Book Review: Ananya Chatterjee바카라�s Barefoot On Splintered Glass

I have before me now Ananya Chatterjee바카라�s fifth collection of poems titled Barefoot on Splintered Glass. Following the diktats of the manual, I need to introduce the author first. Ananya  is a friend of mine and a fellow poet. I don바카라�t think I can be more objective than that. I have read and appreciated her previous books and reviewed a couple of them too. I am acquainted with all her poems 바카라� both published and unpublished. 

Now to get back to the book in question, I must make the reader acquainted with the content of the book. The book has 60 poems divided equally into four seasons 바카라� Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring. It also has a quirky Foreword by Jayant Kripalani. My manual says to avoid repeating the table of contents (which I have just done unfortunately) but rather give an idea about the author바카라�s thesis. So what is the poet바카라�s purpose in writing this book? I may as well ask what is the purpose of flowers blooming on a tree. Poetry comes naturally to Ananya as flowers to a tree. The seasons are the most regular and perpetual of the natural phenomena in human history and so are poems in the life of this poet. But to be fair to the poet, as the second characteristic in the manual states, I must explicate to the reader with some quotations to show how the poet handles her materials and what her approach is.

In 바카라�Summer바카라�, the poet바카라�s 바카라�March tiptoes towards April바카라� and she uses the 바카라�private memory of fingertips바카라� to dial a random stormy afternoon to 바카라�catch a low, wild tune/dripping off her unmade lips바카라� (바카라�Mother바카라�). Then she 바카라�hugged the daylight바카라� and how 바카라�little by little all turned little바카라� (바카라�The Flight바카라�) as she soared into the 바카라�five o clock sky, tattered and minced/by cut-outs, cables and leftover smog바카라� (바카라�Terrace Dreams바카라�) until she foresaw the one whose 바카라�shadow will snatch/the light from my skin바카라� (바카라�Futility바카라�). She stops by a Gulmohar to realise:

    The robin hasn바카라�t visited this year.
    In the yearning of the Gulmohar 바카라�
    the silence of her abandoned leaves,
    I sense a forgotten familiarity.
    Is this how all stories must end?
    I stop by the birdless tree 바카라�
    caress the violence of her branches.
    I tell her there will be others. Soon.
    But she knows this already, doesn바카라�t she?
    The high and low of every season.
    The ache, the ecstasy. Stop. Repeat.
    The ache. The ecstasy.
    Perhaps then, it is the other way around.
    Perhaps she is the one comforting me. (바카라�Staying Away바카라�)

Someone whispered to the poet 바카라�Autumn is the season of homecomings바카라�바카라� and 바카라�cottonball promises danced/in the blue바카라� until she saw:

    The leaves having folded 
    their greens for departure,
    exhale the unmistakable
    salt breath of heartbreak. (바카라�Feeding on Autumn바카라�)

And when she reaches 바카라�the doorbell/of my childhood바카라� she finds 바카라�grief/weighed down by a retinue of leaves바카라� (바카라�Autumn Holidays바카라�). So she asks not to remind her of 바카라�lilies/orange hearts / twittering blackbirds바카라� such terrible beauty바카라� (바카라�Waking Up바카라�) because 바카라�Spring memories/shouldn바카라�t be unfolded too often.바카라�

    Or daylight shall destroy
    their splendid darkness. (바카라�Fragile바카라�)

When the sunbird surmised about a 바카라�mountain of emptiness in a fist-sized heart바카라�, the lizard by the doorway said 바카라�on winter twilights/no one dies of lovelessness바카라� (바카라�Diagnosis바카라�). But 바카라�when the last winter sun/melts in your eye바카라� (바카라�Readiness Check바카라�) the poet can say:

    Whoever says dying isn바카라�t beautiful
    hasn바카라�t seen the crumpling 
    of October leaves (바카라�Fall and Rise of a December Born바카라�)

Also she knows that 바카라�no past [is] bloodless enough to recall바카라� (바카라�At the Departure Gate바카라�) and so she dreams of mountain바카라�s 바카라�milkless peaks바카라� (바카라�Penance바카라�). And yet 바카라�On cheat days/I twist clock arms to lick memories바카라� (바카라�Defunct바카라�). Once again 바카라�love arrives soft-footed바카라� but:

    You shall wake up, feather-headed바카라�
    hugging your nausea and insanity
    with the ferocity of a chronic gambler
    who signed off his life to the
    game of forever바카라�
    And lost every time. (바카라�High Stakes바카라�)

Despite that the poet cannot help it because:

    On Spring nights, more often than not,
    my heart has quietly
    walked out on me바카라� (바카라�Night-prowler바카라�)

And she can only lament about:

    a sun-splashed Spring
    that had no business
    being this perfect. (바카라�Heartbreaks Should Happen in Monsoon바카라�)

The poet pleads: 

    Quit. Quit soundless like the morning mist,
    vaporize like the October dew,
    no love bite, no glaring residue
    on the velvet petals of the wild Amethyst. (바카라�Walk Away with Care바카라�)

She finally learns to sustain and says:

    Let
    what flows between us stay nameless
    like wildflowers on a moss-eaten wall (바카라�Nameless바카라�)

Using the tropes of the seasons in her poems, Ananya has dealt with human relationships and nature interchangeably. The robin-abandoned Gulmohar and the heartbroken human are the same. By doing so, she has given what is transient in the human world a semblance of permanence of the natural world.

John Keats in his 바카라�Ode to a Nightingale바카라� has called the bird immortal. He has shown how nature defies death through its cycles of rejuvenation and Ananya uses the seasonal cycles to defy all endings. And now that I have used a comparison to evaluate the book바카라�s merits, as stated in my manual, I think I am done. I have both successfully established my authority to write the review and hopefully submerged my personal opinions and reaction which may have a favourable bias towards the poet. Dear reader, you may now go and read the book because someone has walked on splintered glass to bring to you a touch of immortality.