{"id":40459,"date":"2015-04-10T18:38:51","date_gmt":"2015-04-10T22:38:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/?p=40459"},"modified":"2015-04-10T22:58:14","modified_gmt":"2015-04-11T02:58:14","slug":"40459","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/?p=40459","title":{"rendered":"“Sri Lankan Tamil Poetry: An Anthology’ by S. Pathmanathan-An Introduction by Prof Rajiva Wijesinha M.P."},"content":{"rendered":"

\"SLTP\"<\/a><\/p>\n

(Excerpts of Prof. Rajiva Wijesinha\u2019s introduction to “Sri Lankan Tamil Poetry: An Anthology’ by S. Pathmanathan, which was published in Jaffna recently.)<\/strong><\/p>\n

I<\/strong> am pleased, and honoured, to contribute an introduction to this collection of poetry produced by So Pathmanathan. I got to know him well when he helped with the production of Mirrored Images, the collection of English and Sinhala and Tamil poetry that the National Book Trust of India published a couple of years back. He then participated actively in the various launches of the book, in Colombo and Jaffna and Matara in 2013. Then, in 2014, he toured a number of other universities too, together with English and Sinhala language poets, to introduce the book and discuss its contents from a shared pluraristic perspective.<\/p>\n

In the case of this volume too I use the work produced because, while the bulk of the book consists of translations which he has produced of the work of others, his own poetry is also included. The work as a whole showcases Tamil poetry of the last several years, and does this in English, which makes it accessible to more readers in the country.<\/p>\n

This is an eminently worthy task, because for far too long people in other parts of the country had no knowledge, let alone understanding, of what people whose first language was Tamil were going through. I do not say Tamil people, for this volume contains many poems by Muslims, which suggest both shared experiences and some instructive differences.<\/p>\n

\"RW12312\"<\/a><\/p>\n

The volume covers a wide range of experience, described in vivid language and moving imagery. Though obviously the skill with which the poems are presented is that of the translator, he has also managed to indicate some flavor of the individual styles of the various writers he has included. Obviously, given the dominant experiences of the last couple of decades, there is much emotion arising from violence and deprivation, but there are softer emotions too, and also some examples of whimsicality and romance.
\n
\nThe most unusual of the poems new to me was Solaikili\u2019s \u2018THE MAD BUFFALO\u2019 with a conclusion that brings us back to earth, reminding us of what could be seen as the rewards of absurdity –<\/p>\n

Drinking the muddy water<\/p>\n

it declared:<\/p>\n

“I drink boiled filtered water”<\/p>\n

“Entry into the fields<\/p>\n

is forbidden!”<\/p>\n

It decreed<\/p>\n

Hot mid- day sun<\/p>\n

The buffalo\u2019s madness worsened<\/p>\n

It applied soap<\/p>\n

bathed<\/p>\n

dried its head with flowers<\/p>\n

\u2018I don\u2019t like dirty ones”<\/p>\n

It proclaimed<\/p>\n

and chased away the white cranes<\/p>\n

Who knows its speeches and photos<\/p>\n

may appear in tomorrow\u2019s papers!<\/em><\/p>\n

Amongst my favourites, which appeared also in Mirrored Images, is Cheliyan\u2019s \u2018The little fry that left the sea\u2019.
\n
\nThey were in no mood<\/p>\n

to get back to the sea<\/p>\n

but instead<\/p>\n

The house – fly brought the news<\/p>\n

that the fry had been seen<\/p>\n

dancing in the night clubs<\/p>\n

The insect lamented that they were loafing<\/p>\n

with a handsome singer<\/em><\/p>\n

I suspect that, were this poem taught in Sri Lankan universities, hidden meanings would be deemed essential, and the fry would be seen as symbolizing expatriates who had left their original element and
\n
\nhad dissolved their hearts in the frothing beer<\/p>\n

and were found weeping<\/p>\n

on the banks of the Thames<\/em><\/p>\n

But I think the poem is entertaining enough without such interpretations, and is a joyous exploration of the thirst for new experiences.<\/p>\n

