06/05/2021
Fifty Last Dates | Clancy Tripp
"In the end I gave no reason when I slipped away from him, and he, in his goodness, let me." Read new flash fiction from Clancy Tripp:
Back then I genuinely believed that every next man was the last one.
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Operating as usual
06/04/2021
The Third Root | Molly Edmonds
In this short story by Molly Edmonds, the narrator just can't help but help: "As the dentist works, her giant belly touches my arm and my head, and I think the baby kicks me."
As the dentist works, her giant belly touches my arm and my head, and I think the baby kicks me.
06/04/2021
"I was so used to my work being fueled by some kind of pain. Something that would push me away. Something that would push me forward. Now I don’t have that."
Larissa Pham talks culture writing, curiosity and the internet to Becca Schuh for BOMB Magazine.
https://buff.ly/34SDcKg
06/04/2021
Job Opportunities for Writers: June 4, 2021 | Don't Write Alone
Check out our recent roundup of job opportunities for writers, curated by Nicole Dieker and posted on June 4th!
We post roundups of writing and literary jobs once a week. Here’s our list for June 4, 2021.
06/04/2021
Fiction: ‘Dead Souls’ Review
"The most farfetched aspect of Mr. Riviere’s alternate world: Poetry has become suddenly marketable."
Sam Sacks reads DEAD SOULS (no not... yes the new one) for The Wall Street Journal!
Plus ‘The Other Black Girl’ and ‘Love and Fury.’
06/04/2021
Upcoming Submission and Pitching Opportunities: June 4, 2021 | Don't Write Alone
Don't miss these submission and pitching opportunities, curated by Nicole Dieker, for our June 4th list!
https://buff.ly/2SejMge
We post submission roundups once a week. Here’s our list of literary magazines and freelance opportunities for June 4, 2021.
06/04/2021
In which a poet is called out, perhaps, in the darkness by an unseen critic in a sustained signal of dissent, either planned or impromptu.
Guernica excerpts Sam Riviere's brilliant DEAD SOULS.
https://buff.ly/3chDBKH
06/04/2021
Spring Migration | Kate McKean
The danger in peace is that it can be broken: "There wasn’t any movement, but she’d been birding long enough to develop a feeling for some things" This is "Spring Migration," a short story by Kate McKean
Lori was in real, actual danger, but it was easy to convince herself she was not.
06/04/2021
Fifty Last Dates | Clancy Tripp
"Back then I genuinely believed that every next man was the last one." Read new flash fiction from Clancy Tripp:
Back then I genuinely believed that every next man was the last one.
06/04/2021
We're in Sasquatch Country Now | Lana Hall
"In the way of the Sasquatch legend, I’ve pieced together my origin story in snippets of evidence, too." An essay by Lana Hall on the mysteries of Bigfoot and the unanswered questions of her adoption narrative.
How the Bigfoot legend helped me reconcile unanswered questions about my adoption
06/04/2021
When a Friendship Ends But the Love Survives | Destiny Birdsong
"I am constantly managing what it means to practice radical Black love and radical Black self-care. Both are revolutionary acts of resistance, and both come at a price, sometimes to each other." A new installment of Home/Girl/Health by Destiny Birdsong:
I am constantly managing what it means to practice radical Black love and radical Black self-care.
06/03/2021
“Had I not learned loss under surprising, painful circumstances, BEWILDERNESS wouldn’t exist––and certainly not in its current shape.”
Karen Tucker chats with Clancy McGilligan about her novel BEWILDERNESS for the Chicago Review of Books.
https://buff.ly/2RmdAm8
“Had I not learned loss under surprising, painful circumstances, BEWILDERNESS wouldn’t exist––and certainly not in its current shape.”
Karen Tucker chats with Clancy McGilligan about her novel BEWILDERNESS for the Chicago Review of Books.
https://buff.ly/2RmdAm8
06/03/2021
We're in Sasquatch Country Now | Lana Hall
"I desperately wanted Bigfoot to be real, despite the tinge of fear I felt every time we walked in the woods." An essay by Lana Hall on the mysteries of Bigfoot and the unanswered questions of her adoption narrative.
