Creative Writing Critique: Wings of Time (Satis Shroff)

 A Collection of Poems Wings of Time by Suyog Sharma

  

Creative Writing Critique (Satis Shroff): WINGS OF TIME

Review: Sharma, Suyog Wings of Time, Publisher Basundhara Sharma, St. Mary’s Hill (India) First Edition 2007,56 pages, $ 10 (ISBN: None)

Wings of Time is a work of power in the sense that the young poet was aware in his musings that life had cheated on him and the tumors were growing in silence within him and there was no escape. In this critical stage of no return his musings wander to his pure love, hope, frustration, then acceptance of his fate, his love for eternity, the beauty of Nature and  is the son of a Brahmin, a high-born who wears the sacred thread.

In his difficult mental state, torn between living, loving, letting-loose, resigning and being one with the cosmos, his musings wander to freedom, suffering, darkness and light.

The poems are works of originality and depict the voice of a young soul seeking the meaning of his existence in a language that is matter-of-fact.

There is no subtleness in his language. His articulation is clear and you notice at times that he is influenced by his generation's rap or twitter style, though in the preface you read ‘we have in Suyog Sharma one such genius of a poet who has left his mortal coil at the blooming age of 25 years.’ Even poet-philosophers like Wordsworth 80, P B Shelley 30, Lord Byron 36 and John Keats 26, have died. The human body may wither and die but the poetic words live on, making the poets immortal.

The work cannot be identified with a specific ethnicity or a country. It has universal appeal and is a work of individuality.

The poetry under review is neither epic nor lyrical. The parents, who are the publishers, mention that the poems were written when the poet was between 18 to 25 years old. Another stack of 10 poems haven't been published as yet. The 27 poems in this review are the musings of a young man in transition from juvenile curiosity to manhood.

The poetical devices used are non-rhyming four-line verses that range from 4 to 13 stanzas. His imagery is wonderful when he describes life and death, loneliness and love.

 The central concern of the poems are his innermost feelings that have moved him, such as self-pity, nostalgia, love and the awakenings of a young man, his frustrations with a touch of romanticism. What predominates is evoked in the second poem with the title The Beginning of Cancer, and in between we have reflections on the hope of a dawn, loss of friendship, desire of a return and as the metastasis progresses, the poem ‘Dead Man Living,’ culminating in ‘Death.’

‘Death is near, standing very close

Life is a fear rolling very slow,

Welcome Mr. Death please come soon.’

It must be mentioned that towards the end he saw light, a ray of love that manifested itself in grace and divinity, for in his last poem the poet finds happiness by turning a new page called freedom, as a divine light. He also leaves behind an ancient vedantic message from the Land of the Hindus:

Life gives us death

And death gives us life.

The late Suyog Sharma visited an English school in the foothills of the Himalayas, Goethals Memorial School, where pupils are expected to speak and think in English and are introduced to English manners and etiquette and, of course, English literature. But as can be expected of a young man who’s growing, the stiff-upper lip and acquired British mores change to that of what’s ‘in’ in thLife global world, where rap, hip-hop, technomusic prevail with raves and love parades which can be watched on TV. I like the  way the poet lets his sms-language and its abbreviations flow into the verses: U for you, coz for because and plz for please.

The comment by his parents in verse are touching:

‘Many a time we’ve cried in a silent tear.

Trying to find you, in things you dear.

Stumbled upon something rare,

Palms manuscript, written with care.’

 Wings of time is dedicated to the Goethalites from a Goethalite

Copies of Wing of Time by Suyog Sharma can be ordered under:bhawanisharma1@yahoo.com

 

 

This time Satis Shroff's Zeitgeistlyrik deals with a female writer who was deported to Auschwitz where she died:Nemirovsky who has written Suite Francaise, David Golder, Le Bal (including Snow in Autumn),The Courilof Affair, All Our Worldly Goods is a brilliant story teller with an in-depth understanding of the hidden flaws and cruelties of the human heart. She writes about what people do to us and what time does to people..

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Irene Nemirovsky: COLD BLOOD (Satis Shroff)

Subtitle: Moaning in All Eternity

Six decades ago,

My life came to an end,

In Auschwitz.

I, Irene Nemirovsky, a writer

Of Jewish-Russian descent,

Died in Auschwitz.

 I live now in my books,

In my daughter’s memories,

Who’s already an octogenarian,

Still full of love and fighting spirit:

For she fights against

The injustice of those gruesome days.

I was thirty-nine,

Had asthma,

Died shortly after I landed in Auschwitz.

I died of inflammation of my lungs,

In the month of October.

That very year the Nazis deported

Michael Epstein, dear my husband,

Who’d pleaded to have me,

His wife, freed from the clutches

Of the Gestapo.

They also killed him.

My daughters Denise 13,

And Elizabeth 5,

Were saved by friends

Of the French Resistance,

Tucked away in a cloister for nuns,

Hidden in damp cellars.

They had  my suitcase with them,

Whereever they hid,

Guarding it like the Crown Jewels.

To them it was not only a book,

But my last words,

That I’d penned in Issy-l’Eveque.

I wanted to put together five manuscripts

In one: Suite Francaise,

That was my writer’s dream.

I could put only

‘Storm in July’ and ‚Dolche’

Together.

I passed away early in August 1942.

Too early.

In my two books I’ve written

About the flight of the Parisians

From the victorious Germans,

The awful situation in an occupied hamlet.

Small people and collaborators,

Who’d go to extremes

To save their skins,

Like ants in a destroyed ant-hill.

It’s sixty years hence,

But my work hasn’t lost ist glow,

Like the lava from an erupting volcano.

You can feel its intensity,

 When an entire nation

Was humiliated and had to capitulate,

Losing its grace, dignity and life.

