Poet’s Note: ‘The poem is a painting in conversation and the painting is a silent poem’
Painting is poetry
that is seen rather than felt,
and poetry is painting
that is felt rather than seen
Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), Italian artist
Painting and poetry differ only in the medium of expression otherwise both have a single soul. The poem is a painting in conversation and the painting is a silent poem. Metaphors, analogousness, rhythm, form, images are the tools of a poet with which he shapes the structure of a poem. In creation, the arts influence each other.
The painting is not for eyes only. One can listen to it. On the canvas, the spaces are left unconsciously where words take form in both the meanings. Human emotions cannot be divided into pigeonholes, even if the expression of the mediums is different. A single image can unfold the horizon of experiences. Tagore is perhaps the best example of it. One art becomes the reason for the birth of another art.
According to Pablo Picasso, the painting is just another way of keeping a diary. I, too, keep two diaries in my bag, one for poems, the other for the paintings.
I see the paintings on wall of the mosque’s carved Quran ayat and the titles of the movies in Urdu. That is why I listen first to the Urdu script in poem and then I listen to the poem in Urdu script! Prior to the poem, it was the painting hence my hands first took charcoal. Pen, pencil, charcoal, paper, inkpot are before me on the table, I turn pages of my manuscript and my fingers stop at my poem titled ‘Tagore’. I take up ink pen and draw lines on the title of the Bengali magazine of Tagore’s sketch. And I remember poems and paintings of Tagore, Jogen Chowdhury, Gulam Mohammed Shaikh, M.F.Hussain, J. (Jagdish) Swaminathan... keeping eyes on poems and paintings, I wonder, how nice if I can publish such a collection. I continued to read poems, and colours are spreading on the canvas.
Dreams of Giacometti
You have a human model in front of you,
Who is neither a Fascist
Nor a solder or officer of the army;
He is a simple human being.
Your actions are like magic;
Your actions
Are reflecting in the eyes,
Are gleaming through dark curly tresses,
Are dancing between parted lips;
Are dancing in fingers.
When they speak,
The body begins to talk
On the stone canvas.
Through the stone rocks,
You have seen
The dreams of ancient men:
Hands plucking fruits from branches,
Black hands with clenched fists.
When I take those hands
In my hands,
I hear their heartbeat,
And I feel that my own hands
Are unreal.
Giacometti
Keeps pouring water
In the cup of naught,
And moon descends
In the naval of the stone.
You also have dreams of stone!
And the stone is teased
By the dreams of your fingers!!
_______________________________________
Alberto Giacometti (1901-1966) was a Swiss trend-setting surrealist sculptor, painter and graphics art designer.
Still Life (1)
In my half sleep,
The sun in the east
Comes from the ochre sky;
Slides the curtain on the window
And enters my room.
It slowly drags the wicker chair
Near the table.
The moon drinks
The coffee without sugar from the cup.
An ant nearly drowns itself
Trying to come out
From the pond of the small cup.
The strong wind
Turns pages of the yellow notebook.
The pencil has drawn pictures of mirages,
Seen in my dreams of half-sleep.
A sparrow sits on the trees of meaning.
Thorns of clamour grow
On long roads of coal-tar.
Still Life (2)
Like a miniature painting,
Fish-eyes
Drown themselves
By dipping their pen
In the inkpot.
There are the flower vases,
On the tabletop,
Painted in the colours of a poem,
And under the inkpot
Lies the green tablecloth,
With peacocks dancing
On all its four corners.
A book sits right in the middle,
With a Van Gogh tree
Simmering on its title.
Will the fire of my heart
Be similar?
Will its darkness
Have burning hands?
The Flask of the Poem Broke
The flask of the poem broke,
But surprisingly, the sound of its breaking
On the shiny floor
Does not pierce my heart
Like an arrow!
Along with the roots,
I also came out.
The flask is covered in blood;
The explosion fills the room!
Old refrains,
Holding verse notebooks,
Strut throughout the town.
The nail of poetry-music
Bothers my ears, day and night.
The butterfly of meters prances on the page.
Feeble threads of poetic beats,
Doves of verses,
Fly over the seven skies.
Ruins of symbolism lie deserted.
Windows of metaphors remain closed.
There are pigeons of words,
Feelings, dreams and desires,
Pigeons of rhythm, beat and aesthetics,
But their wings are wounded with bullets.
I have everything:
Knife, hammer, nails and paper,
But the poem never takes shape.
All night, the stars
Pluck at the harp of my heart,
But the poem never takes shape.
The flask of the poem broke …
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