Poetry is a multifaceted art. Just as the beauty attracts in a variety of ways, poetry also is a bag of secrets. Although literary criticism unravels the mysteries of poetry—and the real appreciation is nothing but a reading that participates in the creative process and expands its meaning—but unravelling all the secrets, despite claims by critics, is beyond any kind of criticism. Critics who make such claims perhaps are not mindful of their own feet of clay. If, while reading or hearing, poetry captures the imagination, leaves an impression, recalls an experience or produces a wave of memory of the past or opens a window of hidden secrets, then it in a way uses aesthetic beauty, which is known as Aesthetic act or medium in literary criticism. Words by themselves are words but they become aesthetic wonders when imbued with the spark of meaning and impact. It seems like a mechanical process, but the creative process is an integrated whole where the warp cannot be separated from the woof whereby the text is transformed into a charged mystical experience.
Every poet makes his own aesthetic choices and of all the aesthetic choices available he has authority over only a few, which are consistent with his own disposition. Great poets use complex superior designs, which not everyone can master. But, if a poet can be recognized by his individual style, tone and temper, however limited they might be, and can establish meaning and leave an impression on the hearts of his readers then he is worth appreciating and has provided enough justification for his poetry.
Creating images is an important act in the creative process. Different theorists have assigned it different levels of importance, yet no one has denied the role of imagery in the creative process. It is a medium that connects poetry with art and painting. Image and colour, central to art, are in themselves extremely ambiguous and vast in the possibilities of interpretation. Every observer is free to interpret in his own way and derive his own meaning from it. Poetic language too, is not free from ambiguity because meaning is established by difference. In other words, there are as many concrete meanings as abstract. The primary layer of language, where the meaning is normally established, thus, is literal and convention bound. Hence compared to art and painting, the language follows a different creative process despite staying within the linguistic and cultural paradigm. But the poetry where imagery is exercised as a dominant medium turns into an art and vice versa, which means that nazm creates a painting and the painting embodies the element of poetry. The distinction of Jayant Parmar lies in the fact that he is the only poet of Urdu whose poetic creations are imbued with the creative process of art. There might be others but no one has such a skilful and effective combination. Let us examine his nazm ‘Where Have I Kept the Poem’ and find out what is searching in the nazm:
In the drawers of my desk,
on the table,
on the rack, in the cupboard,
on the book shelf—
I have been looking for it for so long;
In frenzy,
through the pages of my old books;
In the torn pockets
of my khadi kurta;
In my camel- leather bag;
Where have I kept the poem?
Then I ask,
Neruda, Amichai, Rilke;
I kept it somewhere just now.
As I search for the poem, I find
pen, ink and blank papers.
But the poem
is missing
from the notebook of my heart.
This unravels the way the poet creates a poem. One cannot make or construct a poem unless the fountain of creativity is flowing within. A poem also does not come by following the model of other poets. Also, it cannot be written by referring to old books or papers in a bag or in drawers of a desk. It was here a moment ago and has suddenly disappeared. That is, you cannot consciously create a moment of creativity. It is not a conscious process. The following poem further clarifies the point:
Just now, her breasts,
were shining on the silken canvas
of her blue bra;
Climbing the green grass,
in the dark labyrinths of her navel,
on their way to breasts
the ants of desire,
the footprints of frenzy,
slide into a deep trench.
Butterflies of lust,
lounging on the couch of lips;
Waves of blood clinging to the moon;
The yellow sun,
was drying wet clothes
on the tall coconut trees;
A scarlet star
descended from the leaf of eye-lashes,
only to sink thereafter
in the waters of darkness.
The nude evening,
lying on the sand
kisses her warm calves;
The colourful fishes
of thighs
are craving to escape;
My dreams— so hazy!
In art, the subliminal elements of creative process easily mingle with the surreal, subconscious roots. The poem progresses image after image and finally turns itself into a visual image by the dynamic and vivid act of picture making. The picture is ripe with the images of subconscious dreams of sexual desire such as a woman’s breast, the silken canvas of her blue bra, the dark labyrinth of her naval, the ant of lust climbing on the green grass— every line in the poem evokes an image in the mind. The footprints of frenzy, / slide into a deep trench / wet clothes / kissing warm calves / the nude evening lying on the sand: these images defining the surreal dream mark Jayant Parmar’s poetic world where words disappear as you read and on the screen of your mind shines a bright picture and a colourful image.