How the Bigfoot legend helped me reconcile unanswered questions about my adoption
06/03/2021
In America, There's No Such Thing as Pure Water | Katiy Heath
"Except for the flood years, I never gave our most fundamental human need much thought." Katiy Heath in a new essay on what's hiding, and being hidden, in our water:
If anyone knows how to create a narrative in response to ecological misfortune, it’s the bottled-water industry.
06/03/2021
Self-Doubt and Giving Yourself Space | Eva Recinos
Giving yourself space from your writing might be exactly what you need. Read Eva Recinos' final column on self-doubt and the writing process!
In the final installment of this three-part column, Eva Recinos explores how taking time away from writing is an important part of the process
06/03/2021
The Obsession with “Getting Ahead” in Your Twenties is Failing Young People | Rainesford Stauffer
“But why do we need these measuring sticks, these time-keepers on our worth and how we grow and who we become?” Rainesford Stauffer on who gets left behind in the conversation about what it means to "get ahead" in your twenties:
Why do we need measuring sticks like college and marriage and leaving home to track our worth?
06/03/2021
We're in Sasquatch Country Now | Lana Hall
"In the way of the Sasquatch legend, I’ve pieced together my origin story in snippets of evidence, too." An essay by Lana Hall on the mysteries of Bigfoot and the unanswered questions of her adoption narrative.
How the Bigfoot legend helped me reconcile unanswered questions about my adoption
06/03/2021
When a Friendship Ends But the Love Survives | Destiny Birdsong
"I am constantly managing what it means to practice radical Black love and radical Black self-care. Both are revolutionary acts of resistance, and both come at a price, sometimes to each other." A new installment of Home/Girl/Health by Destiny Birdsong:
With the help of all of my friends—my best one included—I’ve gotten better at being my whole self.
06/03/2021
When a Friendship Ends But the Love Survives | Destiny Birdsong
"In each relationship, I find a piece of myself, or I can hold up a piece and ask, 'How do I love this?' And in their own way, each one says, 'Here’s what I know. Here’s where I have been. Here’s how I got free.'"A new installment of Home/Girl/Health by Destiny Birdsong:
I am constantly managing what it means to practice radical Black love and radical Black self-care.
06/03/2021
That Uncomfortable Feeling of Being Wanted for My “Almond-Shaped” Eyes | Lam Thuy Vo
"Maybe, just maybe, that time he called me a g**k, jokingly and mischievously, he actually believed it a little. Isn’t there always a kernel of truth in a joke?" Lam Thuy Vo examines race and (being) desire(d) as an Asian woman:
My former therapist, a well-meaning white woman, once asked me, “Do you think he treated you badly because you are Asian?”
06/03/2021
Sugar | Camonghne Felix
"I took my time shrugging / into this divinity / of good pleasure" | read + listen to "Sugar," a new poem by Camonghne Felix:
Read and listen to a new poem by Camonghne Felix.
06/03/2021
Sugar | Camonghne Felix
"light pooling in my cleavage / the soft lust of my need / breathlessly amazed at what / the body can flex / when pushed out of line" | read + listen to "Sugar," a new poem by Camonghne Felix:
Read and listen to a new poem by Camonghne Felix.
06/02/2021
That Uncomfortable Feeling of Being Wanted for My “Almond-Shaped” Eyes | Lam Thuy Vo
"Each experience of this objectifying force, one after another, robbed me of little bits of my real self." Lam Thuy Vo examines race and (being) desire(d) as an Asian woman:
My former therapist, a well-meaning white woman, once asked me, “Do you think he treated you badly because you are Asian?”
06/02/2021
Sending My Son Out of America to Save Us Both | Kimberly Seals Allers
"As a healthy young Black man, he would likely survive the coronavirus. But police brutality needs no preexisting conditions to kill immediately," writes Kimberly Seals Allers.
I didn’t want it to make sense—to send my children away for who knows how long—but I did need them to survive. I needed to survive.
