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I
Punjab Pastoral
Casualty
After the Taxi Halted
Steel Kiss
Pink Silk from Punjab
Gone
Night Owl
In Memory of One Who Can’t Be Seen
A Punjabi Leda and the Swan
My Fallen
Abstract Studies with Monsoon Green
The Bearded Chameleon
Aubade with Marshland
A Meditation at Sukhna Lake
II
Apartment of a Bombay Millionaire
Families
Another Bhagwanpur
To the Dalits
Indian-Made Foreign Liquor
Indian City
Peep Peep Don’t Sleep
The Thirteenth House
Mr Chopra
An Un-Named Pandit
Yogesh Meets Ganesh
Advice From An Uncle
Directions to a Bombay Poetry Samelan
Long Distance
Bonehead Ghazals
Yatra, 1999
Mrs Pritima Devi
Maharajah Ajmer Singh Speaks from his Miniature Portrait
Request to One Passed Over
Indian Standard Time
Laws
III
I Come in Winter to a City Without You
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Reviews
Beyond ‘A Cultural Look and See’: Chris Mooney-Singh’s The Bearded Chameleon
Sam Byfield (poet)
Cha: An Asian Literary Jounal, Issue 18, September 2012
It’s not very often that the first poem in a collection involves
defecation, and rarer still, I suspect, that it does so with grace and
artistry. The first poem in Chris Mooney-Singh’s collection,
The Bearded Chameleon,
does just that and sets the scene perfectly for the works that follow.
In ‘Punjab Pastoral’ we find Mooney-Singh, an Australian poet who in
1989 adopted Sikhism, squatting in a field, cotton shawl pulled up
around his ears, ‘bobbing like a sunflower.’ Having moved to India in
search of meaning and ‘deeper experiences,’ he questions his
motivations and the wisdom of his choices, suggesting that ‘they all
want to leave and yet I’ve come/to squat and shit and chew on grass and
spit/for ‘a cultural look and see’.’
Perhaps in response to his
own preconceptions, this poem starts and finishes with the observation
that he can hear no mermaid singing; indeed, he notes, ‘I am the fool
round here.’ This search for identity, for wisdom and for a
‘legitimately’ lived life is a common theme in this collection, though
it is interspersed with poems of both great loss and great hope, as
well as some of the most effectively wrought depictions of Asia and its
people that have been published in Australia.
As an Australian
writing from India, Mooney-Singh can be viewed in the context of a
broader pattern among the country’s poets engaging with the region -
think Aitken, Cahill, Caddy, Kelen, among others. Australian poetry is
clearly benefiting from the country’s growing engagement with Asia. Yet
this collection is notable in that it’s not simply a tourist’s weeks or
months spent in-country, but years - a whole life that’s been
packed up and relocated.
One of the most notable elements of
The Bearded Chameleon
is its ghazals. They possess a more playful tone than some of the
collection’s serious offerings, and highlight both the poet’s
preoccupation with the culture he is writing within and with the
possibilities of language more broadly.
The series ‘Bonehead
Ghazals’ consists of five poems. In ‘Puzzle’ the poet writes
- ‘The system sucks: can’t click, can’t knit with it./Round peg,
square slot. I’m quit unfit for it’ - demonstrating a sense of
lyricisms and rhythm, and also emphasising the questions around
identity and purpose which pervade the collection. ‘Roses’ shifts to an
exploration of the many types and connotations of ‘roses’ and again
displays a sense of playfulness: ‘The redhead rose has that playboy
look./the bee is hooked on the soft porn rose’ and ‘Make money, not
art, says the plastic rose./I have no nose for that stillborn rose.’
‘Belonging’
turns to the themes of entrapment and the desire to be free, and draws
them together with a lovely image - ‘Absurd, this cage, so where do we
belong?/In peach-faced lovebird-heaven we belong’ - while in ‘The
Bearded Chameleon’, the ghazal series from which the collection derives
its title, the poet writes: ‘Suburbia was a dumb cartoon:/here, typhoid
sweats through each monsoon.’
