Poem Review: My Town
People ask me where I am from. I sift through the pages of my mind every time this question is asked. It is hard to get an answer to this question. My ancestors lived in a village of fewer than twenty houses, then I lived in a town that had ancient history, but never was really a city. So, I would still call it a town.
Today, I am staying in Chennai, and tomorrow, I am not sure. I still claim a connection with Kolkata and Mumbai, where I had long stints at work.
“Even if we all want you here, you don’t belong until you decide you do.”
― Stephenie Meyer, The Host
I have dreamed of living in Singapore or New York - the two cities I have been often to, just enough to fall in love. But fate has put me back to cities I have to live in rather than those I love to live in.
You get my struggle, right?
If you know me well by now, I always turn to our poets to see what they think about my topics of interest. The search of ‘My Town’ is no exception to this.
We review two poems from our favorite poets:
Poem 1: ‘This Ol’ Town O’ Mine’ by George L Thomas brings out the poet’s nostalgic and fond memories of his town on the bank of River Tyne.
Poem 2: ‘An evening such as this in my Bengaluru’ by Sourabha Rao remembers the magical evenings of Bengaluru, her city.
Hop on my town bus and join the tour of the towns.
Poem 1: This Ol’ Town O’ Mine
I never want to leave this place
This little ol’ town o’ mine’
Where concrete merges with greenery
On the bank of the River TyneWhere the people really enjoy their sports
And there’s wildlife everywhere
And the Geordie calls of ‘whey aye, man!’
Come ringing through the airThere are fields and parks and statues
And there are memorials of the wars
For the many of our townsfolk
Who went off to fight the causeThe town is one of beauty
And the people here are kind
But although we may be friendly
We’re not afraid to speak our mindI may remain here always
For this town and I are one
And I fear that it may miss me
When the day comes that I’m gone~George L Thomas
Commentary on Poem 1:
We will see how a cluster of human dwellings begins to take shape as an organism by itself, breathing on its own, creating life and history, and leaving its footprints on time.
I never want to leave this place
This little ol’ town o’ mine’
Where concrete merges with greenery
On the bank of the River Tyne
This little old town of the poet is on the bank of River Tyne. Tyne is a beautiful river in North Eastern England, comprising of the North and South Tynes, and they meet at the ‘Meeting of the Waters’. The small town, to which the poet belongs, is a mixture of greenery and concrete. With a stinging bite of nostalgia in his gut, the poet opens his lines with the intent to not leave the good old town.
Where the people really enjoy their sports
And there’s wildlife everywhere
And the Geordie calls of ‘whey aye, man!’
Come ringing through the air
The use of the Tyneside dialect caught my eye in this paragraph. It is simple yet connects with the reader. ‘Well, Yes, of course, man!’, rings through the air when Geordie calls! The sound of bonhomie, mixed with small-town exuberance brings out the charm of the Tyne people. Tyne people enjoy their sports — boxing, football, water sports … the list goes on.
Tyne riverside is famous for its wildlife too. I took a trip to the website https://www.tynewildlife.org/ to understand Tyne’s wildlife. It might be interesting for the reader to explore further.
But here is the point. This world needs to be preserved, nurtured, and nourished. The poet would want to see it that way.
The town is one of beauty
And the people here are kind
But although we may be friendly
We’re not afraid to speak our mind
The poet’s town is beautiful, and its people are kind. Such a simple fact, yet it is more than meets the eye.
“Towns are like people. Old ones often have character, the new ones are interchangeable.”
― Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose
It is the kind, friendly, and sports-loving people of the Tyneside town, that make the town beautiful. They wear their hearts on their sleeves and call one as they see it. The older towns hold character because of people’s routines and places. A visit to these towns will confirm what the poet extolls.
I may remain here always
For this town and I are one
And I fear that it may miss me
When the day comes that I’m gone
The closing verses of the poem bring out the poet’s overwhelming love for and desire to stay in the Tyneside town. He wants to spend his whole life, till death here.
“I wish I could show you the little village where I was born. It’s so lovely there…I used to think it too small to spend a life in, but now I’m not so sure.”
― Mary Kelly
Somewhere a river is born, and it feeds an entire civilization that spawns into large cities and small towns. As days pass, the small town stays in the wrap of time, across generations. As the generations pass, their memories stay, defying time and becoming lore forever.
Poem 2: An evening such as this in my Bengaluru
The city is differently alive
Despite our proud, judgemental, ungrateful apathy and indifference towards it
Its soil always parts with fragrance while soaking in monsooning ecstasy
Winds, raging only a while ago, now cloak you gently
Very soon, thicker blankets will unfurl on beds
Grasses glance, green and always curious, through pavement cracks
Gulmohurs fall, scarlet speckles on damp asphalted roads
Like kisses that linger on your neck long after a passionate lover’s departure
Clouds scatter, for they know we need to look at the stars — our everyday miracles
Raaga Kaapi wafts in from the opposite house
In my kitchen, garlic and butter turn softer together on a pan
I think of all my loved ones who love good food
Thank this city that allows me all these everyday luxuries
And then I think — after all, everything we love comes out of this Earth
After all, what we all love, is our only Earth~Sourabha Rao
Commentary on Poem 2:
Bengaluru is the technology and startup capital of India. A city that is known for its awesome weather throughout the year, it is a magnet for talent and entrepreneurship around the world.