This unusual poem is followed by a straightforward lament for a grandfather, which weaves in a range of experience, moving from the narrator\u2019s fond memories of childhood to a shrapnel wound when war broke out, and then religious devotion and second childhood. But Jeyaseelan ends on a note of unusual sensitivity, when he asks
\n
\nWill I be able<\/p>\n

to offer my grandson<\/p>\n

a relationship<\/p>\n

as precious<\/p>\n

as yours, appu?<\/p>\n

I wonder<\/em><\/p>\n

Loss is sharper, and its source more bitter in Oddamavadi Arafath\u2019s \u2018 MISSING\u2019<\/p>\n

You\u2019re at the threshold<\/p>\n

waiting for your father<\/p>\n

who left<\/p>\n

in his ox – drawn cart<\/p>\n

to fetch firewood \u2026<\/p>\n

Those who went<\/p>\n

looking for him<\/p>\n

brought your vaapa\u2019s<\/p>\n

blood – stained sarong<\/p>\n

like Yusuf nabi\u2019s cloak<\/p>\n

Son,<\/p>\n

How then can I give<\/p>\n

what you\u2019re asking for ?<\/em><\/p>\n

Interestingly, a great many of the poems about the suffering inflicted by war are by Muslims. And though it would be comforting to believe that this persecution was the responsibility of the LTTE, it is clear that the state too played its part in the brutalities that occurred. Particularly telling is Nuhuman\u2019s account of the burning of the Jaffna Public Library in 1981, a vicious action that we still need to expiate<\/p>\n

Last night<\/p>\n

I had a dream<\/p>\n

Lord Buddha was shot dead<\/p>\n

by the police \u2013<\/p>\n

guardians of the law.<\/p>\n

His body lay drenched in blood<\/p>\n

on the step<\/p>\n

of the Jaffna Library!<\/p>\n

Under cover of darkness<\/p>\n

came the ministers<\/p>\n

\u2018His name \u2013 not in our lists!<\/p>\n

Why did you kill him?\u2019<\/p>\n

they ask in anger<\/p>\n

\u2018No, sirs, no!<\/p>\n

Without bumping him off<\/p>\n

it was impossible<\/p>\n

to harm even a fly.<\/p>\n

Therefore \u2026.\u2019, they stammered<\/p>\n

There was no mistake.<\/p>\n

\u2018Okay, okay!<\/p>\n

Hide the corpse.\u2019
\n<\/em>
\nPathmanathan himself deals with another source of suffering, when he talks about the changing role of the IPKF, following the Indo-Lankan Accord of 1987, in \u2018Thoughts on a Full Moon Day (Composed on the eve of the departure of the IPKF)\u2019<\/p>\n

Having received those celestial beings<\/p>\n

we took them round in motorcades<\/p>\n

we were in a trance for over a month<\/p>\n

But one day the gods turned into demons<\/p>\n

they pestered us who had asked for a homeland<\/p>\n

and our homes were destroyed<\/p>\n

The transformed gods had to be appeased<\/p>\n

with fowls and goats<\/p>\n

with ornaments and houses<\/p>\n

and wine and women<\/em><\/p>\n

The other poem by Pathmanathan that he includes in this volume is his evocation of the losses caused by displacement. When he manages to get back home, he misses the dog he had to abandon<\/p>\n

You are not there<\/p>\n

but your memory haunts me<\/p>\n

when I think that you perished<\/p>\n

defending the house I abandoned<\/p>\n

I feel the pangs of guilt<\/p>\n

I am ashamed of my cowardice<\/p>\n

my pettiness<\/p>\n

As I take stock of the damaged house<\/p>\n

the lost possessions<\/p>\n

the missing members<\/p>\n

the displaced persons<\/p>\n

my balance sheet shows a debit<\/p>\n

Bankrupt<\/p>\n

I could ask you for a write \u2013 off<\/p>\n

but you\u2019re not there<\/p>\n

Only your memory<\/p>\n

haunts me still<\/em><\/p>\n

Other poems are more direct in their descriptions of the problems of those who had to seek refuge from violence, as in Manohari\u2019s \u2018THE DESTITUTES\u2019<\/p>\n