06/02/2021
"Step aside, Jack Kerouac: When it comes to great American road trip stories, we’re letting fat, q***r, Muslim-Arab single mothers drive the car." —Keely Weiss
Randa Jarrar’s LOVE IS AN EX-COUNTRY is a Harper's Bazaar Best LGBT Book of 2021!
https://buff.ly/34H6k7i
"Step aside, Jack Kerouac: When it comes to great American road trip stories, we’re letting fat, q***r, Muslim-Arab single mothers drive the car." —Keely Weiss
Randa Jarrar’s LOVE IS AN EX-COUNTRY is a Harper's Bazaar Best LGBT Book of 2021!
https://buff.ly/34H6k7i
06/02/2021
Making Space for Writing in 2020 | Lynn Steger Strong
Lynn Steger Strong writes about her 2020 yearlong novel-writing class and shares excerpts from her students' work!
This is how a workshop is like writing novels more broadly: A new life can grow inside a book once you realize you’re not making it all for yourself.
06/02/2021
Notes from a White-Passing Asian | Meredith Talusan
"You are white America's hostage, unwilling at first but fed and petted for long enough that you can now be trusted." Meredith Talusan writes about passing as white in a time of anti-Asian violence:
Can you ever escape your complicity if you can't escape your own skin?
06/02/2021
🎉 Happy pub day to Karen Tucker! 🎉
BEWILDERNESS is on shelves today!
"Full of raw honesty and assured, beautiful prose." —The Washington Post
"A stunning accomplishment.” —Publishers Weekly
"This is the novel the op**te epidemic needs.” —Rufi Thorpe
https://buff.ly/2S4wrm3
🎉 Happy pub day to Karen Tucker! 🎉
BEWILDERNESS is on shelves today!
"Full of raw honesty and assured, beautiful prose." —The Washington Post
"A stunning accomplishment.” —Publishers Weekly
"This is the novel the op**te epidemic needs.” —Rufi Thorpe
https://buff.ly/2S4wrm3
06/02/2021
That Uncomfortable Feeling of Being Wanted for My “Almond-Shaped” Eyes | Lam Thuy Vo
"Maybe, just maybe, that time he called me a g**k, jokingly and mischievously, he actually believed it a little. Isn’t there always a kernel of truth in a joke?" Lam Thuy Vo examines race and (being) desire(d) as an Asian woman:
My former therapist, a well-meaning white woman, once asked me, “Do you think he treated you badly because you are Asian?”
06/02/2021
Sugar | Camonghne Felix
"I took my time shrugging / into this divinity / of good pleasure" | read + listen to "Sugar," a new poem by Camonghne Felix:
Read and listen to a new poem by Camonghne Felix.
06/02/2021
The Life of a Cup of Coffee, as Told by Sabine Parrish | Olivia Popp
When Olivia Popp asked coffee anthropologist Sabine Parrish how her relationship to coffee has changed over the course of her research, she laughed: “I have become far less of a coffee snob."
“Consumers in the Global South have a right to the best coffees from their nations, their sister nations, from wherever they want.”
06/02/2021
[Political] Dialogue | Hala Alyan
"There were two worlds then, the one we lived in and the one she invented, where my aunt remarried and nobody ever went to America" | read & listen to a new poem by Hala Alyan:
Read and listen to a new poem by Hala Alyan.
06/02/2021
The Life of a Cup of Coffee, as Told by Sabine Parrish | Olivia Popp
Olivia Popp speaks with coffee anthropologist Sabine Parrish. "The 'most collaborative piece of research of coffee flavor ever completed' was clearly missing a crucial lens: that of consumers outside of the United States and Western Europe."
“Consumers in the Global South have a right to the best coffees from their nations, their sister nations, from wherever they want.”
06/01/2021
[Political] Dialogue | Hala Alyan
"She still calls when I’m not expecting. Keef ibnik, she says. What could I say back? He’s good, I tell her." | read & listen to a new poem by Hala Alyan:
Read and listen to a new poem by Hala Alyan.