The city is differently alive
Despite our proud, judgemental, ungrateful apathy and indifference towards it
It takes years to build Rome, but one should be a Roman in Rome. But, there is a sense of apathy for a growing city, which gives us a lifeline, livelihood, and life, yet we don’t become the citizens we should be. Apathy and indifference is the worst form of ingratitude, but the City, like Mother Earth, gives without bias to the abusers.
Its soil always parts with fragrance while soaking in monsooning ecstasy
Winds, raging only a while ago, now cloak you gently
Bengaluru is called the ‘City of Gardens.’ There is nothing more magical than finding nature in the lap of the concrete jungle. It is a tough battle that the old city fights and the charm is still oozing everywhere.
The soil is rich, fertile, and alluvial, soaked in ‘monsooning ecstasy’. While many cities have rave parties for ecstasy, Bengaluru’s luscious trees and abundant gardens are soaked with that magical monsoon — pure raindrops, that turn into aromatic petrichor, setting a riot in our olfactory senses.
Even the raindrops have mothers — the monsoon winds. Monsoon moms are temperamental — for once they ‘rage’, and then they ‘cloak us gently’. From ghastly gales to caressing breeze, the city brings the mood swings of the monsoons to us.
Very soon, thicker blankets will unfurl on beds
Grasses glance, green and always curious, through pavement cracks
Gulmohurs fall, scarlet speckles on damp asphalted roads
Like kisses that linger on your neck long after a passionate lover’s departure
Bengaluru is an air-conditioned city. A small rain cools the city. During the monsoon, the city becomes a refrigerator, especially in the evenings, at night, and early mornings. The citizens curl under thicker blankets that ‘unfurl’ on beds. The cold hearts seek warmth from the chilly weather.
Nature nurtures. Nature cures. Nature flourishes. The earth does not deny its turn after receiving the rains from the raging monsoons. Out sprout the greens, grass, and all, in every nook and cranny, between the cracks of human imperfections, including the potholes and pavements.
The gulmohars are the flame of the forest. They light the canopy of the avenues like a forest fire, yet dripping dews in the morning and raindrops after the monsoon rains, exuding such aphrodisiac aroma, that even the poet falls for it. When they diddle and dawdle, like the lover’s tease, they fall on the black asphalted roads, resembling the scarlet scars (love bites) on the lover’s neck, like bread crumbs on an erotic trail.
Clouds scatter, for they know we need to look at the stars — our everyday miracles
Raaga Kaapi wafts in from the opposite house
In my kitchen, garlic and butter turn softer together on a pan
I think of all my loved ones who love good food
The city is enduring, and it passes over the monsoon’s temperamental and romantic escapades. Time to knock a sense into its clouded heads, the actual puffy ones ‘scatter.’
The clear view paves the way for us to gawk at the twinkling stars. I search for a hidden metaphor here — the penchant of the citizen to look for ‘celebrities’ who shine and fade away. ( The everyday miracle is a slight hint, I assume).
Of course, Bengaluru is the quintessential South Indian city, so there is the drift of two kaapis — the filter and the raga (musical notes). The filter Kaapi is a unique blend of filtered decoction — a bit of chicory mixed with coffee and mixed with milk, while the ‘Raaga Kaapi’ is the blend of musical notes sung on a meandering scale ( part of Carnatic music). The aroma of the filter Kaapi tingles the olfactory buds, while the musical version invokes the auditory senses. I, for one, can’t miss both.
From the stars to the senses, finally, we enter the poet’s kitchen. She wants to make feed her loved ones with great food, and like her heart, garlic and butter slowly melt in the warmth of the pan.
Thank this city that allows me all these everyday luxuries
And then I think — after all, everything we love comes out of this Earth
After all, what we all love, is our only Earth
The poet expresses her gratitude toward the city, like how we have seen at the beginning of this wonderful poem, is a giver of all luxuries that we take for granted.
“To live in a city, one must be larger than one’s environment or enjoy belonging to the crowd.”
― Louis L’Amour, The Lonesome Gods
An attitude of gratitude and a sense of belonging is something every citizen needs, much like the poet, who realizes that the city is a microcosm of Mother Earth. For us, after all, are children of Mother Earth.
My Town:
As the poets share their love, they not only pray for their belonging but claim their passion for their town. It is that all-encompassing feeling of love for a place called ‘home’. They would not exchange that feeling for another place in the world. There are many good places to visit, but there is only one place they belong to — ‘their town’.
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
― Robert Frost
I don’t know if I will take to this feeling called ‘home’, but I can relate to a couple of cities. That is how my journey as a blogger, then writer, and finally author began. This journey culminated in a story collection that became my first creation of fiction.
A poem that I wrote, while reminiscing the early days of 2021. My first short story collection, based on events and people of Mumbai was born. ‘A CITY FULL OF STORIES.’
POEM: A City Full of Stories
A world by itself
Lost within, but finding new answers.
Every morning is hope
Every night still a different story.A few end up in the spotlight
A few disappear in the darkness-
Both in the void of time and space
Sun rays peep in everywhere…
Showering the beacon of hope.As birds fly out of their nests,
But stuck in the early morning traffic
Frustrated but forward.
New arrivals at the train station
Gawk at the tall buildings in awe.Eyes filled with dreams…
Music, theatre, movies, and poetry
Drinks, drugs, and debauchery
Games in the shadows
In a way, it’s all part of
A City Full of Stories.
~Ashok Subramanian
