Brian Bilston, the 'Poet Laureate of Twitter'

OF NO FIXED ADOBE

Her interest in him

had waned,

then gradually eroded.



Like an update

to Adobe Reader,

he’d never be downloaded.

---

I discovered Brian Bilston's Poetry Laboetry. He is wonderful to read. (Probably because I can understand what he says and there is whimsy involved.)

Poetry by numbers

My one-liners are one-dimensional,

My dohas are so square,

My trivenis are trivial,

And my quatrains are four-gettable.

Just like this one.

Posted a while ago somewhere else.

Paperback Raita

Paperback Raita

Dear Sir or Madam, will you tell my cook?
It took me days to ferment, will you take a look?
Based on a lactobacillus named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback raita,
Paperback raita.

It's the saucy story of a dahi pan
And his non-fat wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Mishti Doi,
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback raita,
Paperback raita.

Paperback raita

It's a thousand boondis, give or take a few,
I'll be culturing more in a week or two.
I can make it minty if you like the style,
I can chill it round and I want to be a paperback raita,
Paperback raita.

If you really like it you can have it white,
It could make the menu for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break fast and I want to be a paperback raita,
Paperback raita.

---

With apologies to The Beatles, once again.

Previous Beatles apology is here ("All you need is Spam").

The Colour Khusro

Today of course is Holi, a day for adults to do some fingerpainting of their own. There is hardly a non-contact version of the festival, no wall where you can guiltlessly fling paint at, as young 'uns do in a chic urban Hindi film in a slow motion sequence.

A year or two ago, I saw an interesting documentary on NDTV (their weekend documentary show is often worth a watch) which must centred around Holi and colours, I'm sure. It featured Ustad Sultan Khan who began singing "aaj rang hai" which, until then in my vast ignorance, I only knew as lines appearing in the Maqbool soundtrack's Jhin Min Jhini.

The same album has a longer version of the same song, which begins with "khusro rain suhaag ki, jaage pii ke sa.ng/tan mero man piyuu ko/dono bhaye ek ra.ng". The programme explained the Sufi concept of "rang", which is more than just the literal meaning of "colour". It refers to a kind of "luminescence" of God¹, a divine colour, the oneness that the Sufi wants to achieve with his beloved Lord. Phrases like "mujhe rang de" are well known to us via Hindi film songs. In Sufi thought, there seems to be this treatment of the Lord and the devotee as beloveds, with the devotee seeking union with his God, which is why the use of romantic vocabulary of words like "prem", "suhaag", "piyaa".

Returning to "aaj rang hai", whose writer was (if you haven't guessed already) Amir Khusro. This post by Sheetal Vyas describes a popular version of the story behind the verses. Khusro meets Hazrat Nizammudin Aulia, and having found his mentor, is over the moon and runs home to tell his mother. So he writes:

aaj ra.ng hai
aye maa ra.ng hai ri
mere mehbuub ke ghar ra.ng hai ri

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Abida Parveen, and the Sabri Brothers have famous recitals of "aaj rang hai".

Incidentally, looks like Gulzar who wove these verses in "Jhin Min Jhini" made another reference to Khusro in a song for "Saathiya" by using the phrase "nainaa milaaike". It's a coincidence that I watched Gulaal last week, but perhaps a separate post on it another day. Some more links
1. An article on Amir Khusro
2. A few Khusro poems (with translations)

---

1. I'm sure my interpretations are lacking in depth and meaning, since they are based on recollections of a TV show and half an evening's reading.

Flu Attack!

The world and its uncle, the uncle's extra-terrestrial abductor, the abductor's milkman have all seen Kaminey. Except for a little pocket in Pune and Bombay. But I'm used to waiting for Vishal Bhardwaj's music and movies to land up here. Especially the music, which I always have to hunt for days to find. So patience is something I have.

But Kaminey seems to have been extraordinarily well-distributed, which means the usual fist-shaking Bollyphiles in the USA have for once seen a Vishal film as early as any one else on the mainland.

