poetry

What inspires you to sing the poems of Kabir, a man who lived way back in the 15th century? What strikes you when you think about the meaning of his words? Vasu Dixit performing in Varanasi (Courtesy the Mahindra Kabira Festival) His wisdom! Kabir says the most profound things but in a simple manner. He reminds us that the wisdom is within all of us because we come from the same source. The whole point of life is to reconnect with that source. Our mind keeps us disconnected from the deepest parts of ourselves…

HitchhikerThumb out to the flow of traffic, and hoping notto get robbed, mugged, or murdered.But also a lift. I step into cars, vans, and trucks. I once rode a rocketfired down the M1 — a Ford Cosworth, stolen — like a sonic boom jetin the outside lane.I met Samaritans and chancers.One man will explain Islam, another will talk aboutfucking lorry drivers. A fashion designer, who picks me upfrom a garage forecourt, will give me a mintwhile her dog growls from the back seat.On a roundabout near Bedford,another hitcher waits.…

Translated poetry seldom finds a home in this column – if only because when youhave no knowledge of the original language, the reading can be like trying to see through frosted glass. But the Ukrainian poet Iryna Shuvalova is a revelation. This is her fifth collection, her first to be translated into English, and it is extraordinary to read partly because, even though these poems were written before the war (touching on the 2014 Russian invasion of Crimea), they offer insight into what it is to be Ukrainian at this…

Blackbird and BeethovenBlackbird, you are the Beethoven of songbirdsbut when I hear this, the metaphor summonshis bust and I can’t recall your call.How many musicians, blackbird, are deaflike the percussionist who taught herself to hearwith parts of her body other than her ears,who performs barefoot to hear the music better?If I’d known more about vibrations, blackbird,how we hear with our hands with special nerve cells,known that hearing, blackbird, is an audio-tactile experience,with both senses tuned to environmental…

Stay1Baby of mine descendingfrom the nurse’s armsinto your mother’s likea heron approaching its nest2and unpacking its legsbaby born to a creepingautumn hungry for darkyou kick your heels in the gap3of light where dawn and duskrub backs in the troughof winter and son of minesilently mouth your name4with fluttering tongueafter so long in the pulsingtunnel all wallsare theatre curtains parting5between one breast and the nextyou defy with a fallen-limp fist the singlebedroom that is the world6and here is the tree whose…

ARUNIMA MAZUMDAR So much to read; so little time! (neelsky / Shutterstock) Reviewer’s pick: The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes (Courtesy the reviewer) A retired man reminisces about his school days and the repercussions of his conduct in this Booker Prize winning novel from over a decade ago. Stay tuned with breaking news on HT Channel on Facebook. Join Now Click to join. CHINTAN GIRISH MODI Reviewer’s pick: Western Lane by Chetna Maroo (Courtesy the reviewer) A novel about a Jain family in the UK…

Credit: Kindel Media from Pexels Translating poetry is notoriously difficult. Translating poetry in such a way that the humorous nature of a poem remains intact is even more difficult, even though it is precisely jokes that can encourage children to read more, notes Ph.D. candidate Alice Morta. "Form and content merge in poetry, which makes it very…

The Weight of the WorldOh, how they blew like vast sails in the breeze,my mother’s wet sheets, pegged hard to the ropeof her washing line. There was always hopeof dry weather and no need for a pleaseor thanks between us as we hauled them down.Whether to make the fold from right to leftor left to right, to tame the restless heft?My job to know. I won’t call it a dance,but there were steps to learn and cues to read,the give and take of fabric passed like batonson a relay race. She was my due north.Her right hand set west,…

‘The first poet whose name I could remember’I have a memory, at age nine, of reading a poem in year four (around 2000 or 2001), called Funky Chicken. I must have loved the absurd humour and playful tone, because it stayed with me for many years. I remember Benjamin Zephaniah being a presence since then. He was probably the first poet whose name I could remember. I’ve since loved everything he does and says and believe him to be a pioneer in art, education and social change. What a force, a true artist, actor and…

“Poet, writer, lyricist, musician and naughty boy,” is how Benjamin Zephaniah, who died today aged 65, described himself on his website. He was the author of 30 books of poetry, stories for adults, teens and children, and nonfiction, as well as several plays. Then there was his work as a musician and sometime actor. But in his memoir The Life and Rhymes of Benjamin Zephaniah, published to celebrate his 60th birthday in 2018, he listed one of his greatest achievements as reaching 30 “without being shot”.Indeed, it is…