Several poems in this collection
deal with grief and loss. ‘Casualty’ is an unsettling description of
the death of the narrator’s first wife, who passed away en-route to
hospital in a taxi. This is a poem of acute loss played out in an alien
environment, full of effective details. Where it would have been easy
to alienate the reader through overt bathos and an absence of detail,
this poem and several that follow avoid such traps. ‘Casualty’ opens
with
At 8 in the morning,
at exactly 8 in the morning,
they wheel her through swing doors
banging like a poltergeist.
and
continues with an effective mix of image and simile: ‘a woman who
gasped like a dove,’ ‘ripping off her wedding ring,’ ‘dehydration on
wheels,’ ‘this absurdity of roses outside the window.’ The only
questionable note comes right at the end, with Mooney repeating the
opening but adding a play on words which is perhaps out of place: ‘at 8
in the morning,/at 8 in the period of your mourning.’
Some of
the most effective poems in this collection are portraits. ‘Mrs Pritima
Devi’ takes the form of a monologue by a school teacher who has escaped
a troubled marriage and left her son behind, and who appreciates a
sympathetic ear to speak to. The language and grammar of the poem bring
it to life and demonstrate the Mooey-Singh’s attention to the rhythms
of the language around him. In ‘Advice from an Uncle,’ a business-owner
explains the realities of business to his ‘MBA-fresh, Harvard-hyped
nephew,’ noting that ‘Bribes are bad, dear boy,/but we must get the job
done’ and
...you must become
a practical chap: serve all
Superintendents of Police
their God-allotted cup.
Ever-practical, the Uncle even
prongs
incense in a brass holder
before the Guru’s photo, so
he, too, will turn a blind eye.
The
only sticking point in this poem is the short line lengths, which
disrupt the flow and give a sense that the line breaks weren’t thought
through, whereas many of the collection’s other works employ a longer,
more natural line length.
In ‘Families,’ Mooney-Singh broadens out this portrait approach to capture the diversity and complexity of families in India:
This family left the village, that family found the city,
this family emigrated on false passports,
this family placed an ad in The Times of India,
this dutiful daughter got a green-card husband.
Several
other poems share this focus on observation and ‘naming.’ These poems
are particularly effective and benefit from the narrator taking a step
back. ‘Indian City,’ for instance, is comprised of a list of often
contradictory images:
Satellite dishes on a temple sky-line
low-flying jets vultures in a flock
a bicycle loaded with electrical fans
In
‘Laws,’ Mooney-Singh provides a series of contrasts between the human
and animal worlds, in essence noting that despite our foibles and
occasional destructive urges, the natural world continues. In this same
observational spirit, ‘PEEP PEEP DON’T SLEEP’ is an amusing list of
signs seen while driving on Indian highways:
I AM CURVECEOUS
BE SLOW
DRIVE ON HORSE POWER
NOT ON RUM POWER
The second half of
The Bearded Chameleon
contains several traditional love poems, dedicated to ‘Savinder,’
Mooney-Singh’s second wife. These contain strong moments, though at
times lose focus and momentum. In ‘Long Distance,’ the poet has
returned to Delhi from Singapore and is struggling through a rickshaw
ride.
Shaken
and queasy, I missed home
badly - the flicker of your hair,
breezy as the East Coast palms
The
details of this ride are, as with much of the collection, strong and
believable. The final two tercets, however, are somewhat unclear in
their language and syntax, and detract from an otherwise strong work.
By
contrast, ‘Yatra, 1999’ is a more complete poem. Starting with ‘You had
come to lure me/from my white-robed life/in a marble sanctuary’ it
describes how his lover has come to visit him after a period of
long-distance communication. In the taxi, ‘We counted the mile
markers;/time was rushing to harvest/as you agreed to marry me.’
The
final poem in the collection, ‘I come in Winter to a City Without You,’
continues with this theme of long distance love, of finding a way to
bridge the separation of continents. The poem is a worthy finale to the
collection, marking a clear and definitive finish to the themes leading
up to it. There are a few moments, however, when the strong images and
tone are somewhat undermined - the following lines, for instance, veer
too close to clumsiness: ‘I know peach-pink lips still unlock/the zone
of your aromas: this is the future/and I will always kiss your rose.’
I
also question the need for this poem to constitute the whole of the
collection’s third section, when the previous two amounted to over 70
pages. At the very least, the other works dedicated to Savinder seem to
work well with the final poem and could have constituted a section of
their own. More broadly, the allocation of poems to specific sections,
as well as their ordering throughout the collection, is at times
confusing, with different themes and forms being broken up and
interspersed. The overall cohesion and flow might have been aided by
more judicial editorial intervention.
