Category Archives: book reviews

She Had Some Horses by Jay Harjo

SheHadSomeHorsesPbkbig

  • Paperback: 80 pages
  • Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company (December 17, 2008)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 039333421X
  • ISBN-13: 978-0393334210
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Reviewed by Stephen Page 
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Friday afternoon.  I take a taxi to the Buenos Aires Airpark.  On my flight to Uruguay I read She Had Some Horses, by Jay Harjo. The poems seem somehow familiar, something . . . I am trying to put my finger on it . . . yes . . . they remind me of poems I have read in workshops at university—there is nothing technically wrong with them, but there is nothing outstanding about them either.  They evoke some imagery, but little emotion.   My friend meets me at the airport and drives me to his home.  That evening, after eating grilled lamb on a patio in back of his house, I gaze over what he calls a “backyard”, which is a hundred acres of rolling land surrounded by barbwire fence with a small herd of horses that graze on the grass.  Once in a while one of the horses will take off running, and two or three will follow its lead, running, jumping in the air, kicking their hooves about, neighing like they are laughing, manes and tails flowing.  Running about, it seems, just to run about—to have fun—to be happy to be alive.  I note how gracefully horses move. How proud they stand when they stick their heads up from grazing to look about.  That night, I read the book again.  I begin to notice a subtle tugging from the poems, an evasive yet imperative beckoning.  The next morning, I read the book a third time.  The poems stun me. Each one dazzles me, has my full attention—like the way I notice a woman is beautiful and interesting in a way I did not on a first meeting with her, but upon a second and third encounter, moves me, enters me, will not leave me.  One of the better poems in the book is ‘The Woman Hanging From the Thirteenth Floor Window’:
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She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor
 window. Her hands are pressed white against the
 concrete molding of the tenement building. She
 hangs from the 13th floor window in east Chicago.
 with a swirl of birds over her head. They could
 be a halo, or a storm of glass waiting to crush her . . .
 .
The woman hanging from the 13th floor window
 on the east side of Chicago is not alone.
 She is a woman of children, of the baby, Carlos,
 and of Margaret, and of Jimmy who is the oldest.
 She is her mother’s daughter and her father’s son.
 She is several pieces between the two husbands
 she has had. She is all the women of the apartment
 building who stand watching her, watching themselves. . .
 .
She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window
 on the Indian side of town. Her belly is soft from
 her children’s births, her worn Levi’s swing down below
 her waist, and then her feet, and then her heart.
 She is dangling.
 .
The woman hanging from the 13th floor hears voices.
 They come to her in the night when the lights have gone
 dim. Sometimes they are little cats mewing and scratching
 at the door, sometimes they are her grandmother’s voice,
 and sometimes they are gigantic men of light whispering
 to her to get up, to get up, to get up. That’s when she wants
 to have another child to hold onto in the night, to be able to fall back into dreams.
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And the woman hanging from the 13th floor window
 hears other voices. Some of them scream out from below
 for her to jump, they would push her over. Others cry softly
 from the sidewalks, pull their children up like flowers and gather
 them into their arms. They would help her, like themselves.
 .
But she is the woman hanging from the 13th floor window,
 and she knows she is hanging by her own fingers, her
 own skin, her own thread of indecision . . .
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The woman hangs from the thirteenth floor window crying for
 the lost beauty of her own life. She sees the
 sun falling west over the gray plane of Chicago.
 She think she remembers listening to her own life
 break loose, as she falls from the 13th floor
 window on the east side of Chicago, or as she
 climbs back up to claim herself again.
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The image of the woman hanging by her fingertips on the window ledge is vivid.  She is depicted metaphorically as EveryIndianWoman, but she could just as easily be EveryWoman, the poem is written that well. Every reader feels empathy with The Women, as do the spectators on the street below.  Thusly, EveryOne is up on the ledge with The Woman, right beside her, or as her.  The poem begins tragically but ends victoriously.  There is hope to escape the fall from the ledge in the sense of self-reclamation.  After all, hasn’t everyone been hanging from a ledge at least once in his or her life—at least some sort of a metaphoric ledge?
The rest of the poems are just as vivid as they are emotional.
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stephen-in-the-countryStephen Page is from Detroit, Michigan.  There he worked in factories, gasoline stations, and steel-cutting shops.  He always longed for a vocation associated with nature.  He now lives in Argentina, teaches literature, ranches, and spends time with his family. http://stephenmpage.wordpress.com/

