Zeitgeistlyrik: Footnotes to Oblivion (Satis Shroff)

Footnotes to Oblivion (Satis Shroff)

The face has become harsh,

Rugged, chiselled in granite.

Can we live without a conscience?

Why is everyone

Pickin’ on him?

Even Felix E. Müller from Helvetia’s NZZ

Demanded an apology.

Barbara Zehnpfennig of FAZ-fame,

Was disgusted he’d used her article.

Klara Obermüller’s writings too.

The University of Bayreuth had demanded

A written statement from the author,

For he’d been bestowed with:

Summa cum laude.

A hornet’s nest has been stirred.

‘My thesis has unquestionably mistakes.

I’ll relinquish my PhD title,

For the time being.

I don’t want to clutch on power.’

Noble words from a a Teutonic nobleman.

He belongs to Germany’s rich aristocracy.

His grandpa was a parliamentary secretary

In the Bundeskanzler’s office.

His memoir was published in 1971

With the title ‘Footnotes.’

Is borrowing a sin?

Bertold Brecht borrowed from French poet

Francois Villon for the ‘Three Penny Opera.’

Even the prolific literary giant Goethe

Borrowed ‘Ein Gleiches’

From his colleague Johann Daniel Falk.

Vladimir Putin lifted from a US professor in big style.

Did Helmut Kohl really read the enormous

BritLit he mentioned in his page of references?

In Merkel’s case there’s not even a shadow of doubt,

For most don’t understand the title of her thesis.

Emeritus professor Peter Häberle, the Doktorvater, retorted:

‘The accusation is absurd,

The work isn’t plagiarism.’

You can quote from the works of others,

Provided you have accurate footnotes,

Otherwise it’s a scientific cardinal sin.

But we need our Teutonic polit-star,

Despite Kunduz, Gorch-Fock,

Haunting Hindukush.

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..

* * *

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

Obituary: Bruce Dobler, Creative Writer, Emeritus Professor, Colleague

 Words to Lisa & Stephanie on Bruce Dobler, Creative Writer, Emeritus Prof and colleague who passed away recently. His daughter Lisa mailed me that Bruce had been taking photographs of the clouds, for he loved writing about clouds in his poems, and then he suddenly fell. 

I was so moved by Bruce Dobler's poem in which he addresses his two daughters Lisa and Stephanie. The poems is a bit long and I have edited it to a shorter version.

SIX DAYS INTO THE WAR (Bruce Dobler:January 21, 1991)

...And here in Pittsburgh,

where the trees grow darker

against their burden

the snow falls like memories:

are the children safe?

It's a holiday. Lisa in Baltimore,

can stay off the Beltway

at least this once.

Stephanie, in Bloomington, will have

the sense to wear a scarf.

I want them inside.

In Pittsburgh, we are staying in all day.

I wish I had been kinder when

snow fell past our windows in Vermont,

twenty years ago

just like today

everyone in their own sorrows

their own joys

everyone looking out the window

and everyone thinking:

how long will it go on

how much will we get?

* * *

 Es wird stille sein und Leere.

Es wird Trauer sein und Schmerz.

Es wird dankbare Erinnerung sein,

die wie ein heler Stern the Nacht leuchtet,

bis weit hinein in den morgen.

- Satis Shroff

Wer so wirkt im Leben,

Wer so erfüllte seine Pflicht

und stets sein Bestes hat gegeben,

Für immer bleibt Bruce Dobler uns ein Licht.

- Satis Shroff

Bruce Dobler is the author of two "documentary" novels, Icepick and The Last Rush North (Little, Brown) and an "as-told-to" memoir of a counterfeiter, I Made It Myself (Grosset & Dunlap).

He recently completed 1212: The Children's Crusade, a highly-researched historical novel, and is now working on his new book, Writing Creative Nonfiction: Creative and Critical Approaches, for Palgrave/Macmillan, to be published late in 2007. In addition, he is working on Vacant Lot, a quirky, off-beat memoir centered on one of those plots of ground that old-timers still called "prairies," down on the South Side of Chicago.

