NOUMENAL REALITY
In the grooves of creativity, words have dispensed with their pompous pyrotechnics and populist approach, they have learnt to shed off their over-ornate makeup and cultivated a low profile nowadays. With nostalgic longings the past glory of the words, when they roamed at will with all their paraphernalia is remembered now. It is becoming increasingly difficult to recoginse and identify the chaff from the grain, Today’s writer does not want to waste the efficacy of words in forlorn folklores, epithets and eulogies. In spite of their earnest efforts to free themselves from the yoke of the writers, the words fail miserably to continue their age old dance in the stage of modern literature. Writers have learnt to respect the potency of words; he will release the proper word at the appropriate time, knowing the value of his words. In these times of vociferous, votaries of value engineering, the writer can be expected to trade his property carefully. It is, in a way a healthy outlook.
Words are not mere words-they are extraordinary. They are more alcoholics than opium’s. Contemporary vendors of verse and peddiers of poetry are making a desparate effort to free themselves of their tentacles. Encouraged by the new licentiousness, and liberal words which prod the poets to produce profusely a host of adventurers have entered the literary market violently. The priniciple of prosody and rhetorics having been discarded and the old die hards who guarded the portals of poetry with lethal weapons of grammar being banished from their self appointed posts, the marauding hordes of modern poetry, began to wield their pens without fear.
Unfortunately, most of the stuff that pass off the glamorous garb of verse is downright substandard. It is not an easy job, to write poetry after analysing the infinite potentialities of each word indeed a very difficult feat. Not to become infatuated with the melody of word, is a rare trait. The primary, foremost function of the word is to communicate. It is enough if the words do their assigned task flawlessly. Extremism is inexcusable. Communication the main business of word is also not an easy one.
The Tamil muse is already fed up with the verbal gymnastics of vain practitioners of verse. When saint Arunagiri started his hymns on Lord Muruga, the poem was replete with all variations of Ku. The jugglery of Ku was meant not only to startle the listener; the resonance also plays with the hidden meaning as well. We have already become allergic to the Radio, when it played times without number, the song Athikkai. The words Kai Kai were repeated in a clever manipulation of lines; we have begun to loathe the puns also, for the simple reason that they have become the veritable synonyms of vulgarity. Each word is capable of conveying double meaning, depending on the obscene level of the interested listener.
The real poet is endeavouring to ignore the shadows of syllabus; he strives to bring out the true expression of words, preserving their pristine purity. It seems that the present day abstractionists are bent upon making the noumenal reality visible to the onlooker behind the facades of illusions. The quest for modernity is inaugurated from the point while the surrealists boldly entrenched themselves in the mires of modernity.
It is not necessary for the modern poet to be very explicit in his works. What is considered essential is the truth of reality which lurks behind the web of words. The modernists are aiming at the emancipation of objects. Such artistic efforts strain the nerves fo the artist and test the will of the observer. Look at the pictures of Pablo Picasso; few people have really understood the meaning of his cerebral art. The viewers must have visual experiences before they dare to see them. Criticism is still more difficult, since the critic is expected to have atleast 75% of the artist’s calibre, which is very rare. Can the common man enjoy the subtlety of the great artist? It requires long visual experience and considerable maturity on the part of the viewer to witness the magnitude of Picasso.
Among the coterie of Tamil new wave poets Gnankoothan can be cited as an illustration of this trend. His remarkable obscurity drives away those who are eager to identify him. The average Tamil reader is not capable of understanding the apparent reality, how can he appreciate the nuances of noumenal reality? The reader need specialised training in the intricacies of esoteric poetry.
“Father performed
Grandfatehr’s ceremeny
On a rainy day in winter
air murmured
in the empty drum
inside the house
revering orthodoxy
I went behind the house
walking almost with eyes closed
absent-mindedly
Scaling the heights of the slippery
ancient wet wall in the backyard
a snail, sluggishly moved
leaving a blazing trail behind.
Does not the snail know
that the wall is vertical?
It tried and tried, undaunted
but again slipped in the mud.
Are the archangels waiting for
the offerings of ceremony
play a game
with a sadist streak?
Today is my father’s ceremony
Again on a rainy day.