!["[Anna] Qu is dazzling as she dismantles the mythologies surrounding the immigrant work ethic, making clear that a perso...](https://img5.medioq.com/059/798/2095434600597981.jpg)
06/01/2021
"[Anna] Qu is dazzling as she dismantles the mythologies surrounding the immigrant work ethic, making clear that a person's humanity should never be connected with how 'productive' they are." —Kristin Iversen
MADE IN CHINA is one of Refinery29's must-read summer books!
https://buff.ly/3wIeU1A
"[Anna] Qu is dazzling as she dismantles the mythologies surrounding the immigrant work ethic, making clear that a person's humanity should never be connected with how 'productive' they are." —Kristin Iversen
MADE IN CHINA is one of Refinery29's must-read summer books!
https://buff.ly/3wIeU1A
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María Gainza'a singular OPTIC NERVE has made its way to the finals in the The Morning News Tournament of Books, where it squares off against a heavyweight: Sally Rooney's NORMAL PEOPLE! What an incredible underdog story this year! https://themorningnews.org/tob/
"The Crying Book seems determined to . . . press up against the edge of language, to push beyond representation into the real.” —Katy Waldman, The New Yorker https://books.catapult.co/products/the-crying-book-by-heather-christle
Columbus! This Thursday 12/5 at 8:00pm: Heather Christle will discuss her newest, THE CRYING BOOK 💦, with Madeline Ffitch and Elissa Washuta at Two Dollar Radio Headquarters
In case you missed the news, OPTIC NERVE by María Gainza and translator Thomas Bunstead is one of the notable books of the year as chosen by The New York Times Books! See the full list here: https://nyti.ms/2shwRbw And don't miss the gorgeous full review of the book by John Williams here: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/18/books/review/maria-gainza-optic-nerve.html
✨Congratulations to María Gainza and translator Thomas Bunstead! ✨ OPTIC NERVE is one of the notable books of the year as chosen by The New York Times Books! See the full list here: https://nyti.ms/2shwRbw And don't miss the gorgeous full review of the book by John Williams here: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/04/18/books/review/maria-gainza-optic-nerve.html
OHIO! In a couple of weeks, Thursday 12/5 at 8:00pm: Don't miss Heather Christle discuss her newest, THE CRYING BOOK 💦, with Madeline Ffitch and Elissa Washuta at Two Dollar Radio Headquarters!
OHIO! Next month, Thursday 12/5 at 8:00pm: Don't miss Heather Christle discuss her newest, THE CRYING BOOK 💦, with Madeline Ffitch and Elissa Washuta at Two Dollar Radio Headquarters.
“Antonio is a young man who does not know how to elicit desire, only demand it. He’s a poster boy for toxic masculinity as well as its greatest victim.” An all-new installment of Movie Made Gay from @bmanuel on Antonio Banderas, briefs, and sexual awakening in the Hanes aisle, featuring an illustration from @levihastingsart! Follow the link in our bio or Stories for more!
"[Lara] Prior-Palmer already shares many qualities with classic English travel writers such as Rebecca West and Gertrude Bell, but she is also refreshingly self-aware. . . . [ROUGH MAGIC is] a heroic tale beautifully told."—Caroline Eden, Times Literary Supplement.
The Ungrateful refugee
Look what landed in our office just now! Finished copies of the THE UNGRATEFUL REFUGEE by Dina Nayeri! I'm so excited to get this into your hands!
Heather Hansman of Outside Magazine says, "ROUGH MAGIC succeeds on its realness and Lara Prior-Palmer’s unsparing analysis of herself and the scene. . . . Even in the down moments, when one of her ponies is temporarily injured and she’s struggling, the fast-paced book is lyrical and full of tight, action-packed sentences. It reads like it came bursting out of her." http://bit.ly/2Z9ZNNS
This splendid review of ROUGH MAGIC in the May 1st issue of the Library Journal is truly the bees knees! "A fresh, irreverent voice and a quick wit. . . . It's a story worthy of the best adventure writers, and Lara Prior-Palmer does not disappoint. An appealing account that will capture the imagination of a wide audience, including young adults. Readers who enjoyed Cheryl Strayed's Wild and James Campbell's Braving It will want to join Prior-Palmer on her once-in-a-lifetime trek."
