Sunday, December 09, 2007

ERIC CHAET Comments....

I've been reading some of your poems on-line. They're a good deal like mine--your reaching for something bright & good, thru a lot that's dark & bad, struggling not to give in, not to quit, not to lose the vision of what you're after, nor to get numb to what's going on around you--no?

These poems are very good.

Maybe they could be better, if you realized that I'm reading them--probably others, too--& we're involved in the equivalent struggle. We need you to be as honest & focused as you have been, maybe a bit more precise, sometimes--e.g. "politics," "corruption," & "degeneration." I nod my head at such words, I think as you do--but if I already think as you do, what good is reading it in your poems. I'd be better off on my own, than reading those words. I need very precise imagery or even analysis--who says analysis can't be part of a poem--something deeper & more real than TV news. You're my reporter. What I get from the TV news isn't very helpful, & reflects the prejudices & sleepwalking of the staff of the news organizations. You're part of my team. You're very good.

Please, send me some of your poems, some times. Of course, you must not waste my time! But I don't tell many people to send me poems! Most, I wish would never send me poems. But I'm asking you to send me poems some times--whether new ones or old ones--poems of yours you think would help me be strong, would help me actually succeed against all odds.

Thanks for the poems below, very good ones.


Flight of Fenix POEM: R K Singh, India

The disorder in my inner world betrays the tensions outside:
the anger over fanaticism and loss of ideals, politics and corruption
the degeneration all-round and struggle for survival amidst lying and conniving
and these burdens, death of desires, drugs, orgies, promiscuities
the piggish chaos oozing from the system like an ancient wound;

I can't suffer the crises I haven't authored even in thought
I can't endure aches of incompletion, dark void that sounds aloud
in my sleep I can't see my innocence afflicted by mirror
eating into my soul, ingesting my own body for something
there is neither consolation nor forgiveness, but negation

I'm belittled as man, degraded constantly in fire of inner effigies
or everyone is demeaning with intimate doubts and mutual mockery?


The dawn is still asleep in the east.
Don’t dupe us we are marching
Toward the promised new age.

We don’t cross the summit in one go.
The hollow bamboos and dry blades conspire
To drug us in our own name.

The summer loo batters the parched land.
The yellowed fields in May and June
Will not green. It’s never vernal here.

The palm-leaf fan can’t quench the flame.
The vultures of pre-liberation decades
Are picking potatoes from a rotten heap.

The city is a cowered dog dazzling in neon.
They fight against evils and rots
With the anarchy of flags and slogans

The flood in the Brahmaputra will turn men into fish.
They are not aware though I dream of the vast
Land of lotus shining with young morning sun.


(Eric Chaet, vide his email dated 8 December 2007, to R.K.SINGH),


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