|
In The Pouring Rain
These poems are loosely based on an ancient Tamil poetic tradition embodied in several works known as the Anthologies—Kuruntokai, Narrinai, Akananuru, Ainkurunuru, Kalittokai—which, in turn, were modified later on by other Tamil poets. They are variations on akam poems, that is inner or love poems, that appeared in Tamilnad nearly 2000 years ago. The classical Tamil poems are a cross of Dravidian and Sanskrit culture and poetics, though the former runs the inside track. The work presented here, in turn, takes this earlier zebrule as if fishing it from the ark of the Great Flood, puts Krishna in the saddle, and overlaps this with the current era. This sequence is, in fact, just one layer in a longer manuscript, A Gathering of Smoke: Gopiah’s South-Indian Prose-Poem Journals, which is a ceremonial evocation of South India. Roaming through ancient Tamilnad were all sorts of bards and performers—poets, dancers, drummers, lute players, all ritually related, and mostly poor. Something like today, except in the India of those times the caste system was already putting its wreathes in the bloodstreams and the bowls of oil. And the persons who wrote it all down in the anthologies were of a higher caste. They are known to us today as the poets, or the Pulavans. They hung out together at the courts of the kings, and they took the oral traditions and gave them a new kind of permanence, giving them a degree of sophistication unsurpassed to this day. Certain literary conventions and themes began to congeal. There was a remarkable agreement on symbols and design that lasted for over four hundred years. The poems are full of suggestion, puns, the beauty and curves of indirection. They are poems of passion and discreet love, poems of experience and omens in landscapes where each bird, animal, fruit, drum, tree, or god has an implicit symbolic content. Sexual and romantic parlance relies on the insinuation of place and mood, the season, the time of day. All of this is enacted in a drama, different voices—the hero, the heroine, friends, etc., carrying on monologues arranged in narrative sequence. There are variations on separation and union: the first meeting of the lovers, early courtship and trysts, hints of trouble and despair, possible elopement, marriage, the hero leaving for training or wealth or war, his dalliance with other women while his wife grieves, and possible reconciliation. And so on and so on in much detail, for these poems are the stuff of one of the richest and oldest of all poetic traditions. Let it be said, that I chose my own way of dealing with this elaborate and exotic landscape, that the poems here, though somewhat faithful in theme and form to the Tamil conventions, in no way follow the meter or syntax of that literature. Rather, they are my own miscreate and modern interpretations, in part biographical, of things that happened to me long ago when I lived in the Deccan looking for the pearls of Argaru, trying to make some sense of the beautiful languages, strange customs, and the bards and women that I found there. And these poems are dedicated to one lady expressly, Balakistama. And though she speaks Telugu, not Tamil, I knew her as beautiful as the clove-scented women of Tamilnad wearing these leaves taken from a tree that the wind turned into a drum.
Kerry Shawn Keys (Gopiah)
and so the Thirukkovayar was rewritten all because Gopiah met Nair D’Cruz and Balakistama (Little Krishna Gopi), and these lines were spoken throughout the passage of their trysts.
after first meeting of lovers
W h a t s h e s a i d
He came across the bund like a bull pulling the night behind him all blue and his eyes seemed blue.
And I turned away not knowing what to do. My room is barren. At the window the moon glistens on my shoulders: a butterfly of white jasmine abandoned in the shade of bamboo
after a second meeting with the reluctant help of her confidante, the languishment of the ladylove for a further meeting
W h a t s h e s a i d
It seems as though the kurinchi tree has bloomed and bloomed again since he came last.
His horse was beautiful in the pouring rain. I was only a young maiden then, but last night on the maidan a thousand parrots screeched his name and I bear the cross of his conquest in shame
another meeting - without confidante (friend of ladylove)
W h a t h e s a i d
She was out guarding the millet, in the green night, the evening star. There are many thieves afterdark. It was cold. Her girlfriend had gone to fetch firewood. I told her, I said, love, the monkeys on the hill say good-night to each other clinging and laughing in the jackfruit,
and beyond that hill there’s a waterfall where a jazh makes sweet music
in the brief days of winter in brumefog in a cave sheltered from the cold rain
hero seeks assistance of ladylove’s confidante in furthering his love
W h a t h e s a i d
Gandhi slept with a young woman without touching her.