Happy pub day to María Gainza and translator Thomas Bunstead. OPTIC NERVE is in stores in the U.S. today! "A highly original, piercingly beautiful work, a book you’ll want to savor." —Johanna Thomas-Corr, The Guardian “Here, art is a trellis around which life knots and overlaps, severs, climbs upward . . . Optic Nerve’s episodic iridescence—the way each chapter shimmers with the delicacy of a soap bubble—belies its gravity. Gainza has written an intricate, obsessive, recherché novel about the chasm that opens up between what we see and what we understand" —Dustin Illingworth, The Nation Order yours here! http://bit.ly/MGOpticNerve
The American Booksellers Association’s May Indie Next list is here, and guess which author and which 25 Mongolian ponies made the list? 🏇🏇🏇🏇🏇🏇🏇🏇 See the full list here! https://www.bookweb.org/news/may-2019-indie-next-list-preview-571873
Thomas Gebremedhin of WSJ Magazine names Lara Prior-Palmer's ROUGH MAGIC as one of the 12 best books of the spring! "An inspirational tale of struggle—dehydration, injury and isolation—ultimately overcome through grit and sheer willpower." https://on.wsj.com/2U9kdYv
Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative
Remember, you can pre-order signed copies of Jane Alison's forthcoming Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative with our friends at Old Town Books. Reserve yours here: http://bit.ly/meanderpreorder
Same, Celeste Ng, same.
Riddance by Shelley Jackson
Fantastic to see a Publishers Weekly star for Shelley Jackson's RIDDANCE! "This clever, cacophonous novel of metaphysical gothic from Jackson (Half Life) teems with voices of the living and the dead. . . . Full of Carrollian logic and whimsical grotesquerie, the tale . . . is an illuminating allegory of fiction writing, for “the necrocosmos is made of language; we precipitate a world with every word we speak.” Joines is a remarkable creation in a wonderful book—an imperious, otherworldly, and damaged figure who, haunted by her childhood, devises and devotes her life to a haunted philosophy." bit.ly/RiddancePW
All You Can Ever Know
It's our great pleasure to announce that Nicole Chung's forthcoming ALL YOU CAN EVER KNOW has been chosen as a Barnes & Noble Fall 2018 Discover Great New Writers selection! Congratulations Nicole! bit.ly/AYCEKBN
Ultraviolet by Suzanne Matson
Have you seen the stunning cover for Suzanne Matson’s engrossing and intimate new novel? Ultraviolet illuminates the lives of three generations of women, each more independent than the last. Get your preorders in now!
Insomnia by Marina Benjamin
Today, in honor of #WorldSleepDay, we're extremely proud to unveil our cover for the forthcoming INSOMNIA by Marina Benjamin. "An exquisite meditation on time, the dark hours, and the complexities of longtime love, INSOMNIA is a poetic journey into the wide-awake, generous, exciting mind of Marina Benjamin. I couldn't put it down, and my own inner world is richer for it." —Dani Shapiro, author of Hourglass Insomnia is on the rise. More than a third of all adults report experiencing it, with the figure climbing steeply among those over sixty-five. Marina Benjamin takes on her personal experience of the condition—her struggles with it, her insomniac highs, and her dawning awareness that states of sleeplessness grant us valuable insights into the workings of our unconscious minds. Although insomnia is rarely entirely welcome, Benjamin treats it less as an affliction than as an encounter that she engages with and plumbs. She adds new dimensions to both our understanding of sleep (and going without it) and of night, of how we perceive darkness. Along the way, INSOMNIA trips through illuminating material from literature, art, philosophy, psychology, pop culture, and more. Benjamin pays particular attention to the relationship between women and sleep—Penelope up all night, unraveling her day's weaving for Odysseus; the Pre-Raphaelite artists' depictions of deeply sleeping women; and the worries that keep contemporary females awake. INSOMNIA is an intense, lyrical, witty, and humane exploration of a state we too often consider only superficially. "This is the song of insomnia, and I shall sing it," Marina Benjamin declares.
