Book: Crossing the Shoreline
Poet: Gopal Lahiri
Publishers: Haoajan Publishers, 2022
Price Rs. 300
PP 119
ISBN 8195479383
Crossing the Shoreline by Gopal Lahiri, a bilingual, internationally acclaimed poet, a Pushcart Prize nominee, 2021, has a unique style and a refreshing voice, which rejuvenates the reader with imagery and metaphors, not wilted by overuse.
Divided into four sections: Concision, Fourteen Liners, Haiku, Senryu, and Haibun, most of his poems, proclaiming that brevity is the soul of wit, manage to convey a wealth of meaning. Writing on a wide array of subjects, passionate about nature, we find the sensitive poet rolling out the mist, and the moon trickling down on his shoulders. Mesmerized, we see,
“boats ferry unknown faces in a haste,
birds’ tweet in sign languages,
the evening weaves leftover handshakes” [Biography]
Very succinctly, the poem City-Skins, throws light on concretization, which is detrimental for trees, and identical with a sort of death. A solitary tree speaks volumes about the havoc created on trees, through the evil of high-rise concrete monstrosities.
“City-skins have grown thick
with concrete high-rise
Solitary tree stands on the roadside
woodpeckers write the evening lyrics, [City-Skins]
In love with the avian fraternity, his poems throb with hops, skips, chirps of sparrows, woodpeckers, and golden orioles. Orange orioles sing, sparrows are at dooryards or perched on the parapet, pigeons circle, woodpeckers write evening lyrics, and ‘a dark line of crows breaks his flow. We read, mesmerized as,
‘birdsongs are now like soft heart-beat’, [Folded Times]
“nights turn into half-formed poems
strong wind scampers past
……..
tiny owls scrawl letters on my pillow.” [Half-formed Poems]
Intrusion talks of a welcome interruption in the form of the moon’s silver sheen:
“Clouds and twilight mauve, scarlet and pink.
The moon interrupts with its silveriness.
I see some warmth in the voice I see hands reaching out”.
In Maple Street, he gushes over the skeletal beauty of trees in winter:
“I love the bare beauty of winter trees.
so, fractal, skeletal and pulmonary, yet so alive,
it is they who own me.”
Often, the wordsmith Lahiri finds himself at the receiving end of tantrums of words, which disappear like Houdini, but re-emerge waltzing to his tunes, and he bursts out thus:
“There is blue and shades of white mocks the silence of grey sky,
something emerges from the whirlpool of clouds,
dark line of crows breaks my flow again. [Whirlpool]
There are many intriguing fourteen liners. Two of them are Random Reflections, and Biography
“Light drifts, changes,
day rolls into furnace, all fires are fire.
Then there is the blank space
The wall clock stops at quarter to nine.
A dust storm blows the tiny bird’s nest
The flowers fade, I don’t speak of it.
The afternoon shifts to the evening
with crumbly sigh, dimness sinks the needle in.
The voice of the winds like any old
memory, strays in the winnowed sand-yard.
My diary pages are open all night inside
the dark drawer
And I learn to burrow in the dark
yet I shudder from where the Universe begins”.
Biography
summer skies melt in deepest blue,
silk sarees bleed
colours of twilight,
stars tune music of burning night,
boats ferry unknown
faces in a haste,
birds tweet in sign languages,
the evening weaves
leftover handshakes,
a web of music from the piano strings,
plays core repertoire
of solemnities,
lazy idioms now write
on your biography.
I found the haibun, and the images they conjure really enchanting: a forest split into two, clouds drifting about in dim, white laces, a solitary bird slowly losing his voice, children chasing pigeons a falling leaf, a solitary bird slowly losing its voice, and the vermillion of the setting sun. I cannot resist the temptation of reproducing two haibun here:
Open Window
It’s not so much that seabirds follow us more like they lead the way, going on ahead like willing guides with not one word of our language. Let it not manifest- red roses, ultraviolet and the radiant nothingness drop a few words into the future. We love them for this, for presaging it out, for showing us where the edge of the present moment is. The alphabet can speak in its own tongue. It will be all symbol surely; suffering each invisible star. Lean out from our open window, listening to the child. She is laughing now; the smell of earth is strong as well. Out in the lawn, a solitary bird slowly losing his voice. The falling leaves seem to whisper of something else, some fugitive undercurrent, some other answer or meaning, just out of reach.
Summertime
our daydreams
lying in wait
Snapshots
Two kingfishers pilot in daybreak. The pigeons surge into the roofs in their hundreds and the breezy morning gives away to the sunlight-infused noon. Out of horizons, I make rainbows and in sleep my dream touches the curve of my pristine city. I still remember that during rainstorms my childhood used to chase pigeons down the avenues, down past the branches, the leaves, the blossoming flowers. The lonely butterfly did sit on the edges of the window and try to inhale the solitude inside. For days I was drawn to her stripes, to her colour, to her beauty. And all these drenched in the vermillion of the setting sun.
twilight
grey sparrows
share ghost stories.
Lahiri is an exemplary poet who excels in creating serene ragas from chaos, with a penchant for gleaning quietude from turbulence. We find the poet conversing with nature and letting us eavesdrop on this conversation, where we also find solace from butterflies, blossoming flowers, ‘whisper of a fading rainbow’, splitting the evening, the smell of earth, clouds drifting around in white laces, and the thinning mist disappearing in the blue. Images that cling to the reader long after the reader has finished reading.
The two lines that stayed with me, were from the poem The Language of Night,
“Deep within the mother’s womb
light a fire, the city needs the flame.”
It has always been the stunning imagery of Lahiri’s poems that makes us sit upright, and read and re-read the lines to grasp the kernel of the poems, with renewed vigour.
He lovingly holds our hands helping us in Crossing the Shoreline, to a place where we find unmolested trees still giving shade of love and light, and he brings us face to face with our own selves, making us invent a life we can live with.
Impeccably published by Haoajan Publishers; the cover design and the other sketches have also been done by Sarbajit Sarkar, who is incidentally the publisher as well! This is a book, all connoisseurs of poetry will love to read, discuss and cherish, gathering new perspectives along the way, and gaining a handful of epiphanies. Sheathed in a gentle positivity, his poems exhibit a quiet, but keen observation, many of which leave one in a meditative trance.
His is a voice believing in the power of love, which can make muted rhythms thrum tender, ethereal stories, creating soul music.
A book which will enthrall all poetry lovers.
Let me conclude by quoting from Dr. Meenakshi Mohan’s Preamble:
“The techniques used here amplify the resurgence of poetry to a higher level of creativity.
Lahiri has not left any stone unturned in accepting the challenges of crossing borders to be creative. Lahiri has moved away from the traditional styles and modulated his techniques and styles.”
ABOUT THE REVIEWER
Santosh Bakaya Bio: Internationally acclaimed poet, novelist, biographer, and TEDx speaker, Dr. Santosh Bakaya is the writer of 28 books across different genres.