The cross-legged sittars know the inmost secrets of desire.
We embraced like the greenbriar and laurel.
And she painted a poem on my cock as if it were a fox on the run.
And this isn’t all we’ve done.
Tell her to come to the well tonight. Tell her that if she doesn’t
I’ll ride the palmyra. And the whole town will know of my plight
hero turns up casually....confidante’s suspicion that hero is more than wooing
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
In Konkani they speak of the Old Conquests and the New.
When he showed up with his cross-staff his storm-blue body and that smile like the anchored shape of desire, I knew this was no pen-pal.
I told him, she is no lateen sail to curve, at your bidding, around your yard. But he just looked at me, and told me, that though he was a poor sailor now, his father was a chieftain, that he was known as Shyam in the high passes, that he owned forests of tuskers and cows with udders the size of the moon
confidante’s detection of love-affair and querying of her mistress
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
Half-wasted, you look like a yogini. Are you trying for pabhassara, that foolish purity of light. You, who were once like a laurel, most lovely of all, evergreen flower of light. Now you languish pale like the bloodroot folded up at night.
They’ve consulted a soothsayer in Panjim, but Andal tells me that the conch in your bedroom smells like Krishna’s honeyed lips
hero offering to do the bidding of the maid and her attendant, and the confidante’s clear awareness of the love affair
W h a t h e s a i d t o h e r g i r l f r i e n d
Almost womanish like an utkanthita left alone in the fields at night, I faced north and fasted nearly to death for a whole day.
Monkeys were chattering in the trees. Elephants, in heat, raged through the bamboo. I will do anything for her. My heart is like the Shepherd’s clock. And the jasmine of her brow the rising and the setting sun
confidante’s attempts to depict scenes of terror and danger that await the hero, with a view to fish out the truth of her mistress’s love for him
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d t o h e r
Even though he does love you don’t you know
that when the flame of the forest, the kurinchi blooms, that he must go to challenge the Samorin king
and pass through thick jungles where even the turtles part the tall grass like elephants,
and savage bowman set arrows to the string like sharp-eyed hawks on wing.
Don’t you know?
after confidante’s attempts to gauge depth of love between the couples
W h a t s h e s a i d t o h e r g i r l f r i e n d
And how would you know the true nature of love?
At the place where the three rivers meet when I first met him I trembled like a leaf on the white waters, my heart like those rapids.
And when he came again strolling through the cardamom forests of Perry like the Pole Star himself,
I stood leaning into him almost on fire, and my breath in him was like sandlewood smoke climbing to heaven
when hero finds that confidante and mistress do not respond to his love, he threatens
W h a t h e s a i d
As water slips off the lovely lotus and returns to the crocodile infested waters
and as the beautiful rose in the garden, unpicked, falls into the quick hands of thieves,
so I will slip off to fast women and dark nights the rest of my days.
Take your broomstick horse and shove it!
confidante, won over, pleading to her mistress for the young warrior
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
The bees are drunk with honey. The rice-flour is mixed with the jelly. The rhododendron blossoms are lying on their leaves. The moon is asleep in its burrow of clouds like a squirrel asleep in its nest of feathers and leaves.
Go to him. Cross over the chasm. Even the blood of a Portuguese, despite the wivestales, isn’t poison. It’s more like a baptism crossfired with passion
hero offers leaves and flowers; confidante first declines and then accepts for her mistress
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
These he found under the cross at Casaranello. These he stole from the crossbows at the battle of Arsuf. And these flowers he took from a graveyard in Calcutta where the black she-goddess reigns.
At first I declined, but he was so strong of mind, poet, lunatic and lover, blue-blooded and eloquent, a bonita bhanita, lovely lines, and he’s so handsome, with bright-red lips, and shakes a spear like Velan.
