

-- Carl Sandburg

I like this poem for its brutal honesty and the way it plainly reduces a popular icon with its simple words. This poem showed me how poetry is an inclusive art-form, a communal activity that aims to remove, not add to, the confusion in this world.

Aamir

Considering the extraordinary fact that there are two people on this board who enjoy the same name, ie Aamir, could I please request all those referring to me to use my full name.

Ras Siddiqui, Rsaxena, Kiran, Anoop Bhatt, Anny; Thank you for your kind words and the encouragement. These are harsh times and a gentle word goes a long way. But you already know that ;)

Anny;

Bina Shah was thinking about starting a writer`s group in Karachi, y`know, for tossing ideas (and ashtrays) around, ripping each other apart, constructive criticism and all that. You innarested?

Soysauce;

No hard feelings, mate. Thanks for the real poetry. We start out walking, then learn to run.

Saminashah;

Thank you for sharing Billy Collins` poem. It was really really good. Also not sure whether/how it applied to mine in the way of criticism or compliment. (You forget that in the real world I`m just another dumb medical student, who probably wouldn`t know a lullaby from a limerick if it came and rhymed him till his eyes went all goggly.) Thank you though.

Scout;

uh oh

Regards all,

Aamir

Soysauce

Who wrote the second poem? Plus I am going to get the first work you posted; really lovely...do you write?

semiprecious

Sometimes, I can locate my sense of humor...

soundmeister

“BTW, is Aamir Ansari the same as AAmir? Chota confused here....”

….aamir ansari and Aamir are two totally different entities…the former’s a very nice person, while the latter is part of the hydra ensemble, and makes it his/her/its duty to….well…do nothing…except harass people…and spout a new nick every day or so…..(and unashamedly pass off davies’ work as his/her/its own….)

samina:

...tongue-in-cheek, my ...

Reply Tahmed #: 14

“As for the poet: Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of his legs... This much is known about him and can be checked in any book about the poet. What the public does not know is that his detached leg was used by scientists to make a clone, which they named Aamir. The scientists then grew more clones from the leg tissue, which they named Fatimah, Bhardwaj, Sadhna, and so on. These clones were then sent to chowk to confuse newcomers, some of whom would simultaneously flirt with clone Fatimah while exchanging insults with clone Bhardwaj. Some clones specialized in harassing females who wondered if he did not have a mother or sisters at home (of course he did not, being a clone). One clone turned out as a sheep rather than as a chowk nick, and they named it Dolly and she spoke with a Scottish accent.”

Happy Made! Happy Made!

Reply Saminashah # 18

“We have some unwitting poetry here: ``Quiet obvious``= not so obvious? What chiputzah to suggest that snopy was trying to pass off that Davies poem as his own! :)”

Listen Madame, plagiarism is art form, ok? We can all learn lot from this person. Urstruly Saheb also says. So don`t pick on him for nothing, ok? Only I don`t like his name, he must be Hindian - no Muslim would use dog`s name like this. But even if he is Hindian, still, he is good at copying, ok, and we should respect him for this.

Reply Shah # 20

“QUIET = SILENCE

QUITE = SOME”

And QUIT = ?

(this is hint)

“IF MY 3RD LANGUAGE =YOUR FIRST LANGUAGE .I AM NOT GOING TO EVEN ASK YOU IN URDU ANY MORE ``ORHNI`` “

(language is virus from outer space.)

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#17 saminashah

Oh, i see. You were confused by the ending of the name. The poet was a man.

Semiprecious,

We have some unwitting poetry here: ``Quiet obvious``= not so obvious? What chiputzah to suggest that snopy was trying to pass off that Davies poem as his own! :)

My own typo of house: housu...a Korean pronunciation? I`ll look in the archives for a poem I wrote called The Wasteland...cough...maybe I`ll post it...Here are the first two lines

Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky...

tahmed

very funny...

soysauce

interesting except...is the narrator a female or a male? And what do you make of it?

Here is the complete poem by Mirza AAmir alias Henry Davies:

LEISURE

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty`s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

By Wm. Henry Davies.

As for the poet: Wm. Henry Davies (1871-1940) is to be considered as the poet of the tramps. Davies came to America from Great Britain and lived the life of a vagabond. One day, as the result of jumping a train, he lost one of his legs... This much is known about him and can be checked in any book about the poet. What the public does not know is that his detached leg was used by scientists to make a clone, which they named Aamir. The scientists then grew more clones from the leg tissue, which they named Fatimah, Bhardwaj, Sadhna, and so on. These clones were then sent to chowk to confuse newcomers, some of whom would simultaneously flirt with clone Fatimah while exchanging insults with clone Bhardwaj. Some clones specialized in harassing females who wondered if he did not have a mother or sisters at home (of course he did not, being a clone). One clone turned out as a sheep rather than as a chowk nick, and they named it Dolly and she spoke with a Scottish accent.