Look at the following poem ‘Your Name’. The theme of the poem is vague but image-making seems to bring alive every petal of flower and the name, like fragrance, spreads all over before us:
Your Name
I write your name,
with my fingers,
on each petal of the flower.
The flower withers away,
But your name,
becomes fragrance,
spreads all around.
.
The present collection has three poems in the ‘pencil series’ and all of them are different from each other. Pencil, which draws images, is a source of creativity in the hands of an artist like words for a poet. Let’s see in the following poem how the word turns into the sharp tip of a pencil, drawing an image:
The girl in the blue jeans,
sitting on the bench
sharpens her pencil
and a black flower
erupts from it.
The pencil writes
black letters
like black butterflies
on a virgin paper.
The pencil writes
white letters,
like the sun, moon and stars,
on the canvas of sky.
The pencil writes
golden wings
on the arms of the universe,
like the dreams of the girl.
The girl in blue jeans sharpens her pencil and a black flower comes out from it. What does this black flower symbolise which leads to one image after another? Blank paper / black letters / like black butterflies, or, white letters / on the canvas of the sky. The image-making reaches its culmination when these letters writing golden wings / on the arms of the universe / like the dreams of the girl. This is how the cycle of image within image completes and the images emerging from the black flower in all their glittering colours start shining on the canvas of our mind.
There are many poems, which appear scenic in nature such as ‘A Morning in Darjiling’, ‘Toy Train’, ‘On Way to Gangtok’, ‘Mani Karan’, ‘The Evening Painting-I’, ‘The Evening Painting-II’. But Jayant Parmar’s poetry is not only pictorial. These picture poems also have a variety of meanings. Sex lurks deep in the subconscious, but there are all kinds of pain residing in the hidden vaults of psyche that surface in the image-poems of Jayant Parmar. Although the poet talks about the creative void, which means there are moments when he is afraid of his own self. For example, “in loneliness of the night, / in the mirror / I rest my head, /on my own shoulders,/and cry for many hours.” But it is not as if the nazms of Jayant Parmar don’t stare from the subconscious at the outside world. These poems also dwell on human and social relationships. Indeed, charity should begin at home. Jayant Parmar has lived through the bloody scenes of Ahmedabad. See how external events get transformed into a spiritual experience and shape into an aesthetic expression. The title of the poem is ‘The City’,
The City
In a moment,
it fell into the river of blood;
With the support of its palms
it barely got up with great efforts;
Its forehead and temples
still bleeding,
one hand,
hanging in the sling,
one leg wounded with gunshot;
With great difficulty,
with the help of crutches,
it straightens its back,
and tries to stand up.
In another poem, ‘March Second’, the poet does not indicate the year in the title. See how, on the dismantling of Wali’s revered grave, the poet paints the bright forehead of the city with the black letters,
March second,
Your radiant forehead
was painted black.
Wali!
You had once sowed a pure heart,
in some anonymous corner
of this land.
You had told me with pride,
‘I am a Gujarati.’
But your own city
has razed every brick
of your grave.
My city
too has wilted away
flowers of devotion;
My love,
You are smeared with blood!
I, too, am smeared with blood!
March second
Your radiant forehead
was painted black.
Jayant Parmar has also composed ‘Dark ghazals for city of Ahmedabad’. See how pictorial these couplets of the galzals are and how the pain and teardrops transform into words ---
Wait, let me also lend my shoulder,
This is my city’s funeral procession.
----
That which burnt away in fire,
was flower of green affinity.
Whom could I call for help
Who was there in the vicinity?
True, it lay within me—
the man, who was beastly.
Happy it was, to burn a house—
It was none other, but my own city.
Now that the discussion has turned to ghazals, it is opportune to inform that poet has adorned the space of his nazms with bouquets of ghazals. Here too, bright and dim colours, things and pictures have the same effect as they have in his nazms— only the canvas of ghazals is smaller but the effect is equally sharp. In these couplets, colours should also be allowed to enter the heart,
Pale, wilted, withered flower.
On branches, here and there,
a flower.
All figures are,
faded—
The moon, the stars,
the faces and flowers.
Inside, outside,
scattered are the flowers.
-- in lanes, offices,
rooms and squares.
The bright backyard,
the sun smiling ever,
descending in every window—
a flower.
In every body
every speck of dust.
Truth— the fragrance;
Lie— the flower.
The doors await the pathways.
In the evening,
the flower of heart smoulders.
Let none suffer such fate, my God!
when even during the spring time
the branches are devoid of roses.
