#151: On objects and memories
Good afternoon!
Last week, I was chatting with a friend in France, who said that I was like a bee, cross pollinating poetry across borders. I love the idea of carrying sweet nectar in the form of delicious verses to you.
I recently learnt that my love language is touch. I like the tangibility of things, how cold the grass feels when I lie down and cloud-gaze, the warmth of skin on skin, the texture of everything, be it petals or walls or paintings. I also see myself as a lover of beautiful, whimsical objects. It’s what makes home feel like home. This is why I don’t preach minimalism because while it may be a more efficient way of living, I like a little mess. I like living with inanimate things, with stationery drawers full of everything I could ever want, with hundreds of books that I know I will one day read.
Today, my poetry-seeking mind decided to put together a special set of poems for you that speak of objects and memories:
Open A Book by Jane Baskwill
Open a book
And you will find
People and places of every kind;
Open a book
And you can be
Anything that you want to be;
Open a book
And you can share
Wondrous worlds you find in there;
Open a book
And I will too
You read to me
And I’ll read to you.Consolation Grook by Piet Hein
Losing one glove
is certainly painful,
but nothing
compared to the pain,
of losing one,
throwing away the other,
and finding
the first one again.The Watch by Danusha Laméris
At night, my husband takes it off
puts it on the dresser beside his wallet and keys
laying down, for a moment, the accoutrements of manhood.
Sometimes, when he’s not looking, I pick it up
savor the weight, the dark face, ticked with silver
the brown, ostrich leather band with its little goosebumps
raised as the flesh is raised in pleasure.
He had wanted a watch and was pleased when I gave it to him.
And since we’ve been together ten years
it seemed like the occasion for the gift of a watch
a recognition of the intricate achievements
of marriage, its many negotiations and nameless triumphs.
But tonight, when I saw it lying there among
his crumpled receipts and scattered pennies
I thought of my brother’s wife coming home
from the coroner carrying his rings, his watch
in a clear, ziplock bag, and how we sat at the table
and emptied them into our palms
their slight pressure all that remained of him.
How odd the way a watch keeps going
even after the heart has stopped. My grandfather
was a watchmaker and spent his life in Holland
leaning over a clean, well-lit table, a surgeon of time
attending to the inner workings: spring,
escapement, balance wheel. I can’t take it back,
the way the man I love is already disappearing
into this mechanism of metal and hide,
this accountant of hours
that holds, with such precise indifference,
all the minutes of his life.The Violin by Lachlan (age 9)
The Things by Donald Hall
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.Ode to My Bedroom Slippers by Margaret Faeth
They wait patiently beside my bed
Agreeable twin sentries, ready for duty.
They know me so well – the darkened imprint of heels and each toe worn into the
balding fleece.
They are the first thing my feet search for in the morning,
Grounding and protection for my midnight shuffles to the loo.
They are the comfort I seek when I return from the day’s labors,
The ones I turn to as I cast off heels, polished leather, buckles and laces.
They carry the stains and flaws of familiarity- a splash of iced coffee, a drip of
toothpaste,
The teething marks of a puppy now grown.
They have logged hundreds of miles but rarely leave home, these slippers of mine.
Once I forgot and wore them to choir practice.
I sang well that night.
Recommended Listening:
-Tico & the Man: A parrot sings with his guitar-playing human. Listen to them here:
-One Square Inch: Breathing Spaces + Noizer (ambient sounds)
-Home - Kymara ft Bobbie Johnson
-The Power Is Here Now - Alexia Chellun
-MAI Mixtape (All funds collected go towards cyclone relief & rations for Adivasi communities in West Bengal & Odisha.)
-Download: Ragya - Indian classical music played by time of the day (Mum told me about this app and I absolutely love it. So calming.)
Links of the Week:
1. I Do Not Want to Write Today: A Comic by Shing Yin Khor
2. I love Debbie Millman's interview with Austin Kleon, where he replies only in quotes:
Debbie: How have you gotten over heartbreak?
Austin: "I tell my piano the things I used to tell you." -Frederic Chopin
3. I thoroughly enjoyed watching Joe Pera Talks You Back to Sleep (recommended by our reader Ananthu)
4. Loved Roshni Goyate's poem Coconut Oil on Poetry Unbound
5. Some really practical advice and scripts by Terri Cole on boundary setting
6. This fab selection of LGBTQ Pride Poems on Poetry Foundation (Happy Pride!)
7. Danielle, a short film that emulates the aging process (Freaky!)
8. The Fear | A Multifaceted Art Exhibition (found on The Nook)
9. I wish I had attended The Carnival of Swing May 29, 1938
10. "Could our fraught relationship with guilt as a culture—our spotty rejection and embracing of it—be the result of our inability to commit to ideas that might actually liberate us? We want to love ourselves, but change ourselves, but love ourselves."
-Hayley Nahman
Coming soon: AstaGuru’s Collector’s Choice Modern Indian Art Auction
We’re partnering with AstaGuru, India’s premium auction house, to spread the word about their upcoming Collector’s Choice Auction on June 25th and 26th, 2021.
I’ve recently started collecting art and experiencing the joy of living with original paintings versus prints. If you have been considering starting your own modern Indian art collection, this is your chance.
This will be an absolute auction (i.e. a No Reserve Auction) featuring lots by master artists like M.F Husain, S.H Raza, Jehangir Sabavala, Amrita Sher-Gil and many more.
Bidding for all lots starts at Rs 20,000. You can view the full catalogue and register to bid here.
This is my newsletter: Shreya Yadav
The latest edition of This is my newsletter comes from Honolulu by marine biologist Shreya Yadav @shreyodo. Her beautifully written newsletter talks about her love for the oceans, the importance of conservation and dealing with hearing loss in her leaf ear.
Shreya writes:
“I think of the body of the coral that continues to bleach in the remnant heat of summer. How some colonies only die partially, dead cells surrounded by ones that continue to function. Sometimes, a coral dies, but leaves an imperceptible sliver of living tissue behind. Inside this bit of tissue thousands of algal cells are still harnessing sunlight. Just twenty or thirty corallites that continue to build skeleton. It’s funny that death and repair can occur so close to each other in this animal.
My body, on the other hand, feels like it is afraid of everything. Afraid of going to a bar (what if you can’t hear the conversation), afraid of listening to music (what will it sound like), afraid of talking to family (who only want to be with me). Most of all, it is suddenly very afraid of being in the water.”
Read her full newsletter here. It’s one of my favorite takeovers yet, and has some beautiful recommendations on poetry, music and the underwater world.
I want to end with this extraordinary painting by Martin Johnson Heade from 1902 that brings me peace every time I spend time with it.
Have a lovely week ahead!
Rohini ❤️
It was so so special. I loved it. Thank you @thealiporepost