Surely, though you have no dowry, we can find a way. He mentioned a lay-away plan?
day tryst
W h a t s h e s a i d
When my man came like a peacock from the mountains, like a waterfall rainbowed with color, into the paddy fields behind the mosque,
I was startled by his boldness and cried, U ma!
But it was Spring. There was no one around. And my thighs were quivering like young saplings
night tryst
W h a t h e s a i d
She wrote, “please find me a solution, Gopiah darling, after this terrible mistake of meeting. I would want to be with you always.”
Half-moon that night, my pen empty, the stars just right.
So when she opened her window I climbed in. It was early Spring. The larva of blue butterflies were feeding on the dogwood, sachets of honeydew. The heptica in the forest were pale blue.
But her body after twilight settled over me like whitest snow falling on a lake, ice-dark-blue
hero stays away at confidante’s advice because of a scandal in village
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
Like a deer set upon by wild dogs. Like a seabird plucked by savage icchantikas, her honor is torn by the gossips of this town.
Stay away awhile. Things will die down.
Though she wanders mad and talks to stones and trees, we’ll set her sail square in time.
When the wind’s right and the weathercock points out the periplus, I’ll send you a line.
And we’ll skim over the highseas!
elopement
W h a t a n o n l o o k e r s a i d
Her brass anklets caught in the thorns. The wild omai trees like scarecrows. Horrible buzzards circling the poisoned wells,
they fled, crag over crag, into the wastelands.
He, as green as an unripe neem fruit. Though, surefooted and brave.
And she, steel-blue from his shadow, covered with weapons of war.
On course with the sun, and leaping like bass at dawn, the two of them into the cloud-wet horizon
confidante urging hero to expedite consummation of marriage
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
You said that of all the Pierian maidens this one was without peer. Hah! And now that you’ve enjoyed her.
But let me tell you— you mistake the flower for the luscious fruit. She knows benedictions you’ve never heard the likes of for charming a flute.
If you can’t take her now don’t take up her time.
Have a heart! Hari. Don’t make her take her lovely dress off like a Lombadhi, only for Yama at death. The astronomers say that this year the tapioca will yield the finest yams. And that he that doesn’t marry will cross and be crossed over on the lam
separation of hero to seek a fortune; languishment of his lover; return for consummation of marriage
W h a t s h e s a i d
Rathod, Pamhar, and Chouchan were the progenitors of mighty clans.
And here he stands bent at the waist, at the neck, at the knee, one leg crossed over the other, a graceful dandy.
They are preparing the marriage ghee. But all I can think of is the other night when he returned secretly to me from far away, shedding everything but his dark blue skin on our bed—our hands made fierce love.
And the gifts that he brought me. How can I express it? His moon-shaped face colored like a forest dove, his hair smelling like flowers from Goa.
And that other, that chrism of intoxication
bride’s mother’s visit to the married couple at the bridegroom’s house, and later the glowing report of the happy conjugal life
W h a t s h e s a i d
We went from Secunderabad out past Massab Tank to their house.
She’s quite happy there. There’s the flowering smell of jackfruit everywhere. Late at evening the yal makes lovely music like an aeolian harp in the southwind.
There are bushes of blue sapphires in the garden. Jasmine. All the appropriate pujas were performed.
At night the virgins dance circle dances in the village green.
And the lingam on the altar is covered with a coconut-oil sheen
hero after marriage goes off for higher studies
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
Big stuff off on the Goa coast leaving your mistress in tears. How many years?
A seafaring student— taught how to shinny up a cross, not a shipmast, I bet. Even a smelly goat in a fortnight could learn that.
They tell me the dark sea mussels lay pried open all over the sand. That you wash behind your ears with an ointment of lilac.
Don’t you know, friend, that the spangles over your love’s mound of Venus sparkle while “holding the coral pestle in her hand, she pounds the pearly grain, with beautiful eyes, she pounds the pearly grain, with beautiful eyes.”
departure of princely lover for military duty
W h a t w a s s a i d
He has gone off to join Lingama Nayaka at Devarakonda.
War is everywhere.