A day will come, I know,
when eyes will be numb,
and hands devoid of books.
The couplets are often dynamic in nature and leave an impression on the sensitive mind. Words or relationships are indeed green, blue, yellow, white, black but more than that the moon, book, flower, mirage, rose, rivers of slumber, and islands of dreams lead to images within images. Sometimes a little slack treatment of the language adrift from the regular usage or slight modification changes the usual flavour of the ghazal. See how by mixing of the plural form with the old Urdu radeef, a new effect has been produced in the following ghazal:
Who appears in my dream,
In mirage the flowers gleam.
They shone bright in darkness—
Inside the book, all words green.
They drowned in the river of sleep,
Islands that inhabited my dream.
The moon sleeps in the midst of rose
Open your window to view the scene.
Another aspect of this collection is that it has many poems dedicated to individuals. This trend in commonly found in the works of Neruda, Paz and many other poets. This is even more prevalent in Bengali, Hindi and Gujarati. Although Jayant Parmar has dedicated many nazms to his contemporaries, but this is not as significant as the ones written for a few peerless personalities of the past. Chief among them are Van Gogh (‘Sunflower’, ‘The Blackbird of Sorrow’, ‘Crows over Cornfield’), ‘Paintings of Ramkumar’, ‘A Poem of Yellow Sadness’ (Amrita Shergil), Gaugin, Swaminathan, Salvador Dali, Marina Tsvetayena (Russian female poet), Octavio Paz, Meeraji and Ustad Faiyaz Khan. As is known, Paz was the Mexican Ambassador to India for very long time. His creative ideas were deeply influenced by Indian philosophy and thoughts. Paz acknowledged this fact in many of his poems and wrote numerous poems on people and places of India. See Jayant’s tribute to him:
I Have Seen Paz
I saw Paz
at the tomb of Amir Khusrau,
in the pale shade of evening,
under the dome of words and music
between Nizamuddin Aulia, a mendicant
and Amir Khusrau;
Sleeping under the arches
of poems—
I have seen Paz.
This picture of Meeraji is also worth reading:
Meeraji’s Picture
A turban on his head,
loops in ears,
a bead necklace around the neck,
in his arm, an amulet—
wandering around the world,
knocking at the door
in the city of words:
A darvish.
Painting and poetry are his rightful domains but word-poems of music also shoot from the moist soil of Jayant’s psyche. Notice the scene of severed, broken and semi-charred notes on the tomb of Faiyaz Khan and the impression it creates on one’s mind:
The Tomb of Faiyaz Khan
The marble tombstone
of Faiyaz Khan
bends over the heap of his ruined grave,
searching—
for sa-re-ga-ma-pa-dha-ni…
for saffron and rose bowing in devotion,
for the moist melody of Raga Malkos
for colours dancing in bass-notes
for flames in the black smoke
for the festivals of soft-notes
— all in the soil of desolate grave.
But, in the grave,
nothing could be found,
except the tattered, semi-charred notes
of pain.
Discussions so far should have made it clear that even though the thrust of Jayant Parmar’s poetry is on image-making where black flower erupts from the naval of the girl in blue jeans, or words sprout from the womb of ink, or the pen plays a tune on the Santoor or the festival of Holi inscribe colourful dreams on the body with the delicate fingers of a child, or the peepal tree tying bells over its ankles, or the peacock drawing the moon as a teeka-mark on the forehead of sky with peacock-feather, leaves falling from the sun or ink breathing in the naval of words. It is nevertheless clear that this poetry goes beyond image-making to depict that pain of social exploitation which is commonly related to caste politics and ‘Dalit’ identity. However, these poems of Jayant Parmar, for their artistic qualities, are completely different from regular poetry on such subjects.
