Discovering the Poetic Horizons: In Conversation with Yaseen Anwer

 
Yaseen Anwer, a young gentleman and poet is a well known personality in Delhi. He is the Founder of Kaafiya, a rapidly growing community of poetry lovers, bringing up the fresh flavor of poems written by both the old, well known poets as well as the present, contemporary ones. He was also the Founder and the Managing Editor of Poets Corner Group (Established in June 2011) and Delhi Poetry Festival (Established in January 2013) till mid 2015. He has been facilitated with Young Poet's Award 2012 by the Indian Poetry Society. His amiable nature and humbleness sets him apart from other connoisseurs of poetry. His sees Kaafiya as an endeavor to merge the old and the new, joining together one language to another, mixing diverse cultures, etc. with the aim to unite hearts with the beauty of poetry. He believes in creating a weather of poetry through Kaafiya, resonating with Delhi's weather and merging into it.

He began writing at a young age and attained proficiency in English, Hindi and Urdu. His work has appeared in more than 80 national and international magazines and journals and has been translated into different languages like Chinese, Portuguese, Hindi, etc.

Q. Is it really necessary to fall in love to write love poetry?

A. You need muse, don't you? Just falling in love, not sure, but yes admiring someone does, spending time with someone also does. It may not always be a girl, it can be a place you have fallen in love with. There are people who are inspired by mountains. Its more about being in the state of mind where you end up writing because of someone or something.

Q. Even little things excite poets, isn't it?

A. Depends. To some its beauty that excites, to some its pain.

Q. What do you think about a poet's 'burden' or 'responsibilities' with respect to society as a change-maker?

A. Seeing a poet simply as a change-maker and the power of poetry as an agent of change can be mythical. A poet should have a view on things happening around and if has, it will certainly reflect in his writing. A considerable amount of effort has to be made and one has to consistently work on it to observe the impact.

Q. With the current trend of Slam Poetry and an air of self-centered and distant writing, has the idea of poetry attained an enclosed, idealistic identity away from reality?

A. There are a segment of writers who grow distant from society and find an alternate world under the shade of nature, hilltops, etc. Slam poetry in itself is just a dot in the universe of poetry, there is lot more in poetry, why should we talk of just slam poetry!

Q. What do you think about the lost art of writing letters in this fast paced world?

A. It will be almost impossible to revive it. Things that have a relation with commerce can only stay alive. Languages die with time, what are letters!

  

Q. English, Urdu or Hindi, which is the most friendly and expressive language?

A. For a poet, the language in which he thinks is the best language to write in, precisely, one's mother-tongue. The natural beauty and personal instincts can be best expressed through it.

Q. How significant is writing for you?

A. For me, writing comes when nothing else is possible, when someone or something strikes me deep within to an extent that it will tear me apart. It forces me into some state that can make me go mad till it comes out. Writing can never go out of me. When I am not writing I am still writing something and erasing, those not erased come out for others to see.

Q. What are traits of excellent poetry?

A. Words compressed, speaking more in less words and depth, universality and timelessness that  surpasses all boundaries and reaches out to a wider audience.

Q. Is reading the most necessary thing to become a better poet?

A. Reading is certainly the most important thing not just for a poet but for a writer but yes again It shouldn't be limited to just reading, writing and then re-writing helps you to get better. Writing is almost meditating.

Q. 'You write too!', 'Poets are there in every lane' how should a poet face the negative vibes and stand apart in the budding community of fellow poets?

A. Here again I talk about Universality and timelessness. If it is there in your work, it will surpass all boundaries and reach out to a wider audience. Also, it takes time to prefect the art of writing. One has to cover a long way and stay focused to reach the stage of acclamation and appreciation.

Q. You favorite genre of poems?

A. Favorite is not an apt word since it's restrictive and creates boundaries. Poems showcasing reality, depth, unmasking the truth, and rich in relativity interest me.

Q. Which poets would you recommend to read (in Urdu)?

A. Daag Dehlvi and Basheer Badr are the must read poets to explore the vivacity of Urdu.  

Q. How distant is a poetic world and un-poetic reality?

A. For an honest poet, there isn't any dissimilarity between the virtual and the real. There's always a sense of restlessness. What's written is a reflection of prevailing realities. In fact, the presence of good poets is a sign of bad society.