I Made It Myself By M.M. Landress With Bruce Dobler The true story of a respectable printer turned counterfeiter Some observations from one of the few counterfeiters who never served time: On tricks of his trade: "Printing money that's good enough to pass off on a bank is to a printer what the PhD is to a student." On temptation: "There is probably not a single printer who doesn't consider at some moment in his life the possibility of printing counterfeit bills....A standard joke in the trade is 'are you making any money?'" On the criminal life: "This was too exhausting, physically and emotionally. I don't think I was really cut out to be a criminal....I really couldn't see how the ones who were could stand it over the years. No wonder they are called 'hardened.'" Grosset & Dunlap (New York), 1973—ISBN: 0-448-02206-0

Icepick By Bruce Dobler A novel about life and death in a maximum security prison Icepick is neither the best nor the worst of the nation's maximum security prisons. It is overcrowded, understaffed. Its plant is antiquated. Guard brutality is comparatively rare at Icepick. Violence, on the other hand—sexual, racial, political—is commonplace. Icepick is not a nice place to visit. It is a far worse place to live and work in. Yet some 850 Americans (of whom 70 percent are African American) do make their permanent home at the Illinois State Penitentiary in Chicago. And most survive....Some do not.

In this sweeping and explosive documentary novel, ICEPICK, Bruce Dobler lays bare the harsh world of the maximum security prison. Little, Brown & Co. (Boston), 1974—ISBN: 0-316-18915-4 Novel About The Last Great American Frontier Adventure—The Building Of The Pipeline Across The Frozen Vastness Of Alaska. Ranging From High-Rise Executive Suites In Anchorage To Remote Base Camps Where Even The Fog Freezes, This Documentary Novel Portrays The Drive To Explore—And Exploit—That Has Dominated The Life Of Alaska...And Dramatizes The Perilous Tension Between An Unspoiled Wilderness And The Desire Of Men To Tame It. Bruce Dobler Traveled And Worked In Alaska For A Year And A Half. He Drove And Flew The Entire Pipeline Route In All Seasons And Visited Every Camp On The Line. Little, Brown & Co. (Boston), 1976—ISBN: 0-316-18916-2.

Zeitgeistlyrik: The Promise of Shangri La (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel)

(When the sky meets the peaks: aquarelle by author) 

Zeitgeistlyrik:

The Promise of Shangri-la (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel)

Ah, Shangri-la,

Land of mysterious rites,

Global telepathy,

A paradise on earth,

Behind the majestic Himalayas.

Where the wise monks live long,

Where dreams come true,

Where people are a simple folk,

With pure, innocent hearts.

A land where people have

Precious feelings,

Noble thoughts.

A must-see experience

For souls who seek themselves,

Who want to attain blitz nirvana,

Through travel, dialogue,

Meditation and mystic.

* * *

Horizon Found (Satis Shroff)

I made a discovery

The other day:

Shangri La

Was within me.

I spent a lifetime,

Searching for it,

Out in the West.

I crossed the Indian Ocean,

Leaving behind an ancient country,

Where kings did as they pleased.

The earliest dynasties in Catmandu Valley

Were the Gopalas, Mahisapolas and Kirats,

Who were succeeded

By Lichhavis and the Thakuri Mallas.

One day a dreaded king from Gorkha

Ravaged the fair vale of Catmandu,

When its people were celebrating

The Feast of Indra,

The God of the Firmament,

The personified atmosphere,

Bringing Nepal under his rule.

King Gyanendra the eleventh Shah king,

Was ousted by his own folk,

With the help of the growing Maoists.

I left my country to land

In an old Allemanic town,

That had been the subject

Of a dispute between

Austria and France.

A town under the Hapsburg,

Then Napoleon’s soldiers,

To end under Baden-Württemberg.

A twisting town with a stream,

Flowing along its cobbled alleys,

And a Gothic cathedral

Under the Black Forest.

In the holidays I went

To many different cities,

Saw museums and pompous palaces.

One such palace was the Schloss Neuschwanstein,

Built by the Bavarian Ludwig II.

A castle with breathtaking beauty,

A dream in marmor,

Akin to the dreams

Of a young man from the Himalayas.

Another dream came true,

When I entered the Palace of Glass in Versailles.

I learned about life,

Comparing the East and the West,

Only to realise

That the rituals and cycles of life,

Were the same,

Everywhere I went:

Humans nagged by anxieties,

Fear and angst,

Complexes, phobias,

Neurosis.

Fear of losing jobs,

Husbands and spouses.

Houses built on mortgages,

With exorbitant interests,

Patchwork families galore. 

