Issue 17

Poetry Splash! -

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'Poetry Splash! E-zine'          Issue **017**
Date : 31 July 2000.

Arvind, Sangita, Pushkin Passey
Alternate URL:

(((((((((((((((((( CONTENTS )))))))))))))))))))))
1. Forms Of Poetry (The Somonka Experiment & the responses)
2. ...The Delectable, Memorable Poem... (A poem by Pablo Neruda)
3. Poetry In/From India (Kanika Shah's short verses on Delhi)
4. Your Requests! (Prof Vihang Naik's views on 'Intuition & Poetry')
5. Let Us Connect With Poetry (An article by Arvind)
6. A Poem For You All -- From Me (A poem by Arvind)
7. Comments, Ideas, Contributions from Readers (Saro Gun, Mary Shanahan
and Jill Shilvock send their poetry)

A Note From The Editor:

Here are a few more URLs of poetry sites submitted:
Sandra Hendricks (
sitename: Common Sense

Prof. Vihang Naik (
sitename: Vihang Naik's Poetry Journal

`doc (
sitename: this heartless WORLD's Poetry Pages

Alan W. Goodson (

We'd also like to inform our readers that we now have a new referral
system on the index page of the Poetry Splash! site. Do check it out for
yourself...and if you like it, you can even create one for your own site!
Until the next issue...bye!
Arvind Passey.

           --* Forms Of Poetry *--
We had read about Somonka in the last issue. The first half of the Somonka
that I had written in that issue was completed by two of our readers.
Great attempt.
Bits in bytes must go
 to you through mail. I know not
and I can not see
 your smile. Your thought hyperlinked
to these lines will complete us.

*Here is Sophie's attempt to complete the Somonka:

Complete we might be
in thought. But your unseen you
will not flash in me
the unspeakable. Thought would
remain unborn without flesh.
-- Sophie Sasseur
(Thank you Sophie.)

*Here is Jill's attempt to complete the Somonka:
No smile attends me.
 With just words on a faceless
screen, how can I see
 proof of your love's honesty?
Forgive my doubts.  I love thee.
-- Jill Shilvock
(Thank you Jill.)

More interestingly Sophie herself sent me the first half of another
Somonka that she initiated and asked me to attempt to complete it. Here is
this joint effort:
Sophie Sasseur writes:
Let us create a new SOMONKA

Love's unbreakable
ring - my transit's eternal
suffering. Glance back
into sand. Only my steps
on the desert of your heart.

Here is the way I'd add to it:

Rings do not bind you
To a single point. Tangents
To start new journeys
Beyond ephemeral deserts.
Beyond words. Beyond glances.

(Hope you like the way this Somonka has shaped.)
For those who have recently become subscribers we are including the
details of this verse form again.
This is a Japanese form of poetry that is syllabic in nature. So it is not
difficult to master.
Somonkas require two writers. I'll explain how...
A Somonka is an epistolary love poem made up of TWO TANKAS (Syllable
counts: 5-7-5-7-7-) and written by two authors. The first is a statement
of love, the second a response.
(Note: One person can pretend to be be two...arent we all J & H?...but a
Somonka would be really effective if two creative forces interact.)
 --* ...The Delectable, Memorable Poem... *--
By: Pablo Neruda.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example 'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to a pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all.  In the distance someone is singing.
In the distance my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tries to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's.  She will be another's.  Like my kisses before
Her voice.  Her bright body.  Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her
Love is short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

(Thank you Jill PS Jill Shilvock for
having sent these wonderful lines by Pablo Neruda. Jill also informs us
that the CD has many more poems by him.)
The CD contains the following -

Morning (Love Sonnet XXVII)
Leaning into the Afternoons...
Poor Fellows
Ode to the Sea
Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks
Ode to a Beautiful Nude
I Like For You To Be Still
Walking Around
Tonight I Can Write....
Adonic Angela
If You Forget Me
And Now You're Mine (Love Sonnet LXXXI)

         --* Poetry In/From India *--
(The following poems are by Kanika Shah. All these verses have been
published in the 'West Delhi Times', a supplement of the National daily:
The Times of India. You can contact Kanika at < >.
Kanika is a student of Delhi University and in addition to her regular
course, has just completed a Certificate in German Language from Hansraj
College, Delhi.)
There was a CBI Director, Tiger Joginder Singh
They said for the media he would sing.
And forever did he preach,
Hawala, Bofors and Fodder
Were well within his reach
But the scam mountain was much too tall
And the tiger had a thundering fall.
The formidable Mr Seshan,
Who claims to be the country's alsatian
Decided to stand for the Presidential election
But couldn't make it to the final selection
Now we hope, he would lie low
And let his love for his wife grow.
Our colony is known as Rajouri Garden
But the builder's mafiat think it is
Their personal den.
The land is said to be free-hold
Which has made the civic amenities to fold.
It is dominated by the nouveau rich
Who have the money-spending itch.
The traders can only think of money
And all these leave a colony sans honey.
Dilwalon ki Delhi jalti hain
And all that Delhi-ites say is: Chalta hai!
Whilst the politicians fiddle
The DVB diddles
A transformer maintained in such a shocking state
Bestows an Uphaar on the Capital state
Everyone is Border'd on their foot
Giving humanity the boot!
Our beloved Delhi is the Capital City
But it is without electricity
To add to our woes
The water supply is very low
And as yet there is no solution
To air and noise pollution.
(Thank you Kanika. Great, hard-hitting, precise verses. Keep it up.)
            --* Your Requests! *--

Prof.Vihang Naik(
Post Box No 15,
Ambaji -385110.