Even a patient Vishal fan has his boundaries. Here's a paean to the wait:

with a million apologies to Gulzar-saab, Vishal, and to readers/listeners

Flu Attack!

ke kaminaa kaminaa aayaa re...
ke kaminaa kaminaa aayaa re... flu'tack

ke kaminaa kaminaa aayaa re... flu'tack
dhan te nan kartaa aayaa re... flu'tack

ke k-k-kaminaa aayaa re,
##gun##-van letaa aayaa re,
dhan dhan kartaa galiyo.n se,
ab tak yahaa.n na chaayaa re
flu'tack, flu'tack...

pikchar dikhe bareily mei.n,
par na saje hai pune mei.n (kaminaa aayaa re...)
dhai baje hai amroli mei.n,
par na saje kahin pune mei.n
kaan mei.n gulzaar ka gaanaa re

flu'tack, flu'tack,
flu'tack, dhan te nan on the ground
flu'tack, dhan te nan on the ground

ginti na karnaa din ke aane ka
awaraa ghume gaalii hoto.n ka
ye swine flu hamesha daraayegaa
na bhaagegaa, sab ko bhagaayegaa

##bore## hue hai.n khabro.n se
gilahari khaaye maTar, ke khaayaa, ke khaayaa,
ke khaayaa aur rulaayaa re,
flu'tack, flu'tack...

jitnaa bhi ruuTh-roye.n thoDaa hai
kiiDon ki mastii ka natiijaa hai
khaasi aur ##'tishoo## to aayegaa
zeharila hai ya sirf sardii aam-saa

darwaazon ko khulne do
dafaa karo ye aandhi
ye tuufan ke mausam ko
flu'tack, flu'tack...

ke k-k-kaminaa aayaa re,
##gun##-van letaa aayaa re,
dhan dhan kartaa galiyo.n se,
ab tak yahaa.n na chaayaa re

ye ishq nahi aasaa.n
aji flu ka khatraa hai
rumaal pehan jaanaa
yeh mask ka hauvvaa hai

ke pardaah uTh jaaye
kaminaa dikh jaaye
kaminaa dikh jaaye
ke pardaah uTh jaaye...

flu'tack!

Sparked off while talking to George, whose personal Kaminey gush is up here (I'm yet to read it)
With no insensitivity implied to people affected by swine flu in the city :-)

Have you recently met a four?

I'm a metaphor,
sort of like a simile,
only much subtler.

I get compared a lot,
usually to an analogy,
even when I'm not.

I've been a stubbled moon,
or a rarely travelled road,
and even a lead balloon.

I'm very quiet & awkward.
Mixing me badly leaves a taste
like chalk and two peas of a pod.

Like a stair descending nude,
I can make no sense.
I'm a misunderstood dude.

But I like who I am,
I'm so unlike anyone else,
Reminiscent of a lighthouse on an oasis in the shape of a desert palm.

Caliban's Sunrise

In Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit, that whiskered pill Percy Gorringe recites a poem about a man who, while watching the sun go down, comments:

"I say,
Doesn't that sunset remind you
Of a slice
Of underdone roast beef?"
Caliban at Sunset

I'm sure if Stilton Cheesewright, 'soulless clod' extraordinaire and muse for the poem, was to see this image of the morning sky from a few months ago, it would doubtlessly remind him of some scrambled eggs.

The Daily Pirouette

Latin is a dead language, some say.

Well, if it’s dead, then there’re a few of its phantoms still floating around in the meme-pool. Consider carpe diem. You know, the phrase that pouts across a million wall-posters, can be found tattooed on many a motivational book’s inner sleeves, or is vaguely reminiscent of the resolution at the end of a carbon black day.

And there’s the taunting. They stand, emboldened, all of them. They mock. They point. Like street dogs who know that they hold the upper paw. "How about some seizing, my friend", they jeer. "Leave alone molest us, you don’t even make a pass!".

True. Seizing the day is a breakfast ruling, made heavy by lunch, dissolving like soap in the yellow twilight, left for the end of the day. By then, it competes with the yawn, and we’ll cease the day. No wonder, the days of the past stand in front of the door, howling with ridicule.