These criticisms aside,
this is an impressive collection by an interesting poet. Future
anthologies of Australian poets who have ‘written Asia’ should
certainly contain one or more of Mooney-Singh’s offerings, especially
those that engage strongly with locations and people and those which
utilise the ghazal form. In a literary climate where poets sometimes
end up sounding rather alike, Mooney-Singh stands out.
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Australian Poetry 2011-2012
Judith Beveridge
Westerly, Volume 57, Number 1 2012
Chris Mooney-Singh has lived, studied and worked in India and Indian religious communities for a number of years.
The Bearded Chameleon
is an engaging, often satirical account of his time there. With
sure-footed control of free verse, blank verse, rhyme and oriental
forms such as the ghazal, Mooney-Singh reveals the conflicts,
contradictions and hypocrisies that a Westerner can experience in a
country that never quite sits comfortably on his shoulders, though he
has deep respect for many of its spiritual traditions. Most powerful
are the poems about the death of his wife in a rural ashram, and the
dramatic monologue ‘Mrs Pritima Devi’ concerning a woman who has left
her son, husband, and his family because she is being slowly poisoned
by the mother-in-law. The poem memorably evokes, the ongoing struggle
that women have for equality and recognition. Mooney-Singh’s style is
often playful and there are some delightfully humorous poems about
characters and Indian eccentricities, as well as the self-mocking
ten-part title poem in which the poet, likening himself to a chameleon,
reveals how difficult it can be to find purchase on an identity in a
place as socially complex as India. Overall, the poems in this volume
have a lightness of touch and an ease of style, which combined with
strong subject matter, make them pleasurable and rewarding.
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The Bearded Chameleon
Phil Ilton
Mascara Literary Review,
June 2012
There are poems for the page and poems for the stage. Chris
Mooney-Singh is an established live performer. His second poetry
collection,
The Bearded Chameleon,
transposes his performative skills into poetically good reading.
Mooney-Singh is a chameleon because his ‘makeup’ stems from two
cultures: his native Australia and India where he has mostly lived in
recent decades. He is never quite at home in either, his ‘colours’
change according to which country he’s in. His adoption of the Sikh
faith, which forbids cutting hair, has him bearded. This theme is
encapsulated in 40 end-rhyme couplets tightly presented with perceptive
cultural observations (‘village life is one food chain’). India,
exuberant and traumatic, contrasts with Mooney-Singh’s other life:
Suburbia was a dumb cartoon:
here, typhoid sweats through each monsoon;
There’s exquisite images of interaction between the newcomer and villagers:
I wet my tongue, pretend what’s best
and they are kind, pretend the rest.
An
‘internal ode’ to the poet’s fauna namesake weaves engaging snippets;
the chameleon is ‘prehistoric, spiky, punk’ for whom ‘sun-bathing is
the reptile’s art’. ‘Abstract Studies with Monsoon Green’ distils the
adopted environment’s fecundity’:
The days of humid blindness are upon us,
the rain has left a steamy haze of green.
The mulberry limb drips into the milk pail,
green are the tears upon the chilli plants.
There’s an innovative reprint of humanity’s footstep:
I follow footprint puddles to the pump.
Mooney-Singh aims to
...learn the way of planting rice:
green thumb, invite the fingers to make friends.
Among
captivating images of India there’s a night-driving view of a truck’s
decorated rear: ‘Krishna and the milkmaids/ were dancing in our
headlights’. ‘Indian Standard Time’ includes ‘eating pakoras and
deep-fried gossip’ and ‘yesterday or tomorrow, neither too late, nor
too early’ whether that be ‘in this birth or the next’. There’s
arresting street-graphics:
the lifters of dead-cows,
cremation-ground caretakers,
collectors of the shit-bins,
bottom-feeders, vultures.
And vivid imagery that could be from anywhere such as this forest-after-rain metaphor:
sunlight opens up its peacock tail
Personal aspects of Mooney-Singh’s journey embrace the evocative pain of witnessing his (first) wife’s death.
I was helpless, a passenger
during the final act of her breathing
that slipped beyond even its coma
as the taxi halted at the traffic light.
Aftermath is poignant:
...I lift your old cup from a suitcase
of last things you touched on earth.
I see the lipstick: two firm petal prints.
I will never clean away the kiss.
