Here I am doing what I do best!
I enjoy sounds, sights, scents, thoughts and feelings; sights such as twilight, sunrise, sunset, changing colours of the sky, floating clouds, birds in flight, rain drops on petals, dew drops on glass blades, rainbow, swaying trees, falling leaves, caterpillars, pupae, butterfly dance, a full bright moon, silhouettes and lot more. All these are always accompanied by familiar sounds, relevant or otherwise and feelings which I can’t explain. Just when I try to work on how exactly I feel, my restless wandering eyes and mind would take me to another place. Scents either cover me in nostalgia or make me waddle in déjà vu. Flowers and their fragrance take me back to old fashioned houses of loved ones, their well-kept small garden, flower vases or their kerchiefs with flower embroideries. Smell of heated oil and spices led me back to dimly lit kitchens, where I waited for my favourite foods beside women who loved and nurtured me. Sometimes those women smelt like spices and curry leaves. They sounded too kind and explained the process in simple words. Time stood still as I observed my grandmother make an omelette or my mother make caramel pudding. The various ways in which my grandmother cracked open eggs was a sight to see. Before I knew she taught History in a government school, I assumed she belonged to the Old McDonald clan given the types and number of pets she raised and cared for. This is why my thoughts travel faster than light to the stable, kennel, hencoop and backyard of my grandmother’s house, whenever I hear a continuous bleat or moo or barking, chuckling, cackling, gobbling or crowing. I never grow tired of requesting my family members to turn off the rooster alarm in their mobile phones because I don’t want to wake up in a make-believe world.
Ripe fruits falling off trees, sounds of coconuts hitting the ground during the routine harvest, the sense of accomplishment when mangoes fell right into the palm leaf basket I held patiently till the one who handled the long pole with a hook at its end managed to pluck a few, a whole lot of jackfruit goodness, an aroma of jackfruit wafting through the backyard, tricks and techniques with which a jackfruit was harvested using rope, pulley, sack, sickle and an expert climber, how mangoes and mud apples were kept in straw beds inside cardboard boxes and a hanging bunch of bananas that never fell off even when I pulled one fruit in all directions with all my strength are my fondest memories of sounds, sights and scents. Whenever I passed by the store room, I knew which fruit was ripe enough to be eaten. And I ate most of them much to people’s dismay. Family members christened me with pet names depending on their moods. I was called Uakari by an uncle who was frustrated by disappearing mangoes on which he had an eye for days.
Grandmother called me a civet because she was fond of those animals. She found them adorable. In fact, she even supported my act calling it thoughtful to not let ripe fruits decay. Throughout, I was never offended but focused, on my mission. Much to my husband’s disappointment, skyscraper apartments with all the world class amenities fail to impress me only because they don’t have a store room where I can let fruits ripe on a hay bed and relive my childhood memories. With exhaust fans and range hoods, kitchens do not smell of the food we prepare. Long ago, our entire house smelt of food the entire day, until another dish was prepared. Visitors would easily find out what was made and nobody felt awkward about it. We ended up talking about it and eating together.
Memories of how I felt remain as fresh as the smell of bitter gourds our gardener Chinnamani annan brought into the kitchen straight from the garden. All these feelings would go down as memories because a small part of who I am disappears with the passing away of people I loved dearly, homes that exist no more, recipes that have been forgotten and felling of trees on which I have climbed.
The effect of sounds on me is altogether a different story. Sounds of spluttering mustard and curry leaves bring to my mind loving faces, hands and rings on their fingers. Kitchen gadgets have killed and buried the sounds of traditional grinding stones, mortar and pestle, millstones and rolling stone grinders. Manoeuvring or using these might require a lot of strength and ability which I lack. So, no complaints. The nice shuffle moves my happy feet do are the ones I practised while helpers were at work with these grinding stones. As I waited patiently to test the helpers’ patience and for my turn to do my bit with grinding and pounding and feel victorious, my happy feet danced to the rhythm of those sounds.
Christmas season was special for the scent of loaves and cakes that triggered a sense of belonging and wellbeing. Also, research has proved that our olfactory bulbs are directly connected to that part of our brain which deals with emotion and memory. Forget research and more research. Even before the scientific community said or did anything, I vouched for aromas evoking nostalgic memories, particularly of childhood, loved ones and comfort. Though bread and cakes were not a staple in the south Indian diet, the smell of it prompts odour cued memories of Christmas or bakeries I visited with good friends and family.
