My Red earth

My piggy nostrils smelt not a thing there
Yet the aroma best, my soul had e\’er
This wild east land always been my lair
Endure\’d such pride and awe, tired heart more ne\’er
Beneath the naked feet, melts earth like cheese
But e\’er hot Sun got hotter even more
And roasts alive all life yet matters not
A doubt soft waltzs in mind like a sea breeze
He scalds the earth to bake it real red hot?
I ramble on dunes rollin\’ that stand fore.

From brow, saw one mirage not very far
O! Not one, not one! Many on all side
Which one to chase and seize? True, there\’s no bar
But, childish legs of mine lost in count wide
Ah! Hear the rattle of a thousand snake
Who brought them here across the countless seas?
Bah! Aadi wind from the west does the trick
I fell for rustle of palmyrah trees!!
That sway like ballet dancers sans a brake
The yowlin\’ wind make the weak ones fall sick.

And none be sick of cashew flowers, sure
Ah! Tickle they, my ribald cells of grey
But why do look so ugly and impure?
Yet, scent took me to seventh heaven stay
The bright red of fruit bears the gene of soil
Some yellow bastards add a dish of shade
The apples taste all the same – tangy hot
It stabs my parch\’d throat like a berserk blade
May be the spice keeps the folks on the boil
And blame the white man for the nasty plot.

Big Summer brings on, holi of new hues
With Red and Green and Black and Brown and Grey
And yellow but they give me not the blues
Who thought such arid landscape be so gay?
But rain did fall a bit in days of yore
Lot oasis, the grandpa did tell me
When search I, only get depressions just
Where they all gone now? Mere part of the lore
The final product of our endless lust
And warmin\’ leaves us with no place to flee.

But, snaky road along the middle smiles
Umbrella thorn acacia trees as guard
A mortal be not seen for many miles
Lone sparrow doubles up as Avon\’s bard
He signals his beloved to elope
I can hear too the call of my own land
And that of my forebears that sounds so blare
I\’ll answer when sleep last, down prickly sand
My piggy nostrils smell not a thing there
Yet, the aroma leave not the soul, I hope.

P.S: This ode broadly adhers to the style of John Keats\’ six odes which he composed in 1819, particularly the \’Ode on a Grecian Urn\’. Like his ode, mine too has 5 cantos of 10 lines each, with iambic tetrameter. All start with ABAB quatrain. The first and fourth cantos follow that with CDECED, Second and third – CDEDCE, and Fifth – CDEDEC.
This poem is about my land called \’Theri\’ (தேரி) which is very unique with a distinctive red colour. The author describes it\’s arid landscape, and the Palmyra, cashew (not native but introduced in 19th century by British) and acacia trees which are the only trees that grow here.
There are lot of subtle emotional shifts both within and across the cantos. Sometimes vivacious and at times melancholic and yet other times nostalgic but always poignant.

P.S 2: Meanings and explanation

lair – a secret or private place in which a person seeks concealment or seclusion, ramble – walk for pleasure in the countryside, brow – the summit of a hill, aadi – a Tamil month (July-Aug) when the (SW Monsoon) winds are so strong that it\’s almost impossible to travel West on foot or 2 wheelers, yowling – make a loud wailing cry, ribald – referring to seventh heaven – in Islam, the highest heaven where God and the most exalted angels dwell, yore – of long ago or former times, lore – a body of traditions and knowledge on a subject or held by a particular group, typically passed from person to person by word of mouth, bard of Avon – alludes to Shakespeare.

In the first canto, the authors claims that his soul is filled with a nice aroma (may be nostalgia) though there are no smells that reach his nose. His secret place evokes in him, a strong blend of pride and awe. When he walks on its soft sand, his bare legs sink into it. But the searing sun makes it very difficult to stay there. The author wonders whether the red colour of the sand is caused by the burning hot temperatures.
From the top of the rolling sand dunes, the author sees many mirages. He wants to catch one but his wavering mind (childish legs????) was unable to choose the best one. He is also distracted by the sound of many rattlesnakes. Though taken aback initially, he realises that rattlesnakes are not present in India and therefore, it must come from some other source. He finds that it\’s caused by the howling winds which make the dry leaves of Palmyra trees rattle.

The third canto describes the cashew flowers and fruits. The sweet scent of the flowers overpowers him and make him feel erotic (உன்மத்தம்). Later, the fruits come in two colours, red and yellow. He concludes that red one bears the gene of its father, the soil but the yellow fruit must be a bastard one. But irrespective of the colour, the fruit is very spicy and burns his throat. He thinks that this fruit may be the reason for the easily inflammable nature of his people. And he blames the colonial rulers for introducing this fruit to his land and spoiling his people.
In peak summer, May, the fruits are ripe and there is a riot of colours for the eyes to feast. It\’s surprising for a place which receives scanty rainfall. But the author\’s grandfather has told him that there used to be many permanent oasis there during his childhood days. But now they are all gone and depressions on the sand are the only remainders of those days. (The author also may be depressed a bit for not able to see them). He blames the global warming for reduced rains and loss of oasis.

The last canto starts on the road which cuts through the red desert with acacia thorn tress lining on either side. Along with the call of the sparrow, the author also hears the voice of his long dead ancestors who ask him to return to his native land. But his pressing duties (like writing some nonsense stuff which he calls as poetry ????) in the city prevents him to heed their call. So he dodges it to say that he will reply to them when he goes to his land one last time (in the deep south, the practice is to bury the dead and not cremate). That time too he won\’t get any smell but he hopes that his soul will be filled with the aroma of his dear land.

Author: – Ravi R. Chokkalingam