‘My
Fallen’, images of deaths in Mooney-Singh’s family, innovatively
commences ‘These last photos I don’t have’. Significant memories are
often associated with background detail and these are captured with
powerful brevity:
The strident starlings of 2001
still halo your head on soft grass.
Mooney-Singh
produces striking aphorisms including ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is a clear
conscience’. ‘To the Dalits’ demonstrates well-crafted rhyme is
effective for invocation of traditional Indian folklore. Tradition is
also invoked with the ‘ghazal’, a love song comprising couplets with an
end-rhyme refrain that usually repeats the same word; Mooney-Singh
diffuses the refrain’s monotony by introducing ‘unattached’ prefixes
which form cross-rhyme patterns - neither end-rhyme nor internal
(within-a-line) rhyme, but constructed on rhyming words appearing
within different lines:
Make money, not art, says the plastic rose.
I have no nose for that stillborn rose.
Poetry got divorced from the rose,
yet the New Thing’s still a fresh-worn rose
Seventy million years of the rose:
fossils lime the time-sworn rose.
The
cross-rhyme is ‘stillborn/fresh-worn’ etc. Creating effective
cross-rhyme is difficult. Kipling, Hopkins and Swinburne were the only
poets of whom I was aware to have crafted it well until I encountered
Mooney-Singh’s ghazals; in this challenging form he rubs shoulders with
the best. Innovation doesn’t always work. Coining neologisms (new
words) has potential pitfalls – they can seem forced, too-clever or
obscure. A neologism in ‘I Come in Winter to a City Without You’
doesn’t suffer these flaws; the now Australian-based poet and his
(second) wife (temporarily in Singapore) communicate by mobile and
internet, chatting in ‘glocal tongues’. ‘Glocal’ is an engaging
creation: these technologies may be global but they allow for an
intimacy which is effectively local. Attractive eclecticism is quirkily
reflected in ‘found poems’ of Indian highway-side graffiti including
‘riotous’ examples like ‘HORN IS TO HONK/ PLEASE DO IT ON MY CURVES’.
Mooney-Singh’s
India is not all traditional. A woman who dares to reject her violent
husband by deserting his family’s home evocatively observes:
To move in public is no easy choice
if you wear divorce’s question-mark
upon your forehead.
With riveting figurative language she urges:
...more women
also swept beneath the family carpet.
Fight! I say...
Never shall we let them make us feel
like wedding ornaments, like nose-rings
returned dishonoured to the jeweller’s shop.
The Bearded Chameleon has a
pièce de résistance, ‘Another Bhagwanpur’, which opens:
A country village stuck in the buffalo mud
piles up its cow-pats, balancing clay pots
of mosquito water on the heads of women
who wear pregnancy under flimsy shawls.
The
metaphorically stuck-in-mud village is personified by its
‘orchestration’ of cow-pats and women’s actions. The stereotypical
heads balancing pots become thought-provoking with ‘mosquito’ water -
potential drama not associated with the image. Women ‘wear’ prominent
pregnancies. We learn much from skilfully packed lines:
The village council of five cannot fight
the school’s wrong sums and cane-learning;
cement walls, white-washed by government,
the young men employed by opium.
There’s doctors who ‘deal in snake-bite mantras’ and this arresting portrait:
...the last Gandhian freedom-fighter
props up old glory on a walking stick.
More
transfixing language concludes this village vignette: ‘the night-long
typhoid prayers to Ram.’ Sixteen lines have the reader experience a
tour de force.
There
are flawed moments. If information becomes a poet’s ‘driver’ the poetry
usually suffers; this happens with Mooney-Singh’s portraits and some
traditional-story retelling. ‘Mr Chopra’ is mostly prosaic description.
‘Apartment of a Bombay Millionaire’ and ‘Mrs Pritima Devi’ are
generally similar and include unnecessary didacticism. In ‘Yogesh Meets
Ganesh’ and ‘Advice From An Uncle’ storytelling dissolves the poetry.
There are moments when things don’t work. ‘A Punjabi Leda and the Swan’
presents an ostensibly good metaphor between the Western myth and a man
raping a woman in contemporary India, but there’s awkward passages; the
mental wrestling needed to wrap one’s head around these reduces
effectiveness - a forced sensibility suggesting the legend doesn’t fit
the poem’s context. Sometimes poetically good ‘moments’ are undermined
by additional figurations:
Saffron priests say Out!
like big sticks hunting rats
along the temple drains.
