World Poetry
I think the international representation of poets has been lacking. For example, I know nothing about Indian poets. I thought it would be cool to spend a week going all around the world to see how different cultures utilize this medium, and with that idea in mind, I decided to explore poetry from where my family is from.
My favorite poem so far has been In the Bazaars of Hyderabad by Sarojini Naidu. Here it is:
What do you sell, o ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed,
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
What do you weigh, o ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, o ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna and spice.
What do you call, o ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.
What do you make, o ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the king.
What do you cry, o ye fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, o musicians?
Cithar, sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, o magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.
What do you weave, o ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-gathered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.
The reason this poem ended up being my favorite is because of how nostalgic it is of my visits to Indian bazaars. While I have never been to a Hyderabadi bazaar, Bombay bazaars sound eerily similar. The only problem for me is that the poem is very romanticized. It only covers the very best parts often reserved for tourists or the very rich. Bazaars are also the places near where thousands of poor aggregate. Where many poor people set up shop selling handmade trinkets that aren't exactly the coolest or the most practical, but there's a beauty in that. It's the opportunistic equivalent of America, just to a far lesser degree. People with nothing work hard hoping to make enough to get something to eat. And that in itself was tragic to me; the number of people living day by day with no place to even call home. But the fact that they chose to still work instead of begging made me happy. What made me happier, through laughter, was them embracing their stereotypical parsimonious roots and charging tourists who felt bad maybe five to ten times what they charged locals, since they didn't speak the language. It didn't mean much to tourists as money there is worth far more than here, so they felt they weren't parting with much while they were probably providing money for the week or more for the poor vendors.
My favorite poem so far has been In the Bazaars of Hyderabad by Sarojini Naidu. Here it is:
What do you sell, o ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed,
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
What do you weigh, o ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, o ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna and spice.
What do you call, o ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.
What do you make, o ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the king.
What do you cry, o ye fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, o musicians?
Cithar, sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, o magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.
What do you weave, o ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-gathered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.
The reason this poem ended up being my favorite is because of how nostalgic it is of my visits to Indian bazaars. While I have never been to a Hyderabadi bazaar, Bombay bazaars sound eerily similar. The only problem for me is that the poem is very romanticized. It only covers the very best parts often reserved for tourists or the very rich. Bazaars are also the places near where thousands of poor aggregate. Where many poor people set up shop selling handmade trinkets that aren't exactly the coolest or the most practical, but there's a beauty in that. It's the opportunistic equivalent of America, just to a far lesser degree. People with nothing work hard hoping to make enough to get something to eat. And that in itself was tragic to me; the number of people living day by day with no place to even call home. But the fact that they chose to still work instead of begging made me happy. What made me happier, through laughter, was them embracing their stereotypical parsimonious roots and charging tourists who felt bad maybe five to ten times what they charged locals, since they didn't speak the language. It didn't mean much to tourists as money there is worth far more than here, so they felt they weren't parting with much while they were probably providing money for the week or more for the poor vendors.
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