WHO READS MY POEMS?
TWO-WAY MIRROR
POEMS AND TRANSLATIONS OF B.S.M.
MURTY
Author: B.S.M. Murty
Publisher: Vagishwari Prakashan, 2020; 182 pp., Rs
395
Available on Amazon.in
Book Review by:
Thomas Graves, Poet, Editor, Scarriet blog
& Professor, Lesley University, Cambridge, MA,
US
Salem, MA 6/19/20
The poem is, for some, what we need to hear—but don’t want to hear.
The poem pours morals all over us.
But forgive me. As a critic, I’ve already ruined
everything, defining morals as some vague, liquid, cure-all which we don’t
want.
This poem by B.S.M. Murty, the third poem in his
just published, elegant book, Two Way Mirror, demonstrates how not to
ruin everything:
Forgiveness
A divine Benediction
That only comes to a heart
Cleansed by true Repentance
True Forgiveness comes
Not from incontrite solicitation
But from earning it the hard way
Through sustained Repentance
It will only enter into a heart
Purified by overflowing Lovingkindness.
The poem is the best device for admonishment and punishment—it comes from the wise, but we receive it alone, and anonymously, so our pride is intact; the punishment costs little, and the admonishment is over in a few moments, and, far from the clutter and confusion and ego of life, it gives us a simple truth.
As a critic, we pass over “Forgiveness” in silence;
“Forgiveness” has no image, no rhyme; we cannot say anything about it. Why
should we? To the poet, to the readers, and to the truth of the poem, we would
only look like a fool.
There are some poems which cannot be reviewed.Most poets don’t dare admonish the reader.
B.S.M Murty is a student of Edgar Allan Poe.
Beauty—impersonal beauty—is the flip side of
Murty’s truth which does not flatter.
You cannot have the aura alone.
A bright clear smile must be
On a soft-swaying anemone
In the heart of a darkening sea.
These lines, from “The Aura,” are more beautiful than what most poets write—you know these poets, the poets who never tell a truth or a moral, but laugh and confuse us, or, like those Instagram flatterers, say: if there is a truth, it is only you, reader, and only what you feel.You will never get easy advice from B.S.M. Murty. In our deep pride, we would turn away, If someone, in person, were to tell us to be a better person.
And if there is beauty also, we have two reasons to
celebrate.
We are happy to report that this double splendor is
accessible in the work of B.S.M. Murty.
I am an earthen pitcher
Lying in a pitcher-maker’s backyard.
As I look around, I find many pitchers
Lying around me, some of them
Have their necks broken.
Others appear misshapen.
Hardly any are perfect in shape.
I get worried about myself:
Am I all well made?
Free from all defects?
Round and sound in shape?
How can I see myself?
They are all looking at me?
Am I in good shape?
Is nothing wrong with me?
How do I know?
Who can tell me?
Only the pitcher maker perhaps.
How many types of poems are there? We can’t forget
the ‘immersion’ poem, which transports the reader to a familiar, yet strange
place, enfolding one in the atmosphere of a reality one can taste—and the mere
words of the poet have put you there. We find examples of this kind of poetry
in Two-Way Mirror, as well:
At the dark stairs of death.
The jetty lay still
In the black tranquility.
The sound of wing-flap
Amid the leaves unquivering
Three dogs dancing blackly
Vanishing and reappearing
Unbarking.
The path from the Temple
Led it to the Pavilion of Death
Where a ray of prayer
Lay prostrate begging for
Love and life.
Beneath the porch
Behind the library
Once upon a time not so dark
In the harsh glare
Of a 100 watt electric bulb
It was torn
To be torn again
And again ad infinitum.
In my being, my cessation.
I am because I am not.
I am not because I am.
All you know, you don’t know.
You only see what you don’t see,
Hear what is not audible,
Touch what is ephemeral,
Smell only the deja vu.
I am untruth
The whole untruth,
And nothing but the untruth.
Yes, I am all, I’m everything.
Because I am nothing at all.
Whoever says there is no God
Knows not, because God Is;
Because his ‘isnotness’
Is impossible to prove,
Because what you don’t see
Or believe, also Is.
The invisible
The inaudible
The untouchable
Is the whole reality.
And there are poems where wisdom is applied to
contemporary social matters.
Is like an all-enveloping smog
Creating a choking pollution
That it seeks to wipe out
But which is slowly
Strangling itself.
As soon as you think he is one thing, he is
another. You think you see him, but you do not. There is no escape from B.S.M
Murty. Aesthetically, this is a good thing, even if it may cause a bit of
social discomfort.
Murty often comes across as a kindly professor, but
this is not even close to all that he is. In “Patriotism On Sleeves!” he sings
the praises of the salt of the earth of India, but before that, he puts things
in perspective:
the fittest place to make it mandatory
for the big-money viewers to stand up
in respect as the National Anthem
plays on for fifty four seconds
before the film show begins?
(The film will have plenty of noisy
hip-swinging, lovey-doveying,
and comical fighting to absurdity.)
But will that be OK there?
Yes—why not, because all
the nouveau riche in our society,
spending their thousands over tickets
for their family & friends,
assemble there only
to while away their time
munching vigorously
on peppered popcorns
or swilling with slurps
their cans of Coke—
they are the people enjoying fruits
of their ill-begotten wealth,
living off the misery and poverty
of the common people…
If you want love poetry, there are few love poems
as passionate as the following:
Now withered and shriveled
Her bones brittle, coming unstuck
Her spine bent with decrepitude
Scarcely breathing, almost senseless
Dead in my arms? I wondered awhile
And put my ear on her once-charming
Unheaving, perspiring bosom
It felt snowy cold and motionless
She had left me alas, alone and forlorn
I fell into a swoon. She was gone.
Was she to be wrapped in a shroud
Laid down into a wooden coffin
Down into a grave to be dug
All my ocular nerves were awash with tears
Ringing with a melancholy music
The final moment of bodily separation was come
She had to be buried into earth
‘Dust thou art, to dust returnest’
Said the poet singing his psalm
But my soul cried, she was a mummy
Let her remain a mummy
Rather than bury her to be eaten by worms
Keep her by your bedside, on a hallowed shelf
Drape her in her bridal clothes
And let her be a memento mori
For she will then outlive you
Lying on that shelf of eternal memory
To be remembered even while
You are forgotten.
Who surround me
At this late hour
With their faces masked
In weird grimaces
Ogling with green, glinting eyes
Their bat-ears protruding wide
Swaddled under their dark cloaks
In their hairy nakedness
I seem to know them
Each one of them
At one point of time
Beyond the present
In the labyrinths of the past
I have often seen them
Lurking in dark alleys
Peering into half-shut windows
Mumbling cabbalistic syllables
Scratching their pubes
Spitting out venom
Singed by their own flames
Of pride, envy and hatred
Burning to ashes
To nothing.
“The Mask” glows with the metallurgic fury of Dante.And look at this poem. We know there are millions of sports metaphors. Here’s the best one, perhaps; from Murty’s “The Football”, a humbling observation which really does sum up life:
Where the football
Runs always faster
Than the footballer […]
You’re my will-power.
The more you stay with me
The more power I’ll have
To fight the darkening despair
Which keeps surrounding
Me terribly.
Two-Way Mirror by B.S.M. Murty is a wise, holy—and
literary—treasure.
Note : I post this review for friends who visit my blog. All that Prof. Graves has written humbles me. He is a well-known modern American poets - a master of his craft and always original. His illuminating wit makes his poems a delight to read on his Scarriet blog. I am deeply grateful to him for the support which only a poet can give another poet, a modest and humble one like me. BSM Murty
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