  

Q. How important is vocabulary in poetry?

A. Vocabulary is not the most essential aspect of a good piece. It's more about the words that fit in and create an impact. A play on words and effective communication creates a long-lasting and heart-touching impression. It's also about how differently one expresses a particular emotion.     

Q. Comment on a poet's keen eye and observation power? Does a poet sees differently?

A. Good poets are great observers. Yes they see things differently and notice more. For instance, while looking at a motorbike, a number of stories can be spun around: a hard-working man dropping his kids to school on his way to work, etc. This is beyond an ordinary person's interest.     

Q. Short poems are more in fashion than long ones in the world of Social Media. Your response?

A. Short poems work as magnets to attract target audience's attention. Once that interest is secured, people can go on reading the long poems as well.      

Q. Does happiness create a similar effect on writing or the creation of best works is all about the pain that inspired it?

A. Well for me its restlessness that works more, and restlessness is mostly the result of pain. But at the same time I feel it's more about the feeling and thought that inspires the work.  

At the end, 

One of his beautiful couplet:

Ander tumharey dafn humara Jo hissa he

Zinda to bs wohi he, Jo baqi he qissa he

Sacredly buried in the depths of you, my part,

Lived, when the rest of me was so falling apart!

(Translated by Sadia Khan)

24th Feb, 2016

Let's Walk Along the Memory Lane (Part 1)

Some people write poems, some live poetically. I am but a string of simple pendulum constantly caught between the two extremes. Are you too? Let's tread together then, holding each other's hands, over the mud paved roads of childhood. 

 

The weight of individualism was heavy since attaining consciousness. I saw myself too different to the extent of believing that I might be composed not of flesh and blood but some magic sand, clouds and feathers. The first time I saw my X-Ray test report, there was a feeling of awe at the knowledge of having backbone and ribs, just like everyone else. That moment was necessary to bring forth the realization that we all are constituted of same stuffs and humanity unites us.

When I would look at the starry night sky, I thought that the most glorious milestone to be ever achieved is to succeed in counting all the stars twinkling over the vast canvas. Summer nights under the sky and cool breeze passing through one's soul felt heavenly, even though the idea of 'soul' remained mysterious. As a child, I was awfully curious and most troublesome of all my siblings. Brave mother of mine might have been really patient. I had a keen interest in collecting toys and drowned deep into the unreal world of thoughtfulness. The toys ranged from usual cooking accessories to empty bottles, to sharpeners, erasers, discarded jewelry items, and so on. There used to be a corner shop run by an old moon-like haired lady. The products ranged from a wide variety of churans, sweets of incredible shapes and sizes accompanied with minute plastic toys to tempt the kids even more. A tiny arrow and bow was one such thing. On losing the arrow somewhere, the quest for an alternative began. A new cherry colored table clock was found. At one secluded corner of the house, a few days later the clock was discovered in a shattered condition with a broken glass and needle missing. Near it stood the half broken brick smiling with mischief.

Memories dwelled over the two hemispheres: outdoor and indoor. The former was bound by time while the latter remained predominant. Outdoor sports involved a number of neighbourhood kids. One person would knock the doors of the houses of remaining friends as the afternoon sun dipped itself in the cup of evening. 3pm itself would add spring to our feet and our parents would be equally alert during that hour. Those days, an elevated ground was the hub of a number of activities, occupied by adults and kids alike. Some enchanting unreal sights showed two small ponds. One, where fishes lived once and gradually water evaporated and mud settled over it each year swallowing its depth. Another one was not a pond, but a well where kids couldn't pass without peeping in to find something interesting. Life was pretty equal and levelled up before the advent of adolescence. Annual fair brought a deep aura of delightfulness, melody of basuri, sweetness of puffed up khaaja, weird looking brown colored eatable of the shape of moon and stars, noise of mamira neem ka thanda surma, announcing the existence of a fair, kids running around in lanes with weird sounding gadgets freshly purchased from the fair like a cap with two horns that unfolded with every blow. Monkey shows and saanp-sapera shows happened at every comfortable corner. Luckily I could steal glances from my window or through a narrow opening of the door in case going out was under objection. Rooftop always provided that perfect view. Rumours of children kidnapped were effective enough to stop us from leaving the house. Still, the swing nearby often stole our hearts and the worth of 50 paisa was heavily acknowledged. I befriended one jhula wala who visited the place every year during the ten day fair. When he would rotate the round pumpkin like seats, we would shout with the top of our voices 'aur tez lambu bhaiya'. Ah yes he was tall, thus his name became lambu. Nobody knew his real name. One morning he took me to the mela grounds, a bit distant. We walked and chatted. He was careful to point out to me every object of awe around. On returning home and telling my mom about the fun morning walk experience I was surprised to find her shocked and aghast. She warned me against it. I was too young to know anything but friendship and affection, with everyone alike. A bundle of joys were those days, a round sweet candy that was slowly disappearing in my mouth and transforming into a memory.