Shangri-la,

You are in me,

I am in you,

In the nature of our spirits,

Wearing a mantle of light,

A reassuring sunlight,

That brings hope and compassion.

Om shanti. Shanti.

* * *

Death Parade (Satis Shroff)

Love parade in Duisburg,

Street Parade in Zürich,

Panic among the masses,

A big party society.

On July 31,2010

Helvetia celebrated her birthday

With eighteen tons of fireworks,

Fired from two ships,

Across the sky over the Rhine,

With 100,000 visitors.

In Germany the people are shocked,

To learn that 20 young souls,

Out dancing ecstatically,

Techno-rhythmically,

Were stamped to death,

By fellow ravers,

Who turned into a thoughtless mob,

Out to save their own lives

In panic.

A quarter million ravers were invited,

Half a million came.

Those who couldn’t find a place,

Didn’t go to the city of Duisburg.

Eleven young women,

Eight young men,

Out to rave,

Were carried

To the grave.

The authorities and organisers,

Washed their hands in innocence,

Blamed it on individual weakness

 And folley,

The tunnel was for 20,000,

We’ll budge no more.

* * *

Your Happiness (Satis Shroff)

You scrutinise yourself

In front of the mirror,

Want to remain young and beautiful,

Clutch your share

Of love and happiness.

Deluding yourself,

Tai-chi or yoga would be preferable,

You have eyes

Only for younger night creatures

As you look ‘em up

In their nocturnal haunts.

Can’t get rid of

This nagging and gnawing cancer

Called anxiety.

Ah, anxiety

The cause of premature ageing.

Sleepless nights,

Insomnia.

A younger partner and viagra,

Is the road to distress.

Your psyche,

Your looks might improve fleetingly.

The aerobics, facials,

Ginseng, anti-wrinkle creams,

The bio-diets won’t get you there.

Your platysma betrays your age,

The folds of blubber above fifty,

Under your belly too.

Pretence in front of the mirror,

With dimmed lights,

In front of others,

Proves you’re still vain.

Ah, younger blood,

Vampiric connotations,

Can’t give you the elixir of youth,

You crave for.

You’re only kidding yourself,

Spending a fortune

In the process.

There must be something,

When love is not offered grudgingly.

You desire,

Are desired.

Why watch Casablanca

Or the Bucket List?

You’re not dying,

Not a vegetable yet.

Go out and seek

Your happiness,

Your wellness,

Whatever you call it.

This world is an illusion,

A maya.

You’re the eternal seeker.

* * *

FLORAL METAPHORS (Satis Shroff)

The graveyard,

A repose for the dead.

For those who still live,

A place with memories,

Both good and bad.

If the grave is cared for,

It makes the dead unique,

As can be seen

By the flowers

Upon the grave.

‘Please don’t bring red carnations

To my grave,’ said a lady.

One likes it,

Others don’t.

Flowers do mean

A lot to others,

Symbolising years of happiness

Together.

‘My wife has long passed away,

I feel she loves the roses,

I lay on her gravestone,’ says a man.

The Hindus and the Romas

Covered their dead with petals.

The Romans even had a festival of roses.

After wars are fought,

A day is chosen,

To pay respect to the deceased.

In Germany it’s Allerheiligen,

Allerseelen and Totensonntag.

Memorial days with religious backgrounds,

Palm Sunday.

Evergreen plants

Symbolise eternal life.

The lily,

A sign of innocence and purity.

The pain felt by those left behind

Is shown by the marigold.

The poppy evokes a gentle demise,

Mimosa and the sunflowers,

Turn to the sun,

Signifying the soul,

That seeks the All-mighty.

A rose on a birthday

Brings joy to your Milady,

Or as a message between

The living and the departed.

The sunflower is her ,

The rose our love,

The daisy reminds you

Of journeys together

In the wilderness.

Flowers don’t need words,

They speak a mute, tender and resolute language.

Say it with flowers.

Glossary:

Allerheiligen: All Saint’s day

Allerseelen: All Soul’s Day

Totensonntag: Memorial Day

Palmsonntag: palm Sunday

Nelken: carnation

Ringelblumen: marigold

Mohn: poppy

    Gänseblumchen: daisy

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer, lecturer, poet and artist and the published author of three books on www.stores.lulu.com/satisle: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer. He also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes, and has studied Zoology and Botany  in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom.

He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize. If you want to read more articles and poems by the author, then just google or yahoo search for: satis shroff.