Ignoring the humiliation
of debt, disease, and destitution
my father fought with fate ferociously
but he wept completely , inconsolably
when he closed his eyes forever
leaving an orphaned family behind
Facing the sacrificial fire
I sat repeating the names of
father and grandfather mechanically
when I poured the water
from one vessel to another
through the snake-headed spoon
its fingers forming its body
and legs
a small snail”
(Gnanakoothan – Anru Veru Kizhamai – A Tamil Poetry collections)
In this poem, the father performs the death anniversary religious ceremony of the grandfather. The son emulates his father’s example. The snail slowly moving in a lesiurely pace indicates that the grandson is waiting to perform the rites for his father when his turn comes. The grandfather’s ceremony and father’s ceremony are shown in scenes. The snail motif is suggestive of the evanescence and transitoriness of the earthly existence. Of course life is not a permanent and static affair. The poem is not set in a pessimistic mood, nor does it celebrates melancholy. The grandpa is succeeded by the father, the father is succeeded by his son; and the son will definitely beget a grandson; this continuous chain of heredity is an assertion of life. Death is not a thing to be afraid of; it is surprising that such optimism is presented in contemporary poetry.
In olden days, elderly people may not cross the three score mark. But old age pensioners surpass the number of employed people nowadays. We hear that a statue has been raised for someone who lived beyond 120 years somewhere, Tremendous publicity is being given for such incidents. In theses circumstances, why should everyone be afraid of death? Man has to die of boredom and emptiness. No other go.
The elderly people represent man’s initial victory over death. Erik Erikson, had he continued his research on age, wisdom and life cycle, would have eliminated the fear of death altogether. This man who systematically analyses the various stages of life- from womb to tomb – threatens the very concept of death. The lord of Death himself is afraid of Erik Erikson, it seems. As if it is not enough, our theosophists are churning out thousands of pages on death, after – life and transmigration of souls. People who loved you will be born once again as your close relatives. The wife of one beloved husband will be born agains as his mother in his future existence and so on and so forth.
“Death – in whatever form it happens – is a pleasant experience. Accidents, asphyxiation, natural death – no matter in whatever form it puts an end to this absurd drama of life, is welcome. The ghastly death pangs of a dying man are not his agonizing ordeal – but they torture the onlooker. In the event of his rebirth, ask this dead man about his anguish in death-bed; he may plead ignorance. Perhaps he may compare the experience with deep sleep. Nothing else – a book tells us similar things.
Let the surrealist snail
scale the height of the
vertical wall
slipping and ascending in the
slippery surface
symbolize the secret of death
Let us
transmigrate in another form
Without pain
Without convulsions.
Translated from the Tamil original by Sri G.Venkataraman
In the grooves of creativity, words have dispensed with their pompous pyrotechnics and populist approach, they have learnt to shed off their over-ornate makeup and cultivated a low profile nowadays. With nostalgic longings the past glory of the words, when they roamed at will with all their paraphernalia is remembered now. It is becoming increasingly difficult to recoginse and identify the chaff from the grain, Today’s writer does not want to waste the efficacy of words in forlorn folklores, epithets and eulogies. In spite of their earnest efforts to free themselves from the yoke of the writers, the words fail miserably to continue their age old dance in the stage of modern literature. Writers have learnt to respect the potency of words; he will release the proper word at the appropriate time, knowing the value of his words. In these times of vociferous, votaries of value engineering, the writer can be expected to trade his property carefully. It is, in a way a healthy outlook.
Words are not mere words-they are extraordinary. They are more alcoholics than opium’s. Contemporary vendors of verse and peddiers of poetry are making a desparate effort to free themselves of their tentacles. Encouraged by the new licentiousness, and liberal words which prod the poets to produce profusely a host of adventurers have entered the literary market violently. The priniciple of prosody and rhetorics having been discarded and the old die hards who guarded the portals of poetry with lethal weapons of grammar being banished from their self appointed posts, the marauding hordes of modern poetry, began to wield their pens without fear.
Unfortunately, most of the stuff that pass off the glamorous garb of verse is downright substandard. It is not an easy job, to write poetry after analysing the infinite potentialities of each word indeed a very difficult feat. Not to become infatuated with the melody of word, is a rare trait. The primary, foremost function of the word is to communicate. It is enough if the words do their assigned task flawlessly. Extremism is inexcusable. Communication the main business of word is also not an easy one.
The Tamil muse is already fed up with the verbal gymnastics of vain practitioners of verse. When saint Arunagiri started his hymns on Lord Muruga, the poem was replete with all variations of Ku. The jugglery of Ku was meant not only to startle the listener; the resonance also plays with the hidden meaning as well. We have already become allergic to the Radio, when it played times without number, the song Athikkai. The words Kai Kai were repeated in a clever manipulation of lines; we have begun to loathe the puns also, for the simple reason that they have become the veritable synonyms of vulgarity. Each word is capable of conveying double meaning, depending on the obscene level of the interested listener.