Way back then none of these inspired me to journal these in a nice way, into verses or stanzas. When educational institutions began to celebrate world poetry day, it got me thinking as I had nothing to offer. Honestly, poems never entertained me. Memorizing poems or verses for exams, recitals or to win competitions annoyed me. Somewhere between wanting to be on the dais on world poetry day, a realization that I was creative enough and that I can’t doubt my vocabulary skills, my first poem on DNA replication found its pride of place in the university magazine. From then on, poetry juices flowed endlessly. Truly, I never had to try harder since I had sights, sounds, thoughts and feelings filled up the brim, ready to flow off. The rhythm, rhyme and tone were all there, whatever the poem was about. From Dolly, the first cloned mammal, to robots, to SunMoon lake, to lighthouses of the world and to Jamaican treasures, my poems were published all over.
To understand earth and all the bright and beautiful things in it, an intellectual construct of God’s mind, is the first step we must take towards attempting to write or value poetry. In darkness and in light, in sorrow and in happiness, creation will tingle poetic minds to feel the beauty, greatness and magic.
Everything I do, experience and think make up my poems. All of us are blessed with an incredible amount of input into the creation of ourselves and poems too. I evolve continuously as a poet in my hypnagogic state letting my mind attain the pliability of a child, the vitality of an athlete and the wisdom of a sage. New ideas fleet through my consciousness. I pay heed, grab them to preserve them. Believe me, I’ve flown to the stars and explored the caves. I’ve danced above the clouds and rainbows. In short, like millions around the world, I have discovered the beauty of poetry.
Nowadays screens, big and small, eat up everyone’s life. Everyone everywhere discusses video games, reality shows, sports, YouTube shorts, reels and soap operas. With such an abdication of their own lives, will poetic skills be honed?
We might struggle with finding the right words to describe imaginations. Poetry is not about strong vocabulary or knowledge, but flow. Our strength as poets comes from aligning our senses with sounds, sights and feelings, opening the mind and spreading our wings of imagination. By doing these, we can be still as the mountain we observe but fleet with the clouds above it. However, keep in mind that in the process of challenging ourselves, we will win many hearts. Anybody can become a poet by choosing to live in a world more tilted towards faith than intellect.
Prior to my tryst with poetry, a splash of colour on some tree trunk or a meadow drew my mind to songs, creations of a different kind of surreal artists. Similar to birds that sing their hearts out for us, clouds that burst into rains for life to thrive, the sun that shines and sets no matter what, may we all create songs and poems for someone to sing and think! Do we change the world with a poem? Of course, yes. Do we teach something? Perhaps yes. The only thing that is certain is that all poems are a stirring piece of work. Such is the power of language. UNESCO was right in earmarking a day for poetry to preserve moribund languages and dialects. The good news is that even if you are the last person writing the last poem in your mother tongue, somebody will try to decode it, might translate it, spread it and preserve it forever.
Once I was sure about penning poems, I began living an adventure even with reminiscences, lost and found. So, it didn’t matter where it went. It doesn’t matter if I’ll read it out to my kids or at a school or an event or forums or get it published in national and international magazines or travel places. Once again, I began to watch, listen and absorb with all of myself, to write.
On this world poetry day, I admit I have exceeded my wildest dreams, my dad’s expectations and my mom’s hopes. My mom, who was also my English teacher, is satisfied that in the world of creativity I am a glutton. Getting my poems read in world forums is a big gift and I am thankful to my dad who introduced me to a galaxy of books. May we motivate ourselves to discover the essence of poetry, a medium for understanding to make our small worlds a happier place.
Dr Elsa Lycias Joel
The author holds a doctorate in biotechnology, worked with The New Indian Express as sub editor and is a columnist and feature writer for Woman’s Era. Her opinion pieces on politics, social and environmental issues are featured in political magazines such as Indian Currents, Power Politics, South Asia Journal, Deccan Herald, Kerala Kaumudi, Kashmir News Trust, Terra Green magazine, The Teenager Today and few more.
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