There are a few nicer ones. "Come out and play", they suggest. "Gather the day, pick it up, run your fingers over it". "But I haven’t done much of that", you say. They shake their heads. How do you seize the day, if you’re afraid of even touching it?

To seize the day, you mustn’t clamp down, clutching at emptiness. Instead, try opening that fist and let the shy day make its way up to you. Then you can slide your arms around its waist, pull it gently towards you, and... well, you might just figure out the rest.

A Poet Is Cornered

There was a baker named Roger
They said he baked by magic
He served up golden bagels
And many a brown breadstick

He thought they were quite sweet
His customers begged to differ
"Your produce is beautiful", they said
"But God! it tastes so bitter"

"Moo!" said Roger
in his white jacket
"I score great music here"
"not an infernal racket"

And then came Paris where
Some Muscles from Mallorca
Dished out his own dough
It was called A Special Rafa

"'The bagel's acerbic", said Roger
"The breadstick too, I'll pass"
"My medicine doesn't taste too well"
"Should I try eating some grass?"

Roger Federer, ATP artist, can still write better on-court poetry than I can with words. But of late, the symphonies have been unfinished and the notes have jarred. Now, I don't think this is the beginning of some long-term decline, for we're still talking about a World No. 1 who made the finals of the last three most important tournaments on his least favourite surface. But it's the manner of the approach (literally) that should send a twitter down some Swiss shoulders.

Nadal's come back strongly from injury; Djokovic's been tracking the top two with the intensity of a Serbian Defensive Dog - these you would expect. What you wouldn't expect is how certain aspects of Federer's game have become entangled with the mind, which at times, just seems to be milking Alpine cows.

The mind as mental barrier
In Fredric Brown's short story "Arena", the central character (Carson) finds himself fighting an alien being - one who wins will guarantee victory of his species. But neither can get to each other: they are separated by am invisible barrier that turns out to be purely a mental creation, one that the conscious mind cannot get through. It's an apt metaphor for Roger Federer's problems at the tennis net.

At the more visible barrier, he's fumbled. He's smashed and caressed balls into the wires. He approaches the tape with all the enthusiasm of a lamb to the slaughter. Even against the likes of the lowly Monfils, he was visibly reluctant to surge ahead. Cerberus guarding the doors of hell would have been easier to get by.

At any rate, this presents a challenge worthy of a champion. If and how Federer does tame these devils will be worth watching. Like Carson, it'll involve both sweat and creativity. Surely, the memory of that bitter breadstick and bagel at this year's Roland Garros final should keep him piqued.

The prose of Simon Armitage

I don't know what Simon Armitage writes under the "Occupation" column, but most bios call him a poet. It is therefore ironic that I have hardly read any of his poetry, but have read two books of prose and have heard an adaptation of the Odyssey for the BBC.

Book one was "All Points North": non fiction and personal, rendering life in Northern England (Yorkshire, to be very specific, for they are finicky about these distinctions there, right?) in all its dry humour. This is the England of Boycott and Bird, of the Beiderbecke TV series, of James Herriot and Yorkshire Terriers. I picked it up on a whim and breezed through the tales of Armitage and family, road trips and travelling amateur troupes, of life normal and strange. It also features some samples of Armitage's poems, which I was impressed by.

Book two was "The White Stuff": fiction and funny. The Fentons want to have a child desperately, but can't. Felix (no doubt chiseled from Armitage's social worker life) discovers his wife's true origins. Their neighbour tests fireworks for a living and is occasionally thrown out of his house by his wife. As the story winds towards a conclusion, there's a lot of sadness, a little happiness, loads of wit and wisdom, some clever plotlines, and a very engaging read.

It's time to go find all that poetry he must have written if everyone keeps calling him a poet.

Link to Simon Armitage's website.

Google Spam back to Alpha?

Google Spam back to Alpha?