The real poet is endeavouring to ignore the shadows of syllabus; he strives to bring out the true expression of words, preserving their pristine purity. It seems that the present day abstractionists are bent upon making the noumenal reality visible to the onlooker behind the facades of illusions. The quest for modernity is inaugurated from the point while the surrealists boldly entrenched themselves in the mires of modernity.
It is not necessary for the modern poet to be very explicit in his works. What is considered essential is the truth of reality which lurks behind the web of words. The modernists are aiming at the emancipation of objects. Such artistic efforts strain the nerves fo the artist and test the will of the observer. Look at the pictures of Pablo Picasso; few people have really understood the meaning of his cerebral art. The viewers must have visual experiences before they dare to see them. Criticism is still more difficult, since the critic is expected to have atleast 75% of the artist’s calibre, which is very rare. Can the common man enjoy the subtlety of the great artist? It requires long visual experience and considerable maturity on the part of the viewer to witness the magnitude of Picasso.
Among the coterie of Tamil new wave poets Gnankoothan can be cited as an illustration of this trend. His remarkable obscurity drives away those who are eager to identify him. The average Tamil reader is not capable of understanding the apparent reality, how can he appreciate the nuances of noumenal reality? The reader need specialised training in the intricacies of esoteric poetry.
“Father performed
Grandfatehr’s ceremeny
On a rainy day in winter
air murmured
in the empty drum
inside the house
revering orthodoxy
I went behind the house
walking almost with eyes closed
absent-mindedly
Scaling the heights of the slippery
ancient wet wall in the backyard
a snail, sluggishly moved
leaving a blazing trail behind.
Does not the snail know
that the wall is vertical?
It tried and tried, undaunted
but again slipped in the mud.
Are the archangels waiting for
the offerings of ceremony
play a game
with a sadist streak?
Today is my father’s ceremony
Again on a rainy day.
Ignoring the humiliation
of debt, disease, and destitution
my father fought with fate ferociously
but he wept completely , inconsolably
when he closed his eyes forever
leaving an orphaned family behind
Facing the sacrificial fire
I sat repeating the names of
father and grandfather mechanically
when I poured the water
from one vessel to another
through the snake-headed spoon
its fingers forming its body
and legs
a small snail”
(Gnanakoothan – Anru Veru Kizhamai – A Tamil Poetry collections)
In this poem, the father performs the death anniversary religious ceremony of the grandfather. The son emulates his father’s example. The snail slowly moving in a lesiurely pace indicates that the grandson is waiting to perform the rites for his father when his turn comes. The grandfather’s ceremony and father’s ceremony are shown in scenes. The snail motif is suggestive of the evanescence and transitoriness of the earthly existence. Of course life is not a permanent and static affair. The poem is not set in a pessimistic mood, nor does it celebrates melancholy. The grandpa is succeeded by the father, the father is succeeded by his son; and the son will definitely beget a grandson; this continuous chain of heredity is an assertion of life. Death is not a thing to be afraid of; it is surprising that such optimism is presented in contemporary poetry.
In olden days, elderly people may not cross the three score mark. But old age pensioners surpass the number of employed people nowadays. We hear that a statue has been raised for someone who lived beyond 120 years somewhere, Tremendous publicity is being given for such incidents. In theses circumstances, why should everyone be afraid of death? Man has to die of boredom and emptiness. No other go.
The elderly people represent man’s initial victory over death. Erik Erikson, had he continued his research on age, wisdom and life cycle, would have eliminated the fear of death altogether. This man who systematically analyses the various stages of life- from womb to tomb – threatens the very concept of death. The lord of Death himself is afraid of Erik Erikson, it seems. As if it is not enough, our theosophists are churning out thousands of pages on death, after – life and transmigration of souls. People who loved you will be born once again as your close relatives. The wife of one beloved husband will be born agains as his mother in his future existence and so on and so forth.
“Death – in whatever form it happens – is a pleasant experience. Accidents, asphyxiation, natural death – no matter in whatever form it puts an end to this absurd drama of life, is welcome. The ghastly death pangs of a dying man are not his agonizing ordeal – but they torture the onlooker. In the event of his rebirth, ask this dead man about his anguish in death-bed; he may plead ignorance. Perhaps he may compare the experience with deep sleep. Nothing else – a book tells us similar things.
Let the surrealist snail
scale the height of the
vertical wall
slipping and ascending in the
slippery surface
symbolize the secret of death
Let us
transmigrate in another form
Without pain
Without convulsions.
Translated from the Tamil original by Sri G.Venkataraman
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