Best Bones by Sarah Rose Nordgren

best bonesSeries: Pitt Poetry Series

Paperback: 88 pages

Publisher: University of Pittsburgh Press; 1 edition (September 4, 2014)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0822963175

ISBN-13: 978-0822963172

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Reviewed by g emil reutter

There is a strange feeling as you turn the pages of Best Bones by Sarah Rose Nordgren. Something is out of kilter, unorthodox may be the proper term but I do believe original best describes the poetry of Nordgren. She is a narrative poet dwelling equally in the shadows and light of life.
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In the haunting poem, Exhumation, Nordgren contrasts shadows and light throughout the poem. A gray face, greasy windows, railroad ditch, sun rise. “When the lights die you disappear”. In this terrifying poem, Nordgren’s controlled use of images is remarkable. Wrapped by I am the woman lying on her side, to the last, My Face is an aluminum dish.
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Exhumation
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I am the woman lying on her side across the van seat,
wearing a gray face, apparitional through greasy
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windows as you walk past the railroad ditch
early morning on a whim, wanting to watch the sun
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rise like you haven’t in years. My life is under yours: in-
consolable, bathed in drainage, a midden of cracked
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bottles, swollen tampons, rusted metal sheets cast
from the clamor. You flasher of future, your liver and lung
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are fleshier, pinker. When they excavate me they will find
my many napkin writings, twenty rooms I built
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from twine, dictionary of waste in which I define
your failure. Meanwhile: I’ll retire to my atrium, washing
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my perpetually warm body, liquid touching liquid
as it cools. The pipes are beginning to freeze. The all-night
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factory shuts down at five. When the lights die you
disappear into a wooden structure and wonder
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what you’ve done. Even if you’d brought your camera,
you couldn’t click me. My face is an aluminum dish.
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Best Bones is a collection of poetry that is an intimate collection of gently dramatic poems that will alarm and haunt you.

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You can check out the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Best-Bones-Poetry-Sarah-Nordgren/dp/0822963175/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1410785016&sr=1-1&keywords=best+bones+by+Sarah+Rose+Nordgren

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g-emil-reutter-g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pa. (USA)  https://gereutter.wordpress.com/

Church of the Adagio by Philip Dacey

church-of-the-adagioPaperback: 98 pages

Publisher: Rain Mountain Press; First edition (July 1, 2014)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0989705145

ISBN-13: 978-0989705141

 

Reviewed by: Dennis Daly 

I don’t know about you, but lately life’s gales seem to gust past me toward the thin-lipped, unforgiving horizon. I’m always looking for that bloody slow button. Philip Dacey offers relief by setting up his Church of the Adagio in the artificial spaces that creativity engenders. His poetic moments linger until they don’t. Time stops and starts as anticipation surges through the connecting nerves as you climb over the profane and the sacred stanzas, easing into and then merging with the lines. It’s damn reassuring. He makes it so.
 
In Llama Days, a serendipitous poem plotted out in formal verse, Dacey considers the many facets of wonder encompassed in a brief meeting of unintroduced species, a parsed parley, which changes the very nature of time twice: first, the convocation itself suspends the protagonist’s disbelief, and second, the poem, itself emerges out of artistic (read daydream) time. Here’s the moment of decision in the heart of the poem,
 
But llama? I’d never noticed one before,
though no doubt my surprise at seeing him
was matched by his at seeing me—or more
then matched, he being lost, freedom become
 
a burden twice as bad as any bars,
so much so panic struck and he turned back,
high-stepping it onto the road, two-laned, tarred,
and I saw the headline, “Llama killed by truck.”
 
Dropping the rake, I raced to rescue him,
Who now stood frozen, straddling the centerline…
 
Attempts at political poems crash and burn all the time. The more self-righteous the poet the better the chance of failure. True believers rarely produce first rate art. There are exceptions however. Dacey’s poem News of the Day, for instance, takes three historical examples of man’s inhumanity to man, cedes some freedom to formalist techniques, slowing down a river of natural anger, and creates three hardened jewel-like pieces. He sets his inspired words into two rondels and a sonnet. The Hiroshima rondel is beyond exceptional. The last stanza burns into you,
 
The room reshaped itself around me, night
disguised itself as day, and words, undone,
turned ash. Gone blind by ecstasy of sight,
my eyes read fire. When spines began to run,
I turned the page and fell into the sun.
 