All You Can Ever Know
Nicole Chung's forthcoming memoir ALL YOU CAN EVER KNOW is so moving. No, really, IT'S MOVING! Preorder your signed copy from Powell's Books, Inc. now! http://bit.ly/NicoleChung
Oh hey, we do hardcovers now.
MEMO:
Happy pub day to Simeon Marsalis! His "visionary" nuanced novel AS LIE IS TO GRIN is in stores everywhere today! Don't miss the novel booksellers across the country are listing as one of the best of the year!
Happy pub day to Anthony Brandt and David Eagleman! Their "essential," "beautifully written" THE RUNAWAY SPECIES is in stores everywhere today! More details here: https://books.catapult.co/products/the-runaway-species-pre-order
Happy pub day to Josephine Rowe, whose brilliant A LOVING, FAITHFUL ANIMAL is in stores everywhere today! "A subtle and haunting meditation on childhood, escape, the bonds and the limits of family, and the long reach of trauma. Rowe is a serious talent, and her debut novel is both gorgeous and stunning." —Emily St. John Mandel, author of Station Eleven https://books.catapult.co/products/a-loving-faithful-animal-a-novel
Amazing! RESERVOIR 13 by Jon McGregor, Writer has just been longlisted for the The Man Booker Prize, alongside some incredible company. We're extremely proud to be publishing this deft, beautiful novel in the U.S. this fall, a book that truly deserves this recognition. Congrats Jon!
When you're the last one in the office and the publicists aren't there to guard the galleys.
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Comments
From my WIP entitled "God, Send Sunday": "Papa stepped off the porch and faced the man. Why had he said the man was white when clearly he was the loudest shade of pink Sunday had ever seen?"
Hannah Walhout's article on New York was quite wonderful. It was definitely New Yorker style writing in more ways than one.
I just finished "Before and After the Book Deal: A Writer’s Guide to Finishing, Publishing, Promoting, and Surviving Your First Book" by Courtney Maum and I will be recommending it to many of my writer friends!
A Country Muse
“Hear Sir! I write poetry far better than anyone on earth,” the young man claimed. “Oh! You don’t believe I can show you that.” He came close and demanded to read the yellow lines printed on his black t-shirt.
I glued to the words, and as the t-shirt was tattered, and washed more than hundred times, many letters lost their sheen. You need to apply your imagination to have a sense of the poem. I failed to decipher the lines, but said with a sweet voice, “Wow! I’ve never read such a beautiful poem in my life!”
“Eh, where do you find beauty?” He asked with a sneer, and apparently had been much pained with my words.
“Why, man, I found beauty in each letter you pen.” I tried to mollify his wrath. But he was gloom and dark.
A silence sustained. I felt shaken for my misdeed. The air was cool, and the day pleasant. The sun was mellow, and its soft rays fell on us through the laced twigs of lovely trees. The water of the pond riffled with a low murmur. Birds flew and sang dolefully among the bushes and thickets. The ducks paddled in glee in the gleaming water. A fishy smell smothered us.
“You, the educated, always find beauty in everything—beauty in nature, beauty in women, beauty in poetry, even beauty in the poor. Eh…Where is beauty? Huh.., this poem is written not with ink. Each letter is dripped and soaked with my own blood. Huh…beauty?” He spat, and the air flung it far. He looked me hard, eyes forcibly wide, and face flushed with anger and disdain.
“Where is the blood? It’s printed in a machine. Do you have a textile factory?” I feigned nonplused.
He was terribly dismayed. He said nothing, as if he suddenly lost words. He squinted at me with derision. His eyes glittered, and a spasm of ache ran through his face. He jumped up with energy, and hurried a few paces away. But he came back, and said, “Blood, you can’t see, as you’re blind. Why do you keep eyes? Go to Nripen Mitra Eye Care, and donate them.”
“That I do at when I die.” I quipped.
“Hear Sir! And don’t forget. You may be a professor, but I’m your teacher.” He said with conviction, and thumped the soil hard, and his dangling hand was covered with dust, and the rays of the late noon sun began to play chiaroscuro before our eyes.
“Why do I write? Do you know? Any idea?” He stooped his head, and it hung heavy.
“Because you love it.” I plainly said.
