Indian English Literature, Literary Criticism and Theory – Learning and Creativity

Literary criticism -a call to be bolder, innovative and fearless and to take it forward instead of keeping within older patterns and limits-in short there is scope for thinking out of the box anyday. An excellent essay by Dr. Ampat Koshy.

Indian English Literature, Literary Criticism and Theory – Learning and Creativity.

Keralite Writing in English-II | Literature DIY | Dr Ampat Koshy

 Enjoyed this article thoroughly. I have read almost all the poets and writers who find a mention here and as always I am amazed at the deft analysis and the broad yet comprehensive approach covering such a vast area and bringing it all together under the umbrella of subversive, different, unique and startlingly refreshing writing. Panjami Anand’s poem like many more of hers is superb, honest writing and she is sure to leave her mark in the annals of great writing. The article rocks as does its writer.

Keralite Writing in English-II | Literature DIY | Dr Ampat Koshy.

Poetry and Keralite Writing in English – 1 – Learning and Creativity

An absorbing article, not only because I figure in it but because of the depth of analysis and a rational, comprehensive look at the chaotic scenario of Indians (with focus on Keralites) writing and trying to write in English today. With a sense of blessedness and deepest gratitude, I thank Dr Ampat Koshy for the article, mention, for the poem and link(Autumn resurrected) and for his guidance and encouragement that has been vital to my writing always. Looking forward to the next one with unbridled enthusiasm!

Poetry and Keralite Writing in English – 1 – Learning and Creativity.

▶ Michael Ondaatje:The Cinnamon Peeler – YouTube

Something aromatic for this Sunday! A stunner of a poem.. to smell, to savour. Enjoy!


The Cinnamon Peeler

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under the rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
– your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…
When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

©Michael Ondaatje