I'm not sure why this is happening, but each day, more than a handful of annoyingly mundane filth remains untouched in my GMail Inbox. Instead of being shown the backdoor (as salesmen traditionally are), they're punching the front doorbell or squashed against the French windows.

My limited searching on the subject did not reveal any recent upsurge in complaints from netizens, so I wonder why I have so much false negatives each day. Unless the Google machine learners are having a summer vacation. Till then, I try to find solace in odes to spam (1 - All You Need Is Spam, 2 - Don't Be Inadequate Anymore).

And to make this post utterly worthless, here's a little riddle:

Q. Why is the song "dhak dhak karne lagaa" similar to most Google products?

A. Because it's a Beta version.

The Day the Saucers Came'

'The Day the Saucers Came'

I had no idea Neil Gaiman could write this type of verse as well. Superb.

(thanks to Abhishek for link)

WoodEd poetry

An exercise in blanket-verse; can be set to tune as required.

Don't be inadequate anymore

Daily news
Try and see if you like it
Help is on the way
Still upset?
Tell me more
yanyone
[Chorus: Don't be inadequate anymore...]

Timing, perfect
You asked for it
Remember to tell me later
Share this with them all
Hope she is the one!
Finally found this here
[Chorus: Don't be inadequate anymore...]

Can you imagine you are healthy? :-)
Thank you again!
He simply looked bored :-(
Hey buddy!
Everything kool?
Morning... :-(
[Chorus: Don't be inadequate anymore...]

If you'd like to know more about how this poem was created:

Okay, I write bad poetry, but don't blame the above on me. I just went through about 50 emails in my Spam folder, and picked out 18 subject lines from them. I didn't even mess around with the ordering or spelling - honest. All I did was break it up, and add some punctuation. This is one-pass poetry at its finest - it's wonderful how coherent it all is. Works great as a pastime. Give it a shot.

Other relevant bits from my 'collection'.

kaikuu?

A selection of haikus:

Disemvowelment,
the heart of SMS-talk,
rips English's guts out

Autumn is a race,
man seeks the comfort of fire,
sunlight comes second

Lying on my back.
A cloud flits by in the sky.
Hey, it made a face!

To the passing ant,
I am God. It is afraid.
But today, I'm kind.

Is this a haiku?
Only if I can squeeze in
enough syllables.

All you need is Spam

Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam.
There's nothing you can sell that can't be sold.
Nothing you can write that can't be e-mailed.
Nothing you need to post but you can learn how to play the game
It's easy.
There's nothing you can make that can't be aired.
No one you can meet that can't be reached.
Nothing you need script but you can learn how to be in the box
It's easy.
All you need is Spam, all you need is Spam,
All you need is Spam, Spam, Spam is all you need.
Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam.
All you need is Spam, all you need is Spam,
All you need is Spam, Spam, Spam is all you need.
There's nothing you can promise that isn't big.
Nothing a Bayesian can filter that isn't text.
Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're not meant to be.
It's easy.
All you need is Spam, all you need is Spam,
All you need is Spam, Spam, Spam is all you need.
All you need is Spam (all together now)
All you need is Spam (everybody)
All you need is Spam, Spam, Spam is all you need.
(background: She Spams me, yeah, yeah, yeah...)

(With apologies to The Beatles)

Last Book Loved

All Points North by Simon Armitage. Armitage writes with a sense of irony that seems to be the innate preserve of the British. Armitage is a poet who can write other kinds of "writings" well. Book is almost like a blog actually.

Even a little place like England has its North-South divide (consider that Scotland v England is a different beast altogether). Listening to members on either side of the hedge has always been fascinating, in the way it plays out in cricket (even further down to the Roses' counties), in football, in popular culture and even in the English language (listen to Mike Atherton and Geoff Boycott speaking on air). Armitage is a Yorkshire lad. He's lived and worked there. Now he's popular and one of the Booker Prize jury members this year.

The book has news articles from the region, public events such as putting up a pantomime in front of many, many people, personal journeys, househunting, poems, and musings. I wanted to put up a few poems like the one on the homeless, but alas, I have returned the book to the library. For what it's worth, a recommendation.