The
images of saffron priests and big sticks hunting rats in drains are
vivid; but the linking simile is not – verbal commands and running with
sticks are dissimilar actions. The ‘common ground’ is intensity, a
minimal likeness. Since the commands are projected by priests,
effectiveness is further reduced; whatever the faith, clerics don’t
undermine their authority with doing-the-shitwork frenetics. The
collection has instances of overwriting.
I look out into the darkness for you.
Rest is the wraith
that will not let me sleep.
This
image’s potential is under-realised with the superfluous ‘out’ and the
prosey ‘let me’. Direct ‘ownership’ of the wraith and tighter
presentation like (for example) ‘Rest is my wraith that will not sleep’
increases metaphorical impact. ‘I Come in Winter to a City Without You’
is curiously headed by this Mallarmé quotation: ‘Oh so dear from afar
and nearby’. What is this quote’s purpose? True, it fits the theme –
but Mooney-Singh’s poem says it much better than this (unusually)
ordinary Mallarmé line; a redundant epigraph, it may imply credibility
is sought through an artificial hitch to the famous. High-profile
quotations can be epigraphically effective. But there’s risk that
contrast with iconic lines may diminish one’s own and inclusion may
appear to ‘name-drop’. If the same poem’s ‘the god of small
transactions’ is an allusion to Arundhati Roy’s Booker-winning Indian
novel
The God of Small Things,
should this be acknowledged? Or is it a subliminal reference to the
novel? Could it be pure coincidence? Of course the reader is never
‘party’ to writers’ thoughts. It’s suffice to say that if Mooney-Singh
was aware of his line’s similarity to Roy’s title, it was advisable to
not use it and rely on his own words.
There are minor irritants;
an alcoholic’s problems are lessened with a cliché (‘all have raised a
storm’) and curiously excessive use of colons and semi-colons. These
‘punctuations’ enhance pauses but frequent use impairs poetic flow and
produces a ‘boy who cried wolf’ effect - reduced impact of their
effective moments. The poem ‘Families’, mostly a prosaic list, has
poetry in its rhythm, which leads to the other key feature of
Mooney-Singh the poet: performance. It was informative to attend the
collection’s launch. Prosey patches were enlivened, reflecting that a
not insignificant proportion is ‘poems for the stage’. His performance
embraced skilful light/shade vocals and effective nylon-string guitar
accompaniment.
The Bearded Chameleon progresses strong poetic qualities Mooney-Singh crafted in his first collection
The Laughing Buddha Cab Company (2007). To gain full appreciation one should experience the performance.
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The Bearded Chameleon
Geoff Page
The Canberra Times,
21 January 2012
Chris Mooney-Singh has also had an interesting life story (though
re-telling it is rarely the intention of his poems). Raised in Canberra
in the late 1950s and 1960s, Mooney-Singh adopted Sikhism in 1989. He
has travelled and lived for extended periods in Singapore, India and
other countries in the region. He has also become an expert in Sikh
music.
The Bearded Chameleon,
the first of his books to be properly circulated in Australia, focusses
on India. Unlike most of the work written by Australian poets
travelling in that country (or living there for short periods),
Mooney-Singh’s poems are written from the “inside”, as it were. Even
so, the poet has no illusions about how well he knows his subject — or
how well he is accepted by his new correligionists or compatriots.
India is a vast topic after all.
The key to this book is
probably the title poem, a sequence where the poet sees himself as a
chameleon, adept at fitting in no matter how difficult. He is also
quick to see the irony of his self-chosen predicament: “My sun-cracked
soles have drawn some sap / from green Punjab. An Aussie chap // I chew
on sugarcane each week / and sport this beard — a convert Sikh. // Now
turbaned like a maharajah, / I’d pass for Ranjit Singh, the Padshah —
// a bit like you, chameleon — / a colour-shifting charlatan.”
There’s
nothing of the charlatan, however, in Mooney-Singh’s nicely balanced
views of the pluses and minuses of the country which has called him. He
is quite unsparing of the corruption in Indian life, the savage
oppression of a great many of its citizens and yet he also leaves the
reader in no doubt as to the country’s and the culture’s
attractions. There are poignant monologues such as that by the unjustly
treated “Mrs Pritima Devi” but also the cleverly balanced binaries in
the poem “Laws” where every negative is offset by a corresponding
positive. e.g. “despite the hunting season on dissidents / another
mongoose crosses the road” or “despite the rise of fanatics to
government / clans of macaques will rule the ruins”.