...To Be Continued

         

  

Just Another Day

Today isn't yesterday or tomorrow but a day as free as a spider's web, with wondrous mysteries and creativity to work on. I've been given not just life but the responsibility to give something 'to day' by living it with gratitude. All great thoughts peeped at asleep me. Winter morns can be best celebrated in a warm and cozy blanket, wrapped in dreams.

After a considerably long time, the sleep spell silently vanished. The hunger bells were rung gradually at some depths. Yet newspaper magnetism was automatically activated. Silence! Such an expression carries the heavy pain that's felt after coming face to face with harsh realities. Somebody's killed or raped or burnt by acid or punished for trivialities or made a victim of inequalities. We're safe but God knows for how long. Some politician gave a bouquet of flattering and deceiving promises, highly imaginative pieces of impossibilities. Sadly fiction and truth got intertwined in our world. Pushing away the recorder of happenings, I went to brush my teeth. There are two basins at home and the toothpaste and toothbrush took divorce. I had put a bulky dot of paste on the brush and moved to the other side. Whoa! where's the paste dot gone. I was searching like a CID and found it midway. What a relief! No matter what's lost, the pleasure of regaining it is usually the same.

Later a neighborhood child came packed with curiosities and inspected everything perceived. Good to gaze at a specimen of innocence, of untainted childhood, somewhere to turn to and smile. I was quick in hiding away my cellphone and tablet since the upcoming generation seems too intelligent to bear. Games and photography are the most sought for. One day, after finding my phone she took a selfie and even today shares the same passion towards technology. May be we shall see a day when remote controls would be available for monitoring kids. I hope that green garden's place shan't be taken by the four sided devices providing exciting games, mimicking the natural ones.

Then I turned to my window facing the road and mirroring an exciting world. The children of my lane are incredible. There's a small school nearby. Once a dog entered playfully and chased the little ones who crossed the way without harming them. It was indeed funny to see them running. Another day a little crying girl was carried by two siblings to the school. Her expressions were genuinely painful and made me wonder at the plight of that child who was being carried to so called knowledge kingdom.

Night arrived slowly after the sun melted into the horizon.

How speedily a day ends and days to months to years are passed. The sole question left to be asked to oneself is that what beneficial tasks did I do that impacted not just mine but other's lives as well.

Snow Love

Rehan was a six year-old child with great dreams, rare in the kids of his age. His father was a poor rickshaw-puller, but rich in honesty and virtue. His mother died early, leaving all responsibilities on his father’s shoulders. He lived in a small room in a big city, with a cooking stove, a charpoy, and a few utensils. A string, tied from one end of the room to the other, bore their clothes to dry.

In their locality, a school had opened recently. Rehan gazed with wonder at the uniforms and the loaded school bags. His father worked tirelessly from dawn to night. He just roamed around and observed everything like a poet. He had a great love for nature, and staring at the sky was his favorite pastime. He liked birds, squirrels, flowers, trees and the rain as well. He was an expert in making paper boats.