^^A Poet's Point of View^^

What is poetry? Well, if you have a theory it will convince your audience.
Or if you wish to talk at length on a particular topic, you will be
acknowledged for your specialization. I have nothing to offer. The
intuition of that totality experienced by a poet or an artist cannot be
intellectually defined. You can best comprehend it intuitively. It would
be in vain to give scientific appearance to this personal grasp of
-Vihang Naik

(Thanks a lot for sharing your views on the role of intuition in poetry.
But one does come across people who are investigating the scientific basis
of intuition.
We request readers to send us their comments on Prof Naiks's views.)
      --* Let Us Connect With Poetry *--

(An article by: Arvind Passey.)
Poetry is like the words in Lorca's DAYDREAMS OF THE RIVER:
The poplar groves are gone,
but they leave their reflection.
A poet essentially has to stare 'lovingly at the objects around him. He is
in no hurry.' There must be 'pleasure in carving small things or
describing worlds of reduced dimensions...' The mysterious beauty of life
and all that we see and feel comes from an intuitive urge to tell it all
to oneself. Some of us who write that description write nothing but poetry.
True poetry knows no form.
A verse is free.
Free to sing like a soprano or bleat like a sheep.
Free to roar or whimper.
Free to be easily understood or be elusive.
Free to preach or beg for understanding.
Free to silence or remain mute.
It is a verse that walks up to a poet -- any one of us -- and asks to be
expressed in words. Verses are helpless by themselves for they can only
sing in dreams. Even when shaped by words, verses find themselves mirrored
in myriad shapes, unrecognizable even to their own souls.
Jill's 'Black Country Cruise' or Saro's 'Sunrise' or Pablo's verses or any
other poem by any other poet could not have been given the shape they have
by anyone else...but each poem written, though an intuitive translation of
an experience cannot be translated back to that experience.
But no one loses.
Neither the experience nor the poem.
Neither the poet nor the reader.
Unconnected bits of truth and beauty form moments that connect a reader to
the poetry in life. These disjointed bits adopt a cohesive form which is
different for each one of us.
But all of us do have it in us.
The poet lives in every heart.
    --* A Poem For You All -- From Me *--
By: Arvind Passey.
Let a cause
merge borders
a cause that makes us fight
creates deathbeds
that take us into
a hallucinated future
where visions
never evolve,
where tears tear,
where fears
pretend to solve --
    Why not let a cause
    pause, think and then dissolve
    barbed wires, gun-shots and wails.

Comments, Ideas, Contributions from Readers
(Saro writes:
Here's my small contribution to Poetry Splash. Pls do give me your
and inform me by e-mail should you decide to include it in any of your
poetry splash issues. Sun rise is a poem I wrote after spending a nightout
in the office and had a chance to see the sunrise the following morning..



The chirping of the chattering bird,
brought me to this world.
I woke up from my trance
and knew the sun would soon show his face.

I looked eastward,
he looked adorable like pure gold.
All laced with butter,
my eyes devoured the splendor

The stillness of the early air
was fresh and fragrant with a resonance to hear,
the soft, soft murmur of the waking trees,
heard at the moment with ease.

The earth bathed her core in his light,
as he brought to the world  delight,
even the tempestuous wind caressed him gently,
and the rock ,like a leaf trembled softly!

The moment was fleeting before my eyes,
yet it is a harbinger of joys,
as a sunrise is what lights up the dark world,
and once for all the darkness is dissolved

A sunrise bids farewell to lonely nights,
and is the clock of our lives.
Each sunrise brings with it, new hopes in our minds,
and Gods love, shines down from paradise.

Saro Gun
(Thanks a lot for allowing everyone a personal glimpse of ethereal beauty.
A lovely keep sending us your poems.)
(Jill Shilvock <> writes: "...did however
enjoy both Pramila and Savita's poems - I admire those who can create
poetry without the constraints of rhyme - it is (to me) so much more
difficult to do. I am going to treat  you now to one of my attempts to
create an unrhymed
poem. I do not know how well you know England, but here in the Midlands
(in an area known as the Black Country) we have many canals (left over
from the Industrial revolution) which act as very pleasant walkways
through the countryside and that is what this poem is about."
Enjoy this poem.)


Through bulrushes and tangled reeds,
a narrow-boat thrusts its way
over badly-spoken bikes,
drowned prams and lost boots,
whilst sticklebacks dart under her beam.
Undulating eddies annoy
the bank-bound fishermen
as they idle in the collapsed afternoon,
casting covetous glances
at her back
as she glides nonchalantly down stream.

The tow-path meanders in tandem
with the somnolent canal,
hedgerows hampering its freedom-dash
across freshly harvested fields.
Succulent, dust-free blackberries
decorate the bramble hedge
like purple dew-drop clusters
awaiting children's lips.
Dragon-flies show-off their shot-silk
shirts to the dowdy horse-fly swarms.
They, in return tease
the long-lashed cows,
browsing in the afternoon's warmth.

Jill Shilvock
(Thank you Jill.)

Here is a poem by Mary Shanahan <>:
"come call me,
canary bird.
Sing to me,
your sweet word."

Thank you Mary.


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