As the
excerpts quoted may illustrate, Mooney-Singh is a poet who is both
accessible and skilled in his art. What he has to say about his adopted
country should be essential reading for the naive tourist — indeed,
even for the sophisticated one (who will enjoy even more its slyly
observant references).
Chris Mooney-Singh’s new collection of poetry
The Bearded Chameleon
is the work of a new voice engaging with the ‘diaspora discourse’. As a
Caucasian Australian who
embrace truth in the global world. Such are the rich layers of thought
and experience to be found within the pages of
The Bearded Chameleon.
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The Reverse Diaspora - An Australian Poet’s India
Ranga Chandrarathne
Sunday Observer
(Sri Lanka),
1 January 2012
Chris Mooney-Singh’s new collection of poetry
The Bearded Chameleon
is the work of a new voice engaging with the ‘diaspora discourse’. As a
Caucasian Australian who has converted to Sikhism, his is a kind of
reverse-diasporic point of view. Mooney-Singh’s close empathy with the
land of his adopted way of life and philosophy creates in the reader
the impression of a second-generation ‘returnee’ to a familiar time and
place, when in reality, he is a son of Antipodean soil.
This is
evident from the dropped hints in selected poems throughout the
collection. Otherwise, this is poetry that could have been written by
an Indian with all its insider knowledge.
The title itself hints
at Mooney-Singh’s chameleon-like position within the Indian landscape
and the agility with which he writes about it. Thus, his example as a
cultural convert needs its own reverse-diasporic category to
differentiate it from mere travel writing.
It is evident that he
has lived and breathed long and deep in Northern India and his
considered work codifies the vivid and changing reality of the diaspora
as he commutes between Australia, Singapore and India; along the way,
he deals extensively with prominent themes such as nostalgia, memory
and the imaginary homeland.
Ethnic, cultural and the micro-observation of regional diversity are some of the hallmarks of Mooney-Singh’s India poems.
As
in the classical description of diasporic writings, this poetic
exploration is not only a codification of individual experiences but
also a poetic documentary of the ‘collective voice’ in a highly
hybridised milieu. In a way, this hybridity is manifested in
Mooney-Singh’s mixed genealogy: his Australian-Irish descent, a work
life domiciled in Singapore (evident from his previous collection
The
Laughing Buddha Cab Company) and his ongoing transnational experiments
with the Sikh way of life.
Deprivation
Poverty and
deprivation in a typical North Indian village is brilliantly captured
in ‘Punjab Pastoral’ the opening poem of the collection. Poverty is
coupled with an inlander naivety on the part of the villagers who think
the village tank is like ‘the Ocean’ that nobody has ever seen.
In
fact, this is also a classical allusion to medieval Bhakti and Sikh
poetry where the metaphor of the ‘Ocean’ represents eternal
consciousness and is often applied to any body of water at hand.
In
a traditional Punjabi context a ‘tank’ was a flat ‘ocean-wide’ expanse
of water, rather than a small-mouthed well. In the Post-Partition days,
however, the Central Indian Government created irrigation canals with
pumps controlling irrigation within Punjab and controversially to other
neighbouring states such as Haryana and Rajasthan, negating the old
system of using village tanks for human and animal consumption:
I cannot hear the mermaid singing here
beside this irrigation channel, dug with hoes
and feeding sugar cane – a sudden crop
of sweetest cash, yet magical as staves,
...
and green-checked lungi , that is now hitched up
above my knees, so that my own wet soil
can drop and find its way back into landfill.
It sounds quite pastoral and yet
a place without a latrine, without a job
for every man, a place of raw mixed opium,
strained through muslin cotton, squeezed and drained...
...
The only way a young man gets to leave
is selling his plot for an agent’s dicy promise
of a stamped visa to a foreign sweatshop.
Yes, they all want to leave and yet I’ve come
to squat and shit and the chew the grass and spit
like village elders by the Panchayat tree.
For what? A cultural look and see and then
To fly back when the travel cash runs dry?
They look and talk of me, the grubby kids,
Dragging a stick of sugar cane in dust,
and mothers loading grass onto their heads...
...I hear no mermaid singing by the canal.