Two years later, he worked as a shoe-polish boy. He was zealous about work and even dreamt of going to school. Most of his wishes were fulfilled in dreams, but he was hopeful of living them in reality too. One afternoon when his father was returning, he noticed a ladies-purse lying on the rickshaw. His father picked it up at once and returned it to the shop where he had dropped that particular lady. Fortunately, one of the shop-keepers knew her and he succeeded in returning it safely to its owner. She was highly surprised to encounter honesty in such a time. Rehan too was with him and she turned on the TV for him to watch. That was the first time he had ever seen a TV so close. He observed the white snow fall in one of the movie scenes and felt exhilarated, thrilled like never before. He stood watching the snowfall in awe. The lady and her husband warmly insisted that he eat the sweets humbly offered on account of his father’s honesty. There was a golden necklace inside the purse that had been brought back safely, untouched.

Later, they returned home. His father was a practicing Muslim, and inspired his child on the path of goodness. His craving for snowfall grew abundantly in seconds. He tried to resist, but abruptly asked his father about this wondrous phenomenon.

“Papa, where does white fall occur?”

“White fall? Do you mean snowfall? It occurs in hills and mountains.”

“Why not here?”

“Here, we have hail stones, rainfall, winter, summer and monsoon. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, I want to see snowfall right now. It looks so clear, crunchy like ice cream!”

His father felt sad at his inability to provide him ice-creams more often, his dearest and only child. He pointed to the open window,

“See, all the stars have arrived in the sky. Sleep, and let me sleep.”

Rehan was too passionate by this time. He went outside to gaze at the sky and felt like waiting for real snow to fall all over him like a white blanket covering the mountains. He imagined the atmosphere turning white. “Ah! How pretty!” He tried to imagine his mother’s face but without success. Suddenly he sensed a change in the weather. The breeze became cold as never before. He thought that winter has arrived and papa was too deeply asleep to be disturbed. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and what a beauty he saw! It was a real snowfall. “Unbelievable”, he thought. He was overjoyed. He opened his mouth to the sky as if to taste the ice-cream prepared by God for children like him. He ran around and danced. No one was awake except him. He thought of making snowmen as he had seen in the movie. And in a few minutes they were ready, but looked lean and ready to crumble at another touch. He felt tired now out of his excitement and energetic playfulness. He thanked God and smiled. Suddenly he felt his mother’s hand on his head.

“Will my child get up now?” He felt blissful at hearing his mother’s soothing voice. Oh, but it wasn’t hers. His father repeated, “Is my child still asleep?” He opened his beautiful brown eyes and smiled. The sunshine was already waiting for him.

A Younger Sister’s Story…

Sara was gazing at the toffee boxes in a shop like a butterfly gazing at a flower. Scratching her head she wondered which one to choose. A two rupee note was a pretty good amount for a little child like her to be satisfied. She consulted her brother, a year older than her and yet of same taste. He presented his views like an elder brother. ‘That’s coffee bite, fifty paise each, and tastes good’. She replied: ‘But… I think mango bite is a better one’. The shopkeeper was smiling and said softly ‘what a decision you’re making! Be quick. Bigger ones await you in future’. She bought mango bite and popped it in her mouth.

   Both Sara and Ahad went to school together, played together, and fought after regular intervals. As Diwali was approaching, Ahad was thrilled to buy firecrackers. Both went to a small set-up and began selecting the ones they liked. The rockets with a red cap were gorgeous. The next day while lighting the string attached to the rocket, its direction was suddenly changed and it found innocent Sara’s hand to hit and later collapsed at the wall nearby. She was in shock and wept for hours even though the hurt was minor.

   Their father had a rice mill and during winters their pastime was to play hide and seek on the mountain of infinite rice bags, 100 Kg each, covered with a tremendous waterproof blanket. Once they played longer than usual and were so lost in game that they didn’t notice the guard closing the main gate. At a scary instant they realized their plight and began to cry. Hearing muffled cries and shouts, a passer-by informed their father and they were rescued.

   As they reached higher classes, various tutors were assigned for them. But due to their unbridled playfulness, each teacher lost the seriousness after a span of time and fun leaped in, diverting the sole aim of education. Once a very scary tutor came and punished Ahad for his lack of concentration. Sana, the younger sister did nothing but passed a smile that infuriated him and he hit her cheeks later. She was quick in complaining and Ahad was punished again.