Endless line of refugees<\/p>\n

with their kit bags<\/p>\n

Midnight<\/p>\n

Trudging along<\/p>\n

drenched in rain<\/p>\n

Collecting rain water to drink<\/p>\n

Guided only by the morning star<\/p>\n

we moved on<\/p>\n

Unclaimed corpses<\/p>\n

on the fringes of the village<\/p>\n

Our motherland was slipping<\/p>\n

under our feet<\/em><\/p>\n

Solaikili\u2019s account, as a poet, deals with the emotional draining of the experience \u2013<\/p>\n

I am a three \u2013 day refugee<\/p>\n

successful in saving my life<\/p>\n

The poem wells within it<\/p>\n

Those who saw my house say<\/p>\n

its nose is broken<\/p>\n

I understand<\/p>\n

that the flower plants I nurtured<\/p>\n

have been eaten by cows<\/p>\n

Here<\/p>\n

I own no sky<\/p>\n

Even the air I breathe<\/p>\n

belongs to someone else<\/p>\n

Having lost ninety thousand stars<\/p>\n

and the sky<\/p>\n

and you<\/p>\n

How can I write poetry?<\/p>\n

Having lost my butterfly<\/p>\n

and the lizard that dwells<\/p>\n

in a cranny of my bed<\/p>\n

how can I write poetry, o moon!<\/em><\/p>\n

And Karunakaran, whose work I had been especially pleased to discover, and include in Mirrored Images, draws attention to a poignant aspect of displacement, the corrosive impact of enforced dependency<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t scribble on the wall, son<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t pluck the flowers<\/p>\n

They are not ours<\/p>\n

Be thankful to those<\/p>\n

who threw their door open<\/p>\n

when we came desperate that night<\/p>\n

Wait till we get back home<\/p>\n

You can play in the courtyard<\/p>\n

You can tie a rope swing<\/p>\n

on the mango tree<\/p>\n

and climb up the wind<\/p>\n

You can lie for long on the sand in the moonlight<\/p>\n

and gaze at the sky<\/p>\n

Till then we have to be contented<\/p>\n

with the space we have<\/p>\n

It pains me to impose sanctions, son<\/em><\/p>\n

But in addition to the evocation of suffering caused by the war, there is also empathy for the other. Particularly moving was the account of a youth in need enlisting<\/p>\n

My training was over yesterday<\/p>\n

This evening or tomorrow<\/p>\n

I may be sent to the North<\/p>\n

so that he could<\/p>\n

see my little hut<\/p>\n

in the south \u2013 west blossom<\/em><\/p>\n

Karunakaran\u2019s approach is more ironic in \u2018WHEN WISDOM WAVERED\u2019, but there is also sympathy for the individuals caught up in the suffering, wherever they might be<\/p>\n

The Head of state<\/p>\n

having removed his shoes<\/p>\n

falls at Buddha\u2019s feet<\/p>\n

“Must capture ten or twelve towns”<\/p>\n

A gentle smile crosses<\/p>\n

the corner of Siddharta\u2019s mouth<\/p>\n

Buddha is saddened<\/p>\n

that the passions he once burnt out<\/p>\n

sprout today<\/p>\n

On this full moon day<\/p>\n

Jeyatillake is poring over<\/p>\n

the notice of enlistment<\/p>\n

He thinks about<\/p>\n

Podimenike and Punchinilame<\/p>\n

who couldn\u2019t even see
\n<\/em>
\nthe bodies of their sons killed in action<\/p>\n

In the midst of all this suffering caused by conflict, Pathmanathan also reminds us of other forms of suffering prevalent in an earlier period. The principal poets of the revival of Sri Lankan Tamil poetry in the middle of the last century were particularly concerned about caste, and it is mentioned in both the poems drawn from that period. I presume Mahakavi is talking about the violence that was a feature of the movement to open temples to all castes in the sixties, when he writes<\/p>\n