Another curiosity in this book is the way Dacey moves almost seamlessly from formal poetry of the strictest type ( rondels, villanelles, sestinas)  into languid free verse and then back into formality. The relaxed prosy narrative of Dacey’s free verse poem White Trash lures you into an ongoing joke with very serious undertones. The poet opens his piece matter-of-factly,
 
When middle-class blacks
moved into my family’s neighborhood
in St. Louis in the Fifties
and we and all our neighbors
moved out, the property values
soared. Lawns greened, junkers
disappeared. I realize now
I was white trash.
 
Maybe I’m still white trash.
My parents never told me.
Did they know? Do they know now?
I like having a clear identity,
if not the one I’d have chosen for myself.
I’d long ago accepted the notion I was
gutter Irish…
 
My Allen Ginsberg Story, Dacey’s humorous poem of admiration, rocks one with fastidious details of stage props and prescribed paraphernalia. One doesn’t usually associate the word fastidious with Allen Ginsberg. And here lies the rub. Ginsberg apparently acted as a diva before readings with assorted ecentric demands. The myth of artistic spontaneity slows down and breaks into component parts in this piece. Ginsberg leaves nothing to chance when it comes to adding honey to his tea. The piece’s form, free verse lines, as Ginsberg might have written them, almost adds another layer of irony to the poem. Here are some lines from the heart of the composition,
 
Ginsberg saw me looking at the traffic jam
of paraphernalia and smiled. No doubt he knew
the effect of his phone call—beyond bizarre, honey
as an emergency. But now it seemed the act
of a consummate pro, perfectionist even, showman
not about to let an accident break a spell.
I thought of Whitman, whose “spontaneous me”
didn’t stop him from revising some poems for decades.
He’d agree that to place a honey jar and spoon
amidst that crush would ask for a disaster.
Still smiling, Ginsberg said, “You see what I mean.”
 
Leaping between the arts of dance and writing Dacey’s poem Nijinsky: A Sestina  describes both the medicinal and the madness inherent in the famous dancer’s life. It turns out that Nijinsky was also a talented diarist whose words soar as they detail ruin and degradation.  Dacey’s sestina in homage to Nijinsky is a short-lined poem with odd end words that Najinsky sputtered out nonsensically at one point in his life. But there is no nonsense in Dacey’s poem. The piece is a triumphant pas de deux between the poet and his subject.
 
One of this collections unusual pieces, The Cockroach Ball, skitters in with beautiful phrasing and organic unhesitant rhymes. Dacey uses the villanelle form here and it is lovely. Along with the obvious humor, the poet expresses his rather wondrous sensitivities. The poem works! Cockroach love in the midst of poverty—who would have thought it possible?
 
My advice: worship at Dacey’s Church of the Adagio for the very best in contemporary poetry. And do it as soon as possible.

You can check out the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Church-Adagio-Philip-Dacey/dp/0989705145

 

Dennis Daly-Dennis Daly has been published in numerous poetry journals and magazines and recently nominated for a Pushcart prize.  Ibbetson Street Press published The Custom House, his first full length book of poetry in June, 2012. His second book, a verse translation of Sophocles’ Ajax, was published by Wilderness House Press in August, 2012. His third book of poems entitles Night Walking with Nathaniel was recently released by Dos Madres Press. A fourth book is nearing completion. http://dennisfdaly.blogspot.com/

The Undermining of the Democratic Club by Rob Cook

underminingofthedemocraticclubPaperback: 138 pages

Publisher: Spuyten Duyvil Publishing (August 18, 2014)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1941550177

ISBN-13: 978-1941550175

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Reviewed by g emil reutter 

Recently on NPR, Juan Vidal, said, “For centuries, poets were the mouthpieces railing loudly against injustice. They gave voice to the hardships and evils facing people everywhere. From Langston Hughes to Jack Kerouac and Federico García Lorca — so many — verse once served as a vehicle for expressing social and political dissent. There was fervor, there was anger. And it was embraced: See, there was a time when the poetry of the day carried with it the power of newspapers and radio programs. It was effective, even as it was overtly political. What has happened?”

Well, Juan, they are out here hanging on the fringes, writing poems against what they perceive to be injustice, hardships and evils facing people everywhere. One such poet is Rob Cook. The Undermining of the Democratic Club is slated for release in August by Spuyten Duyvil Publishing.

