The Prayer Poem – by Drima Chakraborty Drima Chakraborty is a gender fluid Indian living in Singapore. They […]
By Aminah Sheikh
Let’s get down to brass tacks. Why do you write?
I write to express myself, and there is a hell of a lot in me to express.
Tell us about your most recent book or writing project. What were you trying to say or achieve with it?
Am trying to say many things in my book. Firstly what a short story can do and achieve. The title story “Daniell comes to Judgement” is about how fate conspires to deal with a corporate honcho who is trying to exploit a brave girl. The second story about Garima is about a divorce, the wife returning to her mother’s house and after all the dejection, the garden getting watered and suddenly the fragrance from the buried bulbs revives her. And the passages at the end of the story simply have to turn lyrical — language always has to keep pace with the twists and turns of a story. And don’t forget the story “Bars”, based on my experience in the National Commission for Minorities – pastors being arrested for converting a corpse! Hey Prabhu, the Hindutva police under a Hindutva regime in MP can do anything.
Describe your writing aesthetic.
Writing aesthetic. Koi aesthetic vesthetic nahin Madam. Jo dil mein aya likh diya.
Women I Am Ranjini Rao is a writer from India and wears many hats: mom, teacher, head-hasher, bibliophile, […]
By Anurima Chanda
We see the various stages of birth – the birth of a piece of writing, in Shelly Bhoil’s maiden collection of poems An Ember from Her Pyre. She begins at the beginning, when there exists only the turbulent blank that comes before the beginning. The germs of assorted ideas squirming in the brain, while the mind is still trying to process which one of it needs to be carried for a full term and finally given birth to. This is what the poems in the first section of her book – “The Recalling” give you a sense of. Bhoil seems unafraid to let the reader penetrate deep within the poet’s mind space, where everything is still raw, half-processed and unbaked. It is like the dustbin full of scratched out first lines written down on papers that have now been reduced into crushed little wrinkly balls. Here the poet is not yet a mother, but still the one whose egg has not met its fertilising agent. The “dream” of a poem, the imprint of another poem or poet on your poem, the struggle with words, with meanings, with grammar, the play with form, with diction and with dialects, and the lure of stories heard and memories made – millions of these seeds of ideas ejaculated into the poet’s mind womb is put out on open display as they swim towards the egg trying to reach it before the others.
As we reach the second section of her book – “An Ember from Her Pyre,” the union of the two has occurred. As Bhoil herself writes in “Unstitch”, one of her poems, “the word is pregnant”. The poems in this section are more sure of their existence. They are no longer fragmentary. They have now become full grown foetuses, which the poet has carefully nurtured in “the womb of [the] waters” of the mind. The isolated words that had been floating in the poet’s mind, have now been assimilated through “self-consummation” to narrate stories of their own. These tales have reignited the memories of many a “forgotten story”, given words to many a story that have been guarding painful “secrets”, and encouraged the mute “mannequins” to shake off the weight of “scripted roles” and be born anew as “a bud”. Bhoil has carefully shaken out the ghosts of the yesteryears from her “urn of life” and let them form roots of their own, in order to branch “deeper into the earth” and unearth “saplings” of tales bearing the weight of those experiences that have so long existed only between the lines.
Brandon Marlon – 2 Poems Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. (Hon.) in Drama […]
Nick Admussen on the poetry of Liu Xiaobo, 2010 winner of the Nobel Peace Prize: The Boston Review Xiaobo’s poems […]
Suddenly Injected with Hormones
Was there ever a time when I was not stupid
when the weight of the city didn’t weigh on my head like a loadstone
when I was lucid, and enjoyed,
the smell of women
the crunch of leaves under the shoes
and the benevolence of strangers.
More poems by Ankur Betageri Buy