He came with sparkling eyes<\/p>\n

and sinewy arms<\/p>\n

to seek the grace of God.<\/p>\n

He came,<\/p>\n

a youth of lowly caste<\/p>\n

a human being<\/p>\n

kin to those<\/p>\n

who spread their wings<\/p>\n

to touch the moon<\/p>\n

and return unscathed.<\/p>\n

But found death instead, punishment it would seem for aspirations above his station<\/p>\n

A stone fell<\/p>\n

A head split<\/p>\n

Teeth broken<\/p>\n

faces disfigured<\/p>\n

blood split<\/p>\n

the earth reddened<\/p>\n

and in the commotion<\/p>\n

humans massacred\u2026.<\/p>\n

Behold, the kin of men<\/p>\n

who spread his wings<\/p>\n

to touch the moon,<\/p>\n

writhing in pain<\/p>\n

on the bloody dust<\/em><\/p>\n

Ramalingam\u2019s \u2018Lust is without Caste\u2019 is entertaining rather than intense, but it is also meant to make us think, in its account of power asserting itself<\/p>\n

High \u2013 caste Vellala I was born\u2026.<\/p>\n

\u2026 for its medicinal value<\/p>\n

I take toddy<\/p>\n

nothing so heinous about that\u2026.<\/p>\n

\u2018Sit down, your honour\u2019,<\/p>\n

and I sat on the mat apart<\/p>\n

that the low \u2013 born lass showed.<\/p>\n

As she filled the cup and bent to hand it over<\/p>\n

she struck a spark<\/p>\n

that lit the fire of lust within me\u2026<\/p>\n

I took her hands<\/p>\n

Startled, she shook them free and ran inside<\/p>\n

But I followed, my mouth a-quiver<\/p>\n

to collect the toddy of her lips<\/p>\n

\u2018Quench my fire,\u2019 I begged<\/p>\n

And she yielded<\/em><\/p>\n

Another aspect of the burdens women bear is explored in \u2018TODAY I AM A BIG GIRL\u2019 –<\/p>\n

I\u2019 m a flower<\/p>\n

transformed into a stone<\/p>\n

I\u2019 m the wind<\/p>\n

turned into a rock,<\/p>\n

I\u2019 m water frozen into ice\u2026.<\/p>\n

must be modest<\/p>\n

patient<\/p>\n

coyness<\/p>\n

a female ornament<\/p>\n

talking<\/p>\n

smiling<\/p>\n

glancing<\/p>\n

dressing<\/p>\n

and walking<\/p>\n

every thing as per code<\/p>\n

I\u2019 m now a stone<\/p>\n

a rock<\/p>\n

a block of ice<\/p>\n

a woman<\/em><\/p>\n

That is the only example of distinctively feminist poetry in this volume, though there is also a startlingly frank account of sexuality by the Muslim poet Sharmila Seyid, who was I believe ostracized for her daring.<\/p>\n

The chill that permeates<\/p>\n

the body slowly thaws<\/p>\n

As from a frozen river<\/p>\n

and the secret knots of lust<\/p>\n

loosen one by one<\/p>\n

As lips touch lips<\/p>\n

and moisten each other<\/p>\n

eyes close<\/p>\n

hands discard<\/p>\n

clothes turned thorns<\/p>\n

Shamed by the unusual<\/p>\n

my eyes close<\/em><\/p>\n

In general women writers are well represented, and the distinctive suffering of women in war is hauntingly explored. The male poet Aswagosh has an especially moving account \u2013 if I am right in assuming that the voice is that of a mother<\/p>\n