Cook’s finely crafted poems rage against injustice providing his voice to hardships and evils facing people everywhere while railing against the American lie. These poems will not leave you in neutral territory. You will either embrace Cook’s view of the world or you will strongly disagree with Cook. There is no room for moderation, there is no gray twilight for Cook.

You can check out the book here: http://www.spuytenduyvil.net/the-undermining-of-the-democratic-club.html.

g-emil-reutter-g emil reutter lives and writes in the Fox Chase neighborhood of Philadelphia, Pa. (USA). https://gereutter.wordpress.com/

 

Meena Kumari the Poet : A Life Beyond Cinema- Translated by Noorul Hasan

meena-kumari-the-poet-book-reviewPublisher: Roli Books, New Delhi, India
Publication Date: 2014
Binding: Paperback
First Edition
ISBN 10: 8174369678 / ISBN 13: 9788174369673
 
Reviewed by: Ananya S Guha
 
 
I begin on a very personal note. Today I am in Jorhat in a posting for the university I work in. In the 1970s when I was a college student I first watched the movie ” Pakeezah ” in Sibsagar which is around 50-60 kilometres away from Jorhat. When I saw ” Pakeezah ” what struck me was the anguish of the heroine, and to my mind the real impinged upon the imaginary- what I mean to state is: in being absorbed in Meena Kumari‘s acting I felt that in reality she might have experienced the anguish of the protagonist, empathy or call it what you will. I remember snatches of the movie, but what I can recall is breathtakingly brilliant acting. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the Kamal Amrohi ‘ story ‘ and I was also aware of the fact that this intensely poetic movie was directed by him. Perhaps this was one of the most ‘ poetic ‘ movies I have seen in addition to say Satyajit Ray’s ” Charulata ”. 
 
In reading these translations one is not only transported into the world of ineffable poetry, but one is made aware of deeply felt sensitivities and questions such as life, death, love and relationships. This kind of poetry is ‘ opposed ‘ to the kind of clever, cerebral poetry we are witness to today. It is poetry of the heart and felt experience. 
 
Yet the motifs are many and varied: light, darkness, night to name a few. The obsession with night is a haunting reality and leitmotif in the poems. Bharati Mukherjee once said that a creative writer writes out of obsession. Meena Kumari’s obsessions with night, darkness and an intuitive feeling of death give to her poems a starkness. Yet hope in some way or the other does figure, but there is again and again, questioning and self questioning. Darkness and night are not synonymous here, while darkness is metaphorical, night signifies an end, or an open ended question which the poet is forever grappling with. These are sensuous poems, they echo perhaps Omar Khayam , but there is no hedonism. Yes there is celebration, that of life and poetry, life’s dualism, painful living, unrequited love which are some of the themes present here, themes in the context of the poems which are cataclysmic. Some poems have turn of phrases which are aphoristic. 
 
Yet if there is darkness, the antimony light is also present. See for example the poem ” The City Of Lights ”:
 
… The light of the ages 
    Have slunk away 
    To be part of some jubilation 
    Leaving all around
    A shivering, savage darkness.”
 
There is constant and recurring interplay of light, darkness and scalding nights! This gives to her poetry many dimensional aspects, at the same time making them lyrical and evocative. But it is always the pain that rings through clearly, The pain of irretrievable love, the pain of being a woman, the pain of the inner conflict having to ‘ live up ‘ to the celluloid image. In their excellent introduction Daisy Hasan and Philip Bounds assert that the poems can be viewed as a ‘ barbed critique ‘ of popular culture, the culture which Meena Kumari represented through her films, but which ironically and trenchantly took away her life. The poem ” The Empty Shop ” is perhaps a commentary on crass consumerism. The ” Shop Of Time ” she says is vacuous, gives nothing. In the poem ” Words ” there is juxtaposition of words, light and darkness. 
 
That a public figure is desperate to get away from this image and live more ‘ privately ‘ is something that can happen to ‘ celebrities ‘. The example of the Bengali actress Suchitra Sen is a case in pint. She shunned any public gathering for almost four decades! 
 
All that I have said above would not have been possible if one cold not read these cogent translations of Noorul Hasan. They are very well crafted and attempt to be as sincere as possible to the originals. Yet translators do take some liberty. This is the poetic license here. The translator has done painstaking work which is researched, and I am sure over quite a period of time. This shows the hard work and tenacity that have gone into these brilliant translations. 
 