   Each passing day the gaps between them seemed to widen. Sana became a hard-working student while her brother was a sports lover rather than a study-lover. After topping in class tenth she went to the excellent school far away and stayed in a hostel. One day, surprisingly Ahad came to meet her with a home-made cake. She was glad with twinkling eyes. He gave her a piece of paper, smiled and left. Just two lines were written there:

Kiss thine dreams, do smile each day,

My adorable sister, Happy Birthday!

Rohan and a Squirrel

Friendship is something that erases boundaries and creates a special bonding. Rohan was a young boy who was quick in making friends. Everyone liked him. The neighbors always chatted about his gentle manners that were scarce in their own children.

One bright day, he saw a squirrel near his window and smiled. He was quite fond of squirrels. In fact his classmates called him squirrel due to his quick movements, combination of mischief and intelligence, and due to his natural love for peanuts. The next day again he saw it running subtly after having sensed some disturbance. This time he peeped out to find that the squirrel's nest was on the outer side of the window. He got a good exercise to do. After all his Mathematics exercises weren't as interesting.

He was about to say 'mom, what do squirrels eat?' when he himself recalled the answer 'ah, yes, peanuts and nuts, etc.' Next day onwards, he began placing the nuts on the window and curiously watching it hold the food and eat charmingly. He tried to imitate it after making sure that nobody was around.

Soon they were friends. He felt a cry of joy when first touching it, holding its hands. It ran away in no time. He kept experimenting with various food items in the house and once observed it sucking the straw attached to a mini fruit juice paper box.

One night a scary storm came and its house was shattered in minute pieces. It entered Rohan's room in search of protection and settled in his cap placed upside down creating a comfortable abode. In the morning he woke up feeling touched at the sight of it resting in his cap and was later devastated to find the nest broken.

He then put the twigs, dry grasses, mud, etc. in one corner and watched it, fresh as dew, preparing the nest once again. It taught him that life is the other name of fresh possibilities and hope. He learnt from the little one's zeal and opened his Mathematics textbook with a newly acquired enthusiasm to complete his work.

A Broken Toy

Brokenness is the Essence of Existence; it’s the Force of Life that Crafts Jewels.

Riya was a shy, little girl who loved dolls. She always held one around her tender arms and requested her aunt to sew its clothes. Once she stitched a beautiful white gown. Riya was extremely delighted to see her little doll wearing a white snowy gown. She was often in quest of ear rings to gift it. They shared a unique relationship. She would talk and share her thoughts with the doll, little it mattered that the lifeless piece couldn’t respond. Secretly she would take her mother’s make-up items and apply, imitating her with an air of beauty consciousness.

   Once she was caught and warned, but her adventurous friendship never ended. She was considered small enough to go to school and not even allowed to go outside to play for the fear of learning new mischiefs. But the inside of her heart felt a strange desire to move out, take the fresh air in and play with friends. Lack of friends compelled her to imagine the doll as one and proceed with an imaginative conversation with the doll.

   That night, she secretly went to the roof-top and looked down. She sighed and felt awed at the small objects downwards. She began measuring a red car through her fingers and felt a sudden flush of felicity. She smiled. She was standing in a dreamlike state on the verge of the roof. That very moment she found her mother standing behind, extremely worried. She carried her in her lap and hugged affectionately. Next day, a cat dragged her doll from her room and chewed it, separating away the spherical head from the body. After finding her doll in that state, Riya wept with two thick streams of tears.  A toy was broken but she felt as if her only friend has deserted her. Some portion of her heart felt an ache as the doll’s remnants were thrown in the dustbin. Her father saw the cloud in her eyes and bought a new doll for his doll.

Such is a happy childhood, innocent with the occasional gushing of tears, smoothened with the love of parents. The pains of broken toys don’t last long. A child’s first encounter with brokenness is that of shock, then acceptance, then forgetfulness. It’s a good lesson for adults as well who fail to forget the brokenness, get immersed in its flood, willing to be carried away to the land of gloom.

So relax, accept, forget and move on,

The currents of bliss will meet you at dawn!