Poem Review: ‘Under the weather on a cloudy day’
I was desperately searching for the backlog of this year’s writing commitments. Work has taken over and travel compounded it. Of course, there are a few more poems and wonderful collaborations, but the soul of my writing is around Ponder.
This brings me back to the last of the Tribute Series for this year, and the only male member in the lineup — Leslie Xavier. I picked three poems, but on second thoughts, became smarter and moved one of them to another topic I was writing, but for the same Ponder 2023 series.
Let us know a bit about Leslie. Here is what his LinkedIn blurb says (If Leslie would, he could call it his epitaph instead of epithet — to get us all a sense of his writing.)
A seasoned journalist and editor across print and digital platforms in a career spanning close to two decades. Successful stints at three major English newspapers in India, two websites, and four years with one of the most reputed sports magazines in the world. Carry a proven track record leading editorial teams covering sport, health, and fitness, earning global acclaim as a sports columnist and feature writer. The drive is to bank on the knowledge, experience, writing, editorial skills, leadership, and mentorship capabilities to achieve the publication’s objectives, lift it to loftier heights, and add new dimensions to the career.
And, he is also a poet. A poet who does not mention he is a poet. A behind-the-curtains poet. But wait, we realize that his poems carry the same sense of ‘sitting-on-the-porch-on-a-cloudy-day-and-feeling-a-bit-of-under-the-weather’ feeling through and through. I love that feeling of writing poetry when I feel a bit of ennui on a cloudy day, especially in Bengaluru’s gorgeous weather.
Let us now dive deep into his verses.
Poetry 1: Viral Zeal
The zeal was palpable,
even through firewalls
and ’em hallowed airlocks.
It will take you places,
only if you are a slave
to a viral nirvana, seated
on a non-biodegradable chair,
in the farthest corner
of a vibrant glass box
that holds stale air,
a benevolent gift to
sustain life, not dreams.The AC groans, strains
to keep freedom locked
outside the ducts
which circulate reminders
of obligation sealed on paper,
signed with zeal,
palpable, yet beyond fathom,
and sickeningly positive.
How much of your thoughts
are stale truths?
No, that’s passé…
How many of them are fresh lies?— Leslie
Commentary on Poem 1:
The world is an oyster. But today’s man is stuck in a cubicle.
“Nobody sane loves working in an office, It’s against human nature to be locked up in a cubicle all day long.”
― Peter Clines, 14
In our dystopian existence, we find unique ways to deprecate ourselves in interesting ways inside the cubicle. The cage is not the glass wall, but the artificial cold pumped into the cubicle by the airconditioner.
The zeal was palpable,
even through firewalls
and ’em hallowed airlocks.
Imagine the first day of your office — you feel fresh against the surreal glow of the white LEDs and the minted desk and chairs. You are sitting in front of a computer protected by firewalls, and doors with padlocks protecting both from intrusion and also the fresh, cool, ambiance of the airconditioned workspace.
It will take you places,
only if you are a slave
to a viral nirvana, seated
on a non-biodegradable chair,
in the farthest corner
of a vibrant glass box
that holds stale air,
a benevolent gift to
sustain life, not dreams.
Trapped in this cubicle — the cage made of fresh furniture, surreal lighting, and airconditioning, you become a slave to a ‘viral nirvana’ — I interpret this as the goals that you chase as part of your job profile or role, and achieving this is the viral nirvana. You are anyway slammed in your performance appraisal.
Let us look at the environment — we already know a bit about it — non-biodegradable ( read plastic) chairs ( therefore emotionless); in the farthest corner of a vibrant glass box (surreal obscurity); that holds stale air to sustain life (like a fish tank). Now, in that surreal-lit-glass-fish-tank, there is no scope for dreams.
The AC groans, strains
to keep freedom locked
outside the ducts
which circulate reminders
of obligation sealed on paper,
signed with zeal,
palpable, yet beyond fathom,
and sickeningly positive.
The employment contract — the document of corporate slavery, is sealed on paper. A new hire signs this piece of paper, full of zeal (thinking about his glittering future inside the fish tank), and without any legal advice. One can understand the plight of the youngster, but the artificial enthusiasm is palpable, but unfathomable at the same time.
“I used to work in a tall office building, and I carried a briefcase. It was empty of business, but when people tried to stop me to talk, I’d hold it up and say, “Gotta run. Look how busy I am.”
― Jarod Kintz, I design saxophone music in blocks, like Stonehenge
Finally, the air conditioner, locks the freedom of that young, naive, zealous employee in his cubicle, feeling surreal and conditioned, working for his salary and somewhere, if there were dreams in them, they all died quietly, on a busy day. They just ran like untiring hamsters on wheels.
Poem 2: Eavesdropping on a Choir
Would you seek?
Or sit back, shackled by
tone-deaf daily planners,
dreading the effort.
