Day #1 part 2 My first reading of the Poetry with Prakriti festival is at Kalakshetra — an arts college, not dissimilar to La Salle in Singapore, known for its teaching of classical Indian dance. There are low-rise buildings, spread out over a grassy lawn, like barracks in an old army camp. We are seated in a shady pavilion overlooking a small pool of water, with students sprawled on the grassy amphitheatre before us. It is a little like a dwarfish version of the Symphony Stage at the Singapore Botanic Gardens. Most of the waiting audience are girls, dressed in traditional Tamil dance garb. I am reading with Delhi-based poet Aditi Rao, author of THE FINGERS REMEMBER. It is past 2.30pm; we were supposed to start at 2pm, but were held up by Chennai’s gnarled traffic. On the spot, we decide, because we have not had time to think about what we each want to read for 15mins, to make it something of a back-and-forth poetic dialogue instead. I start with a poem, which prompts Aditi to respond with a similar poem, and so on. Her work is very fine, boldly executed, unfazed but not belligerent in the face of irreconcilable tensions. It soon becomes evident that there are many remarkable correspondences in our poetry. Not necessarily a matter of style or treatment nor even tone, but certainly in theme, certain images. Finger memory. Burning flesh. At one point I recount the Biblical story of Lot’s wife and family, on which a poem of mine is based. She responds with a poem also based on Lot’s wife. We have not planned this. I suspect this sort of thing is possible with many other poets also, if one looks hard enough for some sort of semantic or thematic resonance, but this is unforced. We are not making this up. Or perhaps we are making it up, which is what makes it sing: we are actively listening to each other, calling and responding. We are having a conversation. I have often felt this is what good writing does. The poems have not been written for the occasion nor for each other, but they are chosen to suit, the way we sometimes bring up old stories in new company. We read poems we might not otherwise have selected; we are made to think a little differently about what we have written. There is the frisson of resonance, recombination. Fresh context suggests fresh meanings. This is why we read and re-read books. Another way in which the love we put into writing becomes the love it brings. This is how literature lives and lasts. The reading ends late, but seems well received. There are no time for questions and answers — the school bell (an actual hand-gonged bell) has rung, and many of the students have to proceed to classes. Some cluster around us, all smiles. They want to chat a little, buy books. One of them is from Malaysia who has come to Chennai to study classical dance — she says my Singlish poem is immediately recognisable and takes her back home. Another is from Peru — she speaks very competent English, a language she did not know six months ago. Yet another student takes me to the school administrative building to donate copies of my books for everyone to share. alvinpang.tumblr/post/104216437687/chennai-2014-day-1
Posted on: Thu, 04 Dec 2014 08:06:14 +0000
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