I was born in Kiew,

Fled to Paris via Finnland and Sweden,

After the Russian Revolution.

I was a maniac,

When it came to reading,

Had a French governess,

Went often to the Cote d’ Azure and Biarritz.

I studied literature in Sorbonne in 1919.

Shortly thereafter,

I began to write:

About my Russian past,

My wandering years.

The colour of the literature I wrote

Is blood from an old wound.

From this wound I’ve drawn

The maladies of the society,

Human folley.

I was influenced by writers,

From Leo Tolstoi to Henrik Ibsen.

An unhappy childhood,

Is like when your soul has died,

Without a funeral:

Moaning in all eternity.

The Gurkha Blues (Satis Shroff)

“Ayo Gurkhali!” “

Here come the Gurkhas!”
This was the battle-cry
that filled the British heart, 
with pride and admiration, 
and put the foe in fear.

Now the Gurkhas are not upon you.
They are with you, among you, in London, 
Guarding the Queen at the Palace, 
Doing security checks for VIPs
and for Claudia Schiffer, the Sultan of Brunei.
Johnny Gurkhas, or as the Brits prefer: Johnny Gurks.

Sir Ralph Turner, an adjutant of the Gurkhas in World War I said:
'Uncomplaining you endure, hunger, thirst and wounds; and at the last, 
your unwavering lines disappear into smoke and wrath of battle.'

Another General Sir Francis Tuker, spoke of the Gurkhas: 
“Selfless devotion to the British cause, which can be hardly matched
by any race to another in the whole history of the world.
Why they should have thus treated us, is something of a mystery.”

9000 Gurkhas died, for the Glory of England, 
23,655 were severely wounded or injured.
Military glory for the Gurkhas: 2734 decorations, 
Mentions in despatches, 
Gallantry certificates.

Nepal's mothers paid dearly for England's glory.
And what do I hear? The vast silence of the Gurkhas.
England has failed miserably to match the 
Gurkha's loyalty and affection for the British.

Faith binds humans
The Brits have faith in the bravery and loyalty,
Honesty, sturdiness, steadfastness of the Gurkhas.
Do the souls of the perished Gurkhas have faith in the British?
Souls of Gurkhas dead and gone still linger seeking justice
At the hands of Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II, 
Warlords, or was it war ladies? They died for.
How has the loyalty and special relations
been rewarded in England

Since the Treaty of Segauli
on March 4, 1816?
A treaty that gave the British
the right to recruit Nepalese.

When it came to her own kind, 
Her Majesty the Queen
was generous.
She lavishly bestowed lands, 
Lordships and knighthoods
to those who served the crown well, 
and added more feathers to England's fame.
A Bombay-born Salman Rushdie
gets a knighthood from the Queen, 
for his Satanic and other verses.
So do Brits who play classic and pop.

When it comes to the non-British, 
Alas, Her majesty feigns myopia.
She sees not the 200 years
of blood-sacrifice
On the part of the Gurkhas: 
In the trenches of Europe, 
The jungles of Borneo, 
in far away Falklands, 
Crisis-ridden Croatia 
And war-torn Iraq.

Blood, sweat and tears, 
Eking out a meagre existence
in the craggy hills of Nepal
and Darjeeling.
The price of glory was high, 
fighting in the killing-fields 
Of Delhi, the Black Mountains, 
Khyber Pass, Gilgit, Ali Masjid.
Warring against Wazirs, Masuds, 
Yusafzais and Orakzais
in the North-West Frontier.
And against the Abors, 
Nagas and Lushais
in the North-East Frontier.
Neuve Chapelle in France, 
A hill named Q in Gallipoli.
Suez and Mesopotamia.
In the Second World War
Battling for Britain
In North Africa, South-East Asia,
Italy and the Retreat from Burma.

The Queen graciously passes the ball
and proclaims from Buckingham Palace:
'The Gurkha issue
is a matter for the ruling government.'
Thus prime ministers come and go, 
Akin to the fickle English weather.
The resolute Queen remains, 
Like Chomolungma, 
The Goddess Mother of the Earth, 
above the clouds in her pristine glory, 
But the Gurkha issue prevails.

'Draw up a date
to give the Gurkhas their due,'
Is the order from 10 Downing Street.
'OMG1, 
we can't pay for the 200 years.
We'll be ruined as a ruling party, 
when we do that.'

A sentence like a guillotine, 
Is the injustice done to the Gurkhas
Of service to the British public?
It's like adding insult 
to injury.
Thus Tory and Labour governments have come
and gone, 
The Gurkha injustice has remained
To this day.
Apparently, 
All Englishmen cannot be gentlemen, 
especially politicians, 
but in this case even fellow officers.2
Colonel Ellis and General Sir Francis Tuker, 
The former a downright bureaucrat, 
the latter with a big heart. 
England got everything
Out of the Gurkha.
Squeezed him like a lemon, 
Discarded and banned
from entering London
and its frontiers, 
When he developed gerontological problems.
'Go home with your pension
but don't come back.
We hire young Gurkhas
Our NHS doesn't support pensioned invalids.'
Johnny Gurkha wonders aloud:
'Why they should have thus 
treated us, 
and are still treating us, 
is a mystery.'

Meanwhile, life in the terraced hills of Nepal,
Where fathers toil on the stubborn soil,
And children work in the steep fields
A broken, wrinkled old mother waits,
For a meagre pension
From Her majesty's far off Government,
Across the Kala Pani,
The Black Waters.

Faith builds a bridge
Between Johnny Gurkhas
And British Tommies, 
Comrades-at-arms, 
Between Nepal and Britain.
The sturdy, betrayed Gurkha puts on
a cheerful countenance, 
and sings:
'Resam firiri, resam firiri, resam firiri,'
an old trail song
Heard in the Himalaya