Panchayat: a village council of five
The
poet contrasts an over-fertilised and toxic pastoral landscape with the
impoverished human world relying upon it at a time when everyone longs
to leave. Having come for ‘a cultural look’ this should be an idealised
heaven - the land of his philosophical beliefs. The harsh reality is,
however, that having endured centuries of Islamic invasion, partition,
war and discord, including the militant decade of the 1980s, this is
now a place in agrarian and social decline - with over-reliance on deep
artesian wells and pumps in a State subject to water politics, land
division, unemployment and social problems such as AIDS and massive
drug addiction where the Government turns a blind eye and receives its
bribes.
Like many diasporic poets, Mooney Singh explores with
unclogged vision a place beset by man-managed tragedies, yet still
attempts to link with the idea of ‘the original home’ and historic home
of the ten Sikh Gurus and their disciples who created a spiritual,
economic and political revolution in Punjab - the ‘Land of Five Rivers’
from the middle of the 15th to the 20th Century. Sadly, it seems such a
haven seems now to exist only in the poet’s imagination and he is aware
of it.
Pastoral
The term ‘pastoral’ for instance also carries
with it all of the connotations of Western civilization, going back to
the bucolic age of Homer and Hesiod in ancient Greece and Virgilian
Rome. Now, however, the word ‘pastoral’ is clearly ironic in a post
British-ruled sub-continent. The sources of problems for the Land of
Five Rivers of the once undivided State encapsulating Pakistan run
deep.
‘Punjab Pastoral’ is thus a poem which might well be
catogorised according to the poetics of ‘return’. The poet visits a
familiar landscape which is the ‘original home’. In his mindscape,
there is still a mermaid who ‘sings by the canal’ which may allude to
Eliot’s Prufrock where the mermaids sing ‘each to each’ but not to him.
It’s a nod to Modernism that informs us that the author, despite his
interest in Indian history is still a global poet of the
post-industrial era with all its foibles and post-modern doubts. The
‘pastoral’ image of the village contrasts sharply with the harsh ground
reality with ‘grubby kids, dragging a stick of sugar cane in dust’
while ‘mothers [are] loading grass onto their heads’. It is clear that
the poet is not part of the landscape he wants to identify with and his
cultural anchorage has almost foundered. Cultural loss is a major
characteristic of diasporic life. The narrator of the poem has dual
identities, but in the deepest sense is a stranger wherever he is.
Memories
Thus
there are more poems that attempt to find firm ground to re-build
memories into edifices of faith. In ‘Steel Kiss’, Mooney-Singh
solidifies one of these cherished moments celebrating a lover’s
lipsticked kiss on a steel cup which has been preserved unwashed over
three decades. In a highly skilful manner, he returns again and again,
poem after poem, during the first section of the book to a time of death
and tragedy and loss of a life partner and holds each moment up to the
light with deep feeling and poignancy. A primary trait of diasporic
writing is the attempt on the part of the writer to negotiate with
retreating history, past customs and traditions.
Poetic
analepsis, the major technique behind the collection, works through
nostalgia, memory and reclamation as literary themes. As mentioned
before in ‘Steel Kiss’, the poet attempts to reclaim history (personal
history) which may be a part of collective history as well:
‘Stainless steel’ we say, long-lasting,
one cup per life span, It did not rust
away on a table under the pipal tree
where we and squirrels took meals.
How long has it been since I heard
your discourse on love? Once sipped
from this cup, I unpacked it today as proof
you had red lips, and drank, and lived.
Yet, why have I been detained among
the iron gods? I gulp down milk and sorrow
from new tumblers of steel, filling and draining
three decades of gains and losses.
Today, I lift your old cup from a suitcase
of last things you touched on earth.
I see the lipstick: two firm petal prints.
I will never clean away the kiss.
The
line ‘of last things you touched on earth’ quite clearly suggests that
the loved one is no more and all that is left - ‘the kiss’ on an empty
cup is a powerful visual reminder of a past relationship and becomes an
emblem of a love that does not forget and wants to endure.
Passionate encounter
In
the poem ‘Pink Silk from Punjab’, the poet describes a passionate
encounter with a woman and its memory which is aptly symbolised by the
pink Punjabi silk. There is nothing to suggest that the character of
‘Steel Kiss’ is not the same love-making woman of this poem. She
represents the continent of India, while the narrator is from another
‘continent’ and thus the act of union is played out symbolically.
Interracial marriages and dating is part and parcel of diasporic life.
