there is a constant
sound of footsteps
from behind
looking back
will
demolish
all
hope
Small is beautiful, so they say. And meaning lies compressed in words that are few; when arranged in a composition they pull one into unfathomable tunnels and layers, shades and shadows. One is drawn into alleys of uncharted domains with the joy and anxiety of arriving at unknown destinations. Words can make you stumble into pits, but they can also lift you to a world beyond; they can connect you with the living and the non-living but they can also completely alienate you from the known reality. It is complex. There is no doubt however that each little poem offers a journey wrapped
in adventure of undefined anticipation. Innocent looking words unfold their complexity gradually…just like the magical glow of innocence on the face of a newly born baby unraveling its primeval wisdom stored in its genes, as it grows older. The little poem carries the seed of what flourishes over time.
melting in thought
floating in the mind
words
collecting in
unuttered sentences
Why the nomenclature “poemlets”? Th at the poems are small in size is indeed one reason. But does that mean that they are somewhat incomplete? Certainly yes, at least till such time as they locate a home in the reader’s mind and get a sense of wholeness. In each reader I believe a poemlet may find a distinctly unique identity for itself. Th at is how the fledgling poem comes into its own. While it needs to be complete enough to be able to transmigrate into the reader’s mind, it also needs to respect the reader’s participation in its reception and perhaps even reconstruction.
silence is the movement between
one note and the next
all sound is impregnated within
It is the silences that lie between the lines, around the images and metaphors, that invoke the reader’s active participation in the birthing of yet another poem from the one received. Such creativity flows as a continuum between the poet and the reader. Silences in a poem let are more pronounced due to the minimal use of words. More words create din created create more noise. Poetry can become a prey to the din created thus. However, I must remind myself here that many long poems too are a sheer delight because the individual identity of the dexterously used words vanishes in favour of the weave of the poem.
The poemlets in this volume came into being at times in series or bunches under, or as snapshots and insights individually as disparate units. The visible canvas of each small, stretchable hopefully across the hemispheres, end to no end!
the heavy udders of
himalayan goats
black
rain-filled clouds
holding on
for redemption
between the jaws
of the dragon
lies the sun
the steel-grey
savouring
the gold
the sun slips down
the horizon
to emerge at dawn
Buddha’s smile
stays stable
clouds of haze
melt the mountains
with Buddha’s hum
streaks of light
on glistening
snow slopes
in the morning
are Buddha’s warm
outpourings of compassion
on the peaks
through the crowfeet
etched deep on the old
woman’s face
Buddha spoke of the
truth of suffering
line after line
getting finer
and finer
tiny bells ringing love
amidst waves of gentle breeze
offerings landing
on Buddha’s visage
filled with sadness
big shining tears
roll down the
mountains as springs
and fountains
into Buddha’s lap
Excerpted with permission from Yellow: Poemlets, Sukrita Paul Kumar, Sahitya Akademi Publications.