“But I’m asking now why do I love it?” He shouted shaking his head. A strain of fresh spit covered his thick lower lip, and his mouth was watery.
“How can I tell that, man? I never know you and your poetry. Some write for name, some for posts and parks, the elegant and rich take it as hobby; the fashionables indulge in it as mere pastime. And we all love it. Your particular case I know not.” I bluntly said.
He grasped or not I couldn’t tell. But he nodded his head, and said, “Sir, I’m writing since childhood. And I can tell you even the exact date. It was June 28, Monday morning when my father died. It was a heavy weeklong downpour, fields and ponds flooded. Villagers kept shut in huts. Many were washed away. We cried long. At noon the rain slowed, and we brought the dead to the burning ghat. We somehow made an odd plank with woods, wet and soaked, and poured two drums of kerosene oil over it. Father lie naked, and I set fire to his mouth. The body was not getting burnt, it was smouldering. My neighbours took bamboo poles and beat and beat, until they got tired. They thrashed his skeletons. And then Vangha Das, a tall dark man with a huge paunch and long untrimmed whiskers, a specialist in cracking heads hit and broke my father’s skull. It splattered like a ripe melon.
I came home, swapped and sucked. And after midnight I wrote my first poem, “Mrituya” (Death). And I kept the draft in a tin trunk at a corner of my hut. At my restless days and nights I read it aloud, keeping me shut, and dark at my hole.”
“Ask me why, why I write?” He stirred his legs unstopped, and stared at me.
“Why?”
“To kill pain, Sir.”
“What pains? You’re young, and perhaps you have a good wife and a lovely child.” I remarked.
“I’m unmarried,” he protested thumping his breast and told, “in old school days I fell in love with a girl. She was a beauty. You can’t find such a nice girl nowhere. But I was a student, and her father refused me her hand. I cried, and I penned many poems to soothe me. She loved my words, and at night lone she sang. We never talked. Only now and then stolen glances we exchanged. She knew the depths of my love, my admiration, and I dreamed her day and night. Then one day she stopped coming school, and I heard she eloped with a man of two children.”
“So what? Fall in love again with any girl of your choice. Who Cares? It was so cool in today’s world.” I flatly said.
“Are you a profe-saar? You’re talking like a…a low fellow. Huh… with such mentality you teach. Shame, shame on you!” He squeezed his face, and spat with a loud noise, and fell silent again.
“Why man, love knows no time, no clime, no age. And I’m not asking you to marry and fetter your soul. I only ask you to fall in love, sacred and pure. And what’s wrong with that?” I extended.
“Nah, nah… I’m happy with my life and my poetry. I don’t hate girls, but I shun them. I fear intruders into my little world of poetry.” He told, and looked earnest.
“Oh, it’s fine. Have you published any poem?”
“I’ve no luxury to do that. I have an acre of farm lands, and a yard of betel nut rows, and I live on that. Hah, Dr. Satidhar Rai, editor of Mujnai published some of my poems. But one day he called me, and asked to sell 200 copies to my friends and known faces. I declined before his face, ‘Saar, I don’t sell poems; I’m a poet, I only pen it.’ Since then he stopped me publishing.”
He paused for a while thoughtfully, and then softly said, “I pen on sheets, and often print them on shirts and pants. My friend Amit has a printing machine. He does it free. And you know I have no ambition. A poor village poet I’m, and love to remain so. And see, not only on clothes, I also etched them on my skin.” He removed his t-shirt, and threw it away. It fell on a twig beyond, and hung like a scarecrow. He turned his back, and I saw, it was painted all with a green sketch ink. He pushed me to read. I tried and failed again. Only some dying words I could discover with much difficulty.
The wind blew and yellow leaves fell on us. We made cozy leafy cushions, and sat on them. A cuckoo cooed tirelessly from a tree nearby. A kingfisher sat still on a lone stray branch, and its eyes set on the gliding water. The sky was all blue. The sun was rich and soft. Peasants, men and women, yonder were all busy weeding potato fields.