#12 saminashah

The poem is from the book ``Bhartrihari and Bilhana: The hermit and the love-thief`` - translated from the sanskrit.

To my modern mind, the quality of the verses (more correctly, of the translated verses) varies greatly.

Here`s another verse:

When I knew but a little, I was blinded by pride,

as an elephant is by rut;

with my mind so stained I believed,

``I am a sage.``

But slowly I learned from the presence of men

wise in myriad of ways;

my pride, like fever, was subdued and I knew,

``I am a fool.``

Here`s a love poem:

A melodiuos song,

a graceful form,

a sweet draught

a heady fragrance,

then the touch of her breasts.

I whirl in sensations

which veil what is real.

I fall deceived by senses

cunning in seduction`s art.

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soysauce #6,

what happened to you? :)

stop reading poetry and everything will be just fine....really

by the way, thanks Chowk editors for failing to put up my post to this poem, i didn`t even have any swear words in it...

Soysauce

Great stuff you posted! Can you post the full text of the second work?

Here`s another one:

A Letter TO Lady T`ao Ch`iu

To the tune ``Walking through the Sedges``

All alone with my shadow,

I whisper and murmur to it,

And write strange characters

In the air, like Yin Hao.

It is not sickness, nor wine,

Nor sorrow for those who are gone,

Like Li Ch`ing-chao, that causes

A whole city of anxiety

To rise in my heart

There is no one here I can speak to

Who can understand me

My hopes and visions are greater

Than those of the men around me,

But the chance of our survival is too narrow.

What good is the heart of a hero

Inside my dress?

My perilous fate moves according to plan. I ask heaven

Did the heroines of the past

Encounter envy like this?

-Ch`iu Chin

also soysauce, Aamir Ansari, Kiran, Semiprecious, Rsax, Scout, here`s a poem by Billy Collins, (local boy made good; Poet Laureate of the USA, prof. at my English Dept) that I think is hilarious, because quite frankly, its true...enjoy..

Workshop

I might as well begin by saying how much I like the title.

It gets me right away because I`m in a workshop now

so immediately the poem has my attention,

like the ancient mariner grabbing me by the sleeve.

And I like the first couple of stanzas,

the way they establish this mode of self-pointing

that runs through the whole poem

and tells us that words are food thrown down

on the ground for other words to eat.

I can almost taste the tail of the snake

in its own mouth,

if you know what I mean.

But what I`m not sure about is the voice

which sounds in places very casual, very blue jeans,

but other times seems standoffish,

professorial in the worst sense of the word

like the poem is blowing pipe smoke in my face.

But maybe that`s just what it wants to do.

What I did find engaging were the middle stanzas,

especially the fourth one.

I like the image of clouds flying like lozenges

which gives me a very clear picture.

And I really like how this drawbridge operator

just appears out of the blue

with his feet up on the iron railing

and his fishing pole jigging-I like jigging-

a hook in the slow industrial canal below.

I love slow industrial canal below. All those ``l`s``.

Maybe its just me,

but the next stanza is where I start to have a problem.

I mean how can the evening bump into the stars?

And what`s an obbligato of snow?

Also, I roam the decaffeinated streets.

At that point I`m lost. I need help.

The other thing that throws me off,

and maybe this is just me,

is the way the scene keeps shifting around.

First, we`re in this big aerodrome

and the speaker is inspecting a row of dirigibles,

which makes me think this could be a dream.

Then he takes us into his garden,

the part with the dahlias and the coiling hose,

though that`s nice, the coiling hose,

but then I`m not sure where we`re supposed to be.

The rain and the mint green light,

that makes it feel outdoors, but what about this wallpaper?

Or is it a kind of indoor cememtary?

There`s something about death going on here.

In fact, I start to wonder if what we have here

is really two poems, or three, or four

or possibly none.

But then there`s that last stanza, my favorite.

This is where the poem wins me back,

especially the lines spoken in the voice of the mouse.

I mean we`ve all seen these images in cartoons before,

but I still love the details he uses

when he`s describing where he lives.

The perfect little arch of an entrance in the baseboard,

the bed made out of a curled back sardine can,

the spool of thread for a table.

I start thinking about how hard the mouse had to work

night afer night collecting all these things

while the people in hosue were fast asleep,

and that gives me a very strong feeling,

a very powerful sense of something.

But I don`t know if anyone else was feeling that.

Maybe that was just me.

Maybe that`s just the way I read it.