As I destroyed myself<\/p>\n

through self – denial<\/p>\n

my son left<\/p>\n

to make his life meaningful\u2026.<\/p>\n

Finally<\/p>\n

he came to me<\/p>\n

his body was cold<\/p>\n

no mosquitoes came<\/p>\n

to suck blood<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t permit the flies<\/p>\n

to approach him<\/p>\n

Auvvai\u2019s \u2018MY SON COMES HOME\u2019 deals in a very different vein with the problem of ruthless extremism<\/p>\n

My son came back to me<\/p>\n

having steeled his heart<\/p>\n

turned his brain<\/p>\n

into a gun\u2026<\/p>\n

He has come<\/p>\n

after shooting his friend\u2026<\/p>\n

I remained silent<\/p>\n

He has forgotten<\/p>\n

about human beings<\/p>\n

about freedom<\/p>\n

It looks<\/p>\n

I cannot be his mother<\/p>\n

any more<\/p>\n

Will he call me<\/p>\n

\u2018traitor\u2019<\/p>\n

and bury me<\/p>\n

one day?<\/em><\/p>\n

One element that is in short supply in the book is traditional love poetry. Indeed there is I think just one poem about romantic love, Solaikili\u2019s \u2018THAT VELVET BIRD\u2019, and it is about love that is disappointed. Still, it has a charming lyricism, with its unusual motif of a bird that accompanied the budding relationship \u2013<\/p>\n

You remember<\/p>\n

the velvet bird<\/p>\n

the one with long bright tail<\/p>\n

that would stand sentry<\/p>\n

and warn us of intruders?…<\/p>\n

That red \u2013 eyed velvet<\/p>\n

Somehow smelt out<\/p>\n

our secret meetings<\/p>\n

In the unknown nook<\/p>\n

You remember<\/p>\n

you used to throw<\/p>\n

a fistful of sand<\/p>\n

to scare it away?<\/p>\n

\u2026.When I think of it<\/p>\n

I get wild with rage<\/p>\n

Why did they destroy our love<\/p>\n

the very love approved<\/p>\n

by the red \u2013 eyed velvet?<\/em><\/p>\n

Love then is relatively scarce in this volume, for obvious reasons perhaps, given the traumatic nature of the last few years. But romance is there, in the evocations of the landscape. And in one poem, Cheran\u2019s \u2018Dry Season : Riverside\u2019, landscape and love come together in reflective romance, the very essence of the poetic spirit.<\/p>\n

Boatman,<\/p>\n

You paddle away into the distance<\/p>\n

And I still sit on the bank<\/p>\n

Before me green eddies in the river;<\/p>\n

Mid \u2013 day and the wet sun glints<\/p>\n

in the paddle strokes<\/p>\n

The etti trees that survived the storm<\/p>\n

are laden with bitter fruit beside the bank;<\/p>\n

and scattered coconut plams guzzle the sun<\/p>\n

On the bridge the crowds pass, still unhushed \u2026..<\/p>\n

Boatman, you paddle still further away<\/p>\n

and lovelorn<\/p>\n

I sit on the bank alone<\/em><\/p>\n

I am glad this poem too has been included, for it rounds off the collection. But as noted its value as a collection lies also in its recording of the feelings of the last several years, during which suffering was the dominant feature. That readers in the rest of the country are better able to understand this is something to be welcomed, as also to understand the resilient spirit of the writers and the people they represent.<\/p>\n

Courtesy:The Island<\/em><\/p>\n

Tweet<\/a><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

(Excerpts of Prof. Rajiva Wijesinha\u2019s introduction to “Sri Lankan Tamil Poetry: An Anthology’ by S. Pathmanathan, which was published in Jaffna recently.) I am pleased, and honoured, to contribute an introduction to this collection of poetry produced by So Pathmanathan. I got to know him well when he helped with the production of Mirrored Images, …<\/p>\n

Continue reading ‘“Sri Lankan Tamil Poetry: An Anthology’ by S. Pathmanathan-An Introduction by Prof Rajiva Wijesinha M.P.’ »<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[12],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/40459"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=40459"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/40459\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":40473,"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/40459\/revisions\/40473"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=40459"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=40459"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=40459"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}