Swimming against the odds, of course,
strains the heart, tests resolve.Baring the tide, I reach the
source of a revenant tune, it’s B-flat,
which, minutes yonder, cascaded through
humid, apprehensive corridors
to reach the jaded occupant
of a moss-layered park bench.It is a reverent choir.
No, they are kids at play;
nah, young women singing
hymns of hope while bearing
the burden of dreams,
texts and loans in their backpacks.— Leslie
Commentary on Poem 2:
One of those situations again. Imagine me sitting in my office, shuffling papers and applications on my computer.
Would you seek?
Or sit back, shackled by
tone-deaf daily planners,
dreading the effort.
Swimming against the odds, of course,
strains the heart, tests resolve.
My calendar and task application are tone-deaf. It does not care about the state of mind I am in, they just keep popping in my reminders. My mind is currently undecided.
Should I seek, explore, and make the effort to overcome my inertia, or sit back and become the good slave of corporate schedules? Anything that seems like an effort would string my nerves, strain my heart, and test my resolve. My life, friends, is rooted in my desk, and deciding to answer the big question: To be or not to be.
Baring the tide, I reach the
source of a revenant tune, it’s B-flat,
which, minutes yonder, cascaded through
humid, apprehensive corridors
to reach the jaded occupant
of a moss-layered park bench.
Finally, I summon my will to get out of my cubicle, and as I turn my attention from my machine, I listen to a tune. Mild and revenant. Somewhere, somebody must be passing away slowly. The tenor slowly embraces the mild revenant, coming in at B-flat. As I move out of my seat, finally, on feet of lead (perhaps), through the humid, squally, narrow corridor toward the entry of my office ( or exit, as I leave, with a lot of difficulty.)
I sit, jaded, on a moss-layered park bench. Like my office, like my surroundings, the bench that I seek solace on is also a rotten piece. Add that the B-Flat revenant tune is chasing me. Ah!
“Do you remember how scared we were? How lost and cold and alone? I do. I don’t want anyone feeling that helpless.”
― Erin Hunter, Warrior’s Refuge
That feeling — so precise — lost, lonely, and cold. And then the smell of the moss mixed with the revenant tune adds the aural and olfactory elements to that depressing feeling.
It is a reverent choir.
No, they are kids at play;
nah, young women singing
hymns of hope while bearing
the burden of dreams,
texts and loans in their backpacks.
From the bench, I can see the church. The B-flat is coming from a reverent choir. You might notice the change from revenant to reverent — the place changes the view, perhaps. From the music of the departing to the music of the divine.
My respect for my ambiance is fleeting — now, I see the singers, they are just kids — young women singing hymns of hope, with deep devotion and faith. But these are the same girls who have an education loan and loads of books in their school backpacks. The veneer of hope sinks at the back of their burden. So, are they different from my dystopian existence?
Here we have a surprise. Priya Patel knows more about Leslie’s writing than any other in our small LinkedIn community. Here is what she said about Leslie’s poetry.
Brushstrokes of Leslie
I was excited to be included in this review/tribute for Leslie because, I am not only his friend, but I am also a fan. Admittedly, because he is a professional journalist, his writing is much more technical than my style. His writing is intertwined with so many brushstrokes, that I often have to read each poem a few times before I truly get a completely painted canvas. It is within these brushstrokes that we find what makes Leslie and his poetry so special.
Leslie is a sports journalist, and while he may write on various sports-related topics, his passion is wrestling. He is one of the rare journalists who write about his passion, and then later, grapples and spars in the dirt; partaking in the sport itself regularly. That part of him is a huge part of who Leslie is. He lives, eats, breathes the sport, and then is anxious to share with the world what he thinks of his passion. It is with this intensity that we are left with the emotional side of Leslie, the darker side that, like crumbs, gets swept under the table and becomes embedded within the lines of his poetry. They are the angry grays, the bleeding reds, and many times the deepest kohl blacks splatter on his canvas, and somehow — somehow, they become the intricate poetic art of Leslie Xavier.
Powerful words that make up Leslie’s verses. But not different from what I feel about his work.
‘Under the weather on a cloudy day’
Leslie is a poet who catches the lows. The ones under the hood. Our hood. Those times when we are probably the only ones left in our lives. But we find solace in our words. The ‘under the hood’ feelings find their bowl of verses, carefully crafted with panache, just enough for us to know that below the hood is a dark place.
I can relate to that feeling of being ‘under the weather on a cloudy day’ that is the essence of Leslie’s poems.
“Sometimes writing can take you to such dark places it can be nearly impossible to come back from; a part of you is left there, in the words you’ve bled onto paper, in the emotions you’ve let loose upon the page, and eventually, the world.”
― D Michael Hardy
Those words that are left on Leslie’s page, reflect his bleeding on paper, but for me, the lover of the dystopian genre, these words reflect that dimension of humans that we rarely hope to encounter.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2023