Through these translations Noorul Hasan has made a contribution to the world of poetry, revealing Meena Kumari’s  true penchant for the pen.
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You can check out the book here:
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ananya-Ananya S Guha works at Indira Gandhi National Open University (IGNOU) as a Senior Academic. His poems in English have been published in International / National Journals and e zines. He also writes for newspapers, does book reviews and writes on matters related to education.His recent works appeared in the Harper Collins Book of English Poetry edited by Sudeep Sen. He also writes book reviews, articles for newspapers and articles on education, distance education and vocational education.
 
 

Celebrity Chekhov By Ben Greenman

chekcoverPaperback: 205 pages

Publisher: Harper Perennial (October 5, 2010)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 0061990493

ISBN-13: 978-0061990496

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Reviewed by Stephen Page.

The first thing a reader may think when he picks up this book and begins reading it is “why?”  I say “why not?”  In Celebrity Chekov Ben Greenman updates a selection of Anton Chekhov’s short stories and replaces the characters in the stories with contemporary celebrities. Is this satirical? Yes. Funny? Hilarious.  Greenman and Chekhov’s talents as writers can account for all this. Greenman doesn’t just update the stories and replace this character for that character—Greenman rewrites the stories, re-establishes them, revives them.  Why not bring to the present great short stories from the past?  People have been updating Shakespeare on stage and on film, quite successfully I might add, for decades, if not longer. And Shakespeare is supposed to be, quote, “timeless” and “immortal,” as is Chekhov.  Yes, some great writing does wear longer than other writing, due to the ability of the author to create recognizable characters drawn from inherited human behavior, and some writing stays popular due to the writer’s ability to create empathic situations created by said characters, but I say nothing is immortal or timeless.  Consider just how many years ago Shakespeare lived, or even how many ago Chekhov lived, and compare those numbers with how long ago modern Homo sapiens first appeared on earth, and compare that amount of time with how long the earth has been around, and compare that amount of time with how long the universe has been around, and compare that to.  .  .  well, you get it. Right?   Finally has anyone reading this taught high school or had a teenager in his or her home?  How many of those teenagers love to see a Shakespearean play set in Shakespearean settings? Not many, and of course it depends on their socialization, and, well, furthermore . . . getting back to my main point, “why not?”

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You can find the book here: http://www.amazon.com/Celebrity-Chekhov-Stories-Anton-P-S/dp/B005DI9VUE

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stephen-in-the-countryStephen Page is from Detroit, Michigan.  There he worked in factories, gasoline stations, and steel-cutting shops.  He always longed for a vocation associated with nature.  He now lives in Argentina, teaches literature, ranches, and spends time with his family. http://stephenmpage.wordpress.com/

 

My Glass Of Wine by Kiriti Sengupta

my glass of winePaperback: 70 pages
Publisher: Author’s Empire Publication, India (April 26, 2014)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 8192861902
ISBN-13: 978-8192861906
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Reviewed by Shernaz Wadia
 
As I held Dr. Kiriti Sengupta’s little book in my hand for the first time, my instant reaction was, “Oh, this shouldn’t be too time-consuming.” I was right in that it took me just a few hours to read it but it is going to take much longer to savour the delight of the wine in it – the heady wine of love and spirituality; of a curious, contemplative and open mind; a large accepting heart – all embodied in the simple, direct words of the writer that make you enjoy and revel in this intoxicating cocktail of prose and poetry. A delightful experience as we take sips from his glass! 
 
It has already been mentioned by others that this book cannot be pigeonholed. As he says in the preface “When I wrote the manuscript I deliberately wrote down what came into my mind. I never considered what genre my book would fit into.” To brand it would be to diminish it. It is a distillation of some momentous pieces…autobiographical word snapshots, each followed by a poem. This book is Kiriti’s humble attempt to take poetry to all book lovers so that it can ‘reach its pinnacle again’. With great simplicity he tackles issues of love, spirituality, relationships, the world and nature as he perceives them and brushes them with his poetic sensibility.
 
He cracks open little drawers and lets us peek into some uplifting moments of his life. The initial glimpse is into his first date with his future wife Bhaswati, which began on a slightly comical note that for him turned into the stepping stone of his literary journey.  His wife to-be was quite amused when she asked him about a Rabindranath Tagore novel and he replied that he didn’t read poetry at all! Because the novel was “Shesher Kobita”! This honest revelation by Dr. Sengupta at the start of the book immediately endears him to his readers and keeps charming them till the end.
 