The mangroves stink with dead elephants, grizzled monkeys howling taps from their great trunks. Crossbones fly over the square. It’s bitter, frost-bitten roots of the ravaged almond-tree fruit covered with kelp and salt,
the women of this village stammering for Hari, their throats silted up with grief
hero planning to go out with army but drops the idea
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
If you leave her now, Shyam, O Shoreless One, what good will it do you? Let them fight it out themselves.
Already with only the thought of your going, the atumpu creeps over her with nightmares of long absence—
hairs all white with first frost, a half moon austere in the West half her life spent at best— blue asters, a few stars, a few love poems sent back from the front— bones in the yellow grass
hero finally goes out on a royal mission, but delays in returning
W h a t s h e s a i d
Once, I thought he would be gone only a year. So I put on my brightest bangles and strung flowers and pearls in my hair.
At dusk, the day he was to come, I let my hair down and around until like a sari it touched the ground,
and my breasts under this silk cocoon fluttered in the coolness of the night like dark-spun butterflies about to light in a dream,
two veiled wells of cream, ebon, ruffled by the warm springs of the moon—
so many words, so many words, now this crow in winter
hero returns with gifts and spoils of war
W h a t s he s a i d
He came back with a purple heart tattooed to his forehead by the minister’s seamstress in residence— special services rendered in distress,
and he had the head of a camel caught by a Bedouin well, pickled in oil in a jug.
We laid out the red rug. We sang songs all night. Our shouts burnt the brisk air, just like me, this body on fire
hero seeks and finds household fortune
W h a t s h e s a i d
First he gave me
a yac-hair fan from the King. And then a diamond from Golconda.
But “the third gift makes the cadence of the key.” Three times he came to me, as in that poem of Avvai—like fire gushing out of the fire churn-staff when churned, he seethes with fire when the occasion demands it
exodos: hero seldom home, associating with courtesans
W h a t h e r g i r l f r i e n d s a i d
And he sent a message, tell my wife you have seen me, naked, shivering like a monkey, my legs covered with red ants.
But cows give milk to thirsty monkeys stroking their udders, and the panams dance naked in the streets, and who wouldn’t shiver in delight covered with the red marutum blossoms at night.
Tell him that he’ll grow old, that city sheep soon fleece the fold, the plumpest of mangoes turn yellow in the dust of the road.
And say to him that graceful as a gazelle, clear and eternal as the still moon in a well, his wife bares her breasts for him: a southwind of honey and jasmine.
Glossary
Andal daughter of Periyalvar, an Alvar. Vaishnavite sage and poet
atumpu a creeping vine
Avvai Sangam woman poet
bhanita signature line
icchantikas tribes with little modern technology
jazh(yazh) lute
Konkani a language spoken in Goa
kurinchi a tree that blooms every twelve years
Lingama Nayaka warlike ruler of Devarakonda; a poet, Srinadha, went to visit him and retrieved the sword of Kondavidu. Srinadha was a prince of poets
Lombadhi gypsy tribe near Devarakonda
marutum maruthum; golden shoots with red flowers; ; cotton plants that grow near rivers and the sea
neem a common tree in the Deccan
pabhassara highest state in yoga; attainment of unstainable pure light
palmyra a broom-horse made from this plant
panams minstrel (bard); consorts with bohemians in seedy areas
Panjim city in Goa
puja worship
Rathod, Pamhar, and Chouchan three sons of Mola and Radha that married three Brahman sisters who had been unmarried and abandoned in the jungle
Samorin King a Nayar; challenged every twelve years
sittars poets, sages, recluses, and herbalists associated with Shiva and yoga practitioners; ascetics, they were threatened by women and disdained them
utkanthita she who is disappointed when her lover does not appear at the place of assignation (type of parakiya)
Velan velan; vel; Murugan, Red God of the hills. Also, Seyon. Patron of prenuptial love. Called Velan because he carried a spear (vel)
yal harp of the ancient Tamils
Yama restraints, and art of self-control; one of the eights angas; also the ruler and judge of the dead
yogini female practitioners of yoga
|