I needn’t remind the readers here that the task of a critic is not to write elementary lessons of the poetry. However, it has been ignored by many critics that while poetry cannot be an act of political agenda or means of attaining political goal, it nevertheless cannot be bereft of the socio-cultural or human relationships. Further, the act of self-realization and the attempt to understand the self is an integral part of the process of cultural formations. As a result, literary worth is an outcome of blending human suffering and affinities with the form. Hence, poetry or art can never be innocent positions free from any ideological leanings. Ideology is ingrained within the literature, which means that literature formulates its own values of human and cultural relationships and social justice. In literature, everything originates from the inner wards of the heart. In Jayant Parmar’s poetry, the warmth of feelings can be constantly felt along in his graphic and dynamic images. He has tasted the venom of social injustice and makes an effort to turn it into an elixir by the various hues of his words. It is worth observing how the knife of dominant traditions and customs cuts through bones of Dalit sensibilities. Urdu by itself represents the voice of the minority. Jayant Parmar’s predicament represents a further minority within minority. That is to say, this is subaltern within subaltern, a voice of a marginal sensibility in real sense. Suppressed in the layers of pain, this sigh also surfaces with the sound of leaves falling in autumn or sun, butterfly and the crimson rose. In the midst of glittering colours, emotionally meaningful poems on mother shock the readers. If one goes deeper in these poems, he will discover in them a meaningful series of rags of historical suffering and warp and woof of physical torture woven in words:
Meeraji
She was lighting the hearth
before the sun-rise.
When the smoke entered her breath,
the moon coughed.
I woke up on my Charpai.
As soon as I entered the hut,
I saw my mother
burning in the hearth,
in place of the firewood.
The Stench of the Hell-Pit
The stench of the hell-pit
reached up to my school.
Under the umbrella of the sun,
she descended bare-foot
into the hell-pit.
She would soak the animal skins
in salt-water,
and clean them with her frail feet.
In return,
she’d bring a few pieces of meat,
for me to eat.
Even today,
before going to my office,
when I polish my shoes,
with the Cherry polish,
I see my mother’s face,
in their glaze,
and the stench of the hell-pit
reaches my office!
The Paper-I
In ancient times,
people used to write—
on ordinary leaves,
on Bhojpatra,
on palm leaves,
on chests of trees,
on stones,
on animal skins,
on bronze.
The four Vedas
were also written
on Bhojpatra.
But,
the dark hymns of tyranny
were inscribed
on my body.
Even today….!
This creative account of the long night of injustice and social oppression borders on the protest. Jayant Parmar understands the role of an artist in the society. He also knows that creativity is an internal process where every external reality must pass through the process of ecstatic internalization to achieve the required effect and impact. The idiom of poetry is different from the language of the newspaper and who can understand this better than an artist. Hence, even when Jayant makes a pledge or raises a voice he does it within the realm of creativity. In ‘A Thousand Hands’, invoking the history of injustices, he looks forward to the future, while in ‘The Will of a Dalit Poet’ the dominant feeling is that of helplessness and vulnerability. However, in my opinion, the masterpiece poem of this series is ‘The Morning Breeze’ which can be called the most effective Dalit poem of Urdu in which the soul burdened by centuries of pain becomes a part of the ‘blood-coloured sun’:
The Morning Breeze
Stop by my soul,
O morning breeze!
Give me the blood-coloured sun
which has no shadow of clouds,
which never sets
in the dark forests of the horizon.
I will spin it in my forefinger
like the weapon of Lord Krishna
and hurl it on those—
who cut my tongue
and annihilated it
in the sacred fire;
on those who severed the head
of my flower-like small daughter
and burnt it;
on those who released rivers of blood
from the breast of my sister;
on those who buried alive my father.
on those who stripped my mother
in broad day-light.
The fire that is ablaze in me
will not extinguish.
Give me the blood-coloured sun!
O morning breeze,
stop by my soul!
I had no intention of writing on the poems of Jayant Parmar but I have a weakness: the criticism which unravels the creative process and leads to pleasure and delight is a kind of mental luxury because it is connected to the inner desire. This is a matter of single-mindedness and leisure— both rare for me these days. This manuscript has been lying with me for quite a long time. Jayant Parmar must have given up on me, I am sure, as he stopped bringing it up. Recently, when I got an opportunity to visit Leipzig Book Fair in Germany, I carried these poems along. Leipzig is Goethe’s city and also that of my favorite philosopher Saussure. Although the weather was freezing cold but the centuries old buildings of the university were full of the warmth of enthusiasm, and cafes and pubs were buzzing with life. I looked at these poems whenever I found time; I had read them before also but full reading is a different thing altogether. Slowly, the poems began to make effect and impact. Criticism is anyway not the last world and hence there is nothing wrong in accepting that critical appreciation is not possible without being subjective. In any case, the stuff and belongings of Jayant Parmar’s poetry is different from others which means that the easel, brush, palette of colors and strokes which can be discerned only by the eyes of the mind along with the melting pot of words. Now, it is the duty of all of us to give this virtuous, quiet, reclusive yet effective poet a space in our hearts.
Gopi Chand Narang
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