The poet Kiriti was born from the agony of a painful relationship with a friend to whom he addressed his first poem in Bengali. While he says that with all its innumerable functions and facets poetry should also entertain, he believes that true poetry arises out of total consumption of one’s being.
 
Consumption
 
Consumed time/ like an infant consuming
milk; inevitable/ it remains.
Killed essence of
the eternal soul; and consumed,
Essentially I remain…
 
The second chapter from which the book takes its title shows us another side of Kiriti as he takes us along on a sacred trek. He is gentle but forthright in the weaving of this tale. We get whiffs of the wine that he imbibes spiritually and are given a peep into that part of his life which was experimental and experiential, culminating into the insightful observation that ‘red’- the colour of some wines and of blood – is divinely symbolic in Christianity, Tantric Hinduism and Islam.  Whereas in Christianity, (to which he received formal baptism after the priest was convinced that he had attained spiritual baptism) ‘red wine’ is representative of Jesus’ godly blood sacrificed for mortals; Tantrics also use alcoholic beverages in their rituals and hold ‘red’ to be the colour of divine power. And so their attire is blood red in hue. With these he compares the Islamic ritual of animal sacrifice – ‘Qurbani’ – and draws the conclusion that ‘the elements of blood, power, alcohol and red (are) associated intimately with divinity”.  “Blood Red”, the poem at the end of the chapter is a summation of this belief.  The poetic vision he lends to his experiences and deep meditation on things we take for granted in our indifferent stride, shakes up our mental lethargy and prods us to reflect intensely on such matters. 
 
From the sphere of spirituality, we go into an investigation of the word “Bhaiya” – meaning older brother – a tag given to him by his elder sister! From there onto his take on ‘name’ with which he plays a word game, replacing ‘n’ with ‘f’ and then with ‘g’. He muses that though many Indians are named after gods and goddesses, ruefully few imbibe the virtues of their namesakes – “Religion has left its profound mark in the psyche of Indians, but has failed to alter their behavioural pattern.”
 
Namesake
Whispers the tale fo your character,
colour and its fragrance merge to call it/ a Rose.
A lot matters, /if you remember/ the name…
 
In the next chapter, Southern Affiliation he talks of his association with the southern city of Chennai (Madras), whose charms have bitten him affectionately. His affiliation is further enhanced by Mr. Atreya Sarma, to whom he devotes a whole paragraph and dedicates the poem “Clarity”.
 
“Rains” is an allusion to situations that bewilder and hurt him; those thoughts, crowds, disciplines in which he tends to get totally drenched. These ‘rains’ have inspired poems from his haemorrhaging heart. His scientifically trained mind believes that love is “a strong cerebral affair.” It is the brain that rules the heart he feels and yet he says love is “a wonderful experience that enables you to feel your loved inside of you.”  How beautiful is that!
 
“My Master and the Cover” is the most significant chapter.  He talks about his initiation into Kriyayoga by his beloved master; about Spiritual awakening through the rising Kundalini – the Divine Feminine force – whereby an aspirant experiences a ‘winy trance’.  In the glow of his awakening he also tries to justify the cover design as substantiating Yoga in the light of literature, though there could be many different interpretations, as the designer refuses to explain his creation. But even as he exults in his Awakening he laments the moral degradation of the world and is grateful for his Master who helps him uncover the mysteries of life.
 
I
As identical as ‘I’/through the slice of my sigh.
Like the sky; where the stars shine bright and/ the Sun ‘I’.
 
This book ‘stirs’ the reader to arouse his sleeping Kundali
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You can check out the book here:
 
 
Shernaz-Wadia3- Shernaz Wadia, a retired teacher, lives in Pune, India. A free-lance writer, her articles, short stories and poems have been published in many online journals and literary magazines like Muse India, Boloji, Kritya and The Enchanting Verses etc. Her poems have been anthologised in Poets International, Roots and Wings and Caring Moments. Shernaz is in the process of publishing her poems in a book titled Whispers of the Soul.. She has also co-authored a book of poems titled “Tapestry”, with Israeli poetess Avril Meallem. It is an innovative form of collaborative poetry writing developed by the two of them.