“How many poems have you written?” I asked, and he said nothing. He looked weird, and a line of pain ran across his sunken cheeks, bearded and scabbard and jaded. His small eyes glowed, and gleamed in a way that thousands tales one could read there.
“Countless Sir! My trunk is filled, and I now keep them on everywhere—bed, four corners of my hut, kitchen. And Sir, at my hut you can’t keep feet without nudging them. I write on boundary tins, clothes, utensils, plastic jars. My yard was scratched, and nut trees embossed all. In rain my poems bath, and in sun they bask.” He laughed so loud that birds made a flutter from trees.
“Anything else you love, man?” I asked looking at the greeneries of the fields, and heard the rustle of the leaves. A leafless shimul tree was in full bloom, and its underneath was covered with gory scentless flowers. The man sat bare. The day was pleasant, and the place was a bit cold.
“Oh…,” he smiled, “nothing much of that. I like fishing. But I don’t kill them. I catch fish, see them gasping for life for a minute or two, and freed them in crystal water. Sometime I pelt pebbles in ponds hours after hours. I also frequent forest to see tall trees standing still. I love to hear the buzz of bees, and cries of peacocks, but what I love most is to hear the sad silence of long wintry night and to watch and count the sparkling stars hung heavy over my tin shade.”
“Oh! What a beautiful life you lead!” I exclaimed.
“No beauty, please. It’s simple. I love simple things.” He warned me with an air of authority.
He scratched his head, brushed his face again and again, scrambled his back pocket and lighted a bidi. He smoked, and asked me to forgive him for this little pleasure. “What I have Sir, …nothing,” he sighed, and began, “you know I have no bad habits—no women, no wine. I smoke bidi (a cheap smoke), and write at dark night. The things I need—a pen, a bidi, and a dark corner. I’m not a poet of moon, and sun, and stars. I’m a poet of pain. And I write poem not for fame or name. I write to quench the pangs of my birth. You understand, not laugh. Everybody writing poetry, hu… it’s not so easy and baby thing. All are not poets, a very few are.” He looked fierce, his eyes burnt. He spat, and with a mournful look he sat silent, and began to count lines of his palm, and muttered. And suddenly he hinged out a crumpled paper from his hind pocket and began to read so loud that some peasants soon left weeding, and hurried, and circled us. He commands all for being silent, coughed, straightened the sheet, readied himself and began to shriek,
“Jago amar maa ar ghumayo naa “(Awake mother, no
more sleep)
Tomare fele jodi choli (If I leave you)
Pothe jodi bipod ase (If darkness comes in
my path)
Dakbo kare maa? (Whom I call?)
Nirapode tumi chhhaya (You are my safe
shelter)
Tomar kole, tomar buker (Lying on your lap)
Dugdho tene (Sucking your breasts)
Ei prithibir prothom alo (First light of the earth)
Peyechi ami maa…” (I see…) ”
He stopped, and kissed the sheet thrice, and sounded aha ha ha, oh oh ohhoho, and began to cry. He cleared his nose, and tears ran down, making his beard greasy. The peasants were all silent, and stared us still. The scent of fresh mud entered my nostrils. And they were so overwhelmed, and they almost bent over us. I could see nothing, only the bare mud caked, dusty legs, and the toes all flat like the ducks pointing towards us. An old pale lean woman among the crowd wiped her eyes with the end of her soiled sari, and pitied the man, “Why do you cry, bachha (boy). Your mother is no more. So what, I’m your mother. Come, I caress you.”
Suddenly the man stopped crying, and tried hard to figure out his mother, and when found, he looked quizzically straight at her, and said with a serene voice, “You are my maa, it’s all right maa. But underneath lays another thought. Can you tell me that anyone? I ask you all.” His burning eyes slowly surveyed the dull faces of the peasants one by one. The peasants eyed one another, and stood silent, gaped and yawned.
He then raised his voice and shouted, “Why won’t you die? Why do you live at all, you all are rustic fools!” He spat. I sat silent. He pushed me and asked, “Sir! What will do they? The mother of my poem is all’s mother—Bharat maataaa. Huh… it’s not so easy; a poem isn’t a baby thing! He cried loud and fainted.