In such a relationship clash of cultures, values and ethos is
represented by the expression ‘collision of continents’.
I’m still dreaming pink silk from Punjab.
I’m dreaming the gentle collision of continents.
The scent of her is gone from my hair.
Enigmatic in the traffic as a rickshaw wallah,
Why do I imagine her wobbling her head?
...
The last time before she left, we wallowed
like buffaloes for one hour. I am left with only
the memory of our bodies, wet as fish.
In
the poem ‘My Fallen’ the poet evocatively narrates the emotional
departure of his relations in a long and unending journey of life. The
principal motif of the poem is nostalgia associated with childhood
(past) peopled by his relations.
These last photos I don’t have:
China doll-haired sister,
whom I played and fought with,
you were first to fall, aged 7 -
your liver coughing up in 1963
while the heart crashed down
for good on a hospital floor.
...
The strident starling of 2001
still halo your head on soft grass.
Dad, you were stroke-struck,
...
Bumpiness and a photo flip book
and every other happy snap
keep smiling among tall mountain gods;
but I am travel-sick, bussing up
the puke-green hillsides of Himachal,
climbing to what summit?
‘Abstract
Studies with Monsoon Green’ lends novel interpretations to the colour
‘green’. In this agricultural context, green becomes a personified
invisible form who comes and goes mysteriously with the days and the
monsoonal moods of the season. Yet, the ‘green’ has always been there
like a numinous presence as mysterious as in ‘Steel Kiss’ and ‘Pink
Silk from Punjab’ On a more pragmatic level, the poem is also
celebration of tropical nature:
The days of humid blindness are upon us
the rain has left a steamy haze of green.
The mulberry limb drips into the milk pail,
green are the tears upon the chili plants
It is a sudden season of tractor bog,
green footsteps printed in the mud
It seems the white of milk has lost its green,
idle days have lost their shouting children.
...
I have to learn new ways of planting rice:
Green thumb, invite the fingers to make friends.
A
salient characteristic of the poem is that it strongly evokes ‘Home’ or
the ‘Old Country’ in which the narrator wishes perhaps to be a part of,
but cannot, and yet it is a vital part of his emotional life. ‘Home’ is
a numinous desire in the diasporic imagination. It is a hidden place of
no-return, although it’s quite possible to visit the geographical
location: a Punjabi village, or place of ‘monsoon green’. That aspect
of loss is evocatively captured in the line ‘I have to learn new ways
of planting rice’. Such is Mooney-Singh’s identification with the
source of his imagination that he speaks like an ageless peasant from
this milieu in the same way that Wallace Stevens speaks in metaphors
within the lines of American symbolist poem ‘The Blue Guitar.’
Diasporic existence
In
the aptly titled poem ‘The Bearded Chameleon’, the poet skilfully
dramatises the basic dilemma in diasporic existence, constantly in
negotiation with diverse cultures, languages (bilingualism or
multilingualism) and the sheer hybridity which virtually obliterates
one’s identity. The personality that diasporic writers bear is
multifaceted and such writings depict the intersection of cultures,
identities and ethnicities that swing between an adopted motherland and
the lost ‘Home’. The narrator compares himself to a ‘bearded chameleon’
on a Bo tree:
My sun-cracked soles have drawn some sap
from green Punjab, An Aussie chap,
I chew on sugarcane each week
and sport this beard-a convert Sikh.
Now turbaned like a maharajah,
I’d pass for Ranjit Singh, the Padshah-
a bit like you, chameleon –
a colour-shifting charlatan.
Yes, since I came in my blue jeans
to do write-up for magazines
your form has been my best touchstone
on how to live in The Zone
A decade later or more or less
I still reside at your address
with farmers, trades-folk, holy men
who can’t read book , or use a pen.
...
My pen is like your sticky tongue
I snatch my image- files among
the geckoes, birds on tree or plant,
or dog and pig in excrement.
If I could train my mind or hand
not just to write, but understand...
Another
thought-provoking poem in the collection is ‘Families’. The poem in its
own manner codifies the diversity of sub-continental ethnicities and is
like a collection of snap shots of life in a melting pot of its
cultures:
Families of Dravidians inter-married with Aryans,
Bactrans, Parthians, Scythians, Huns,
Families of Arabs, Afghanis, Turks, Tartars,
families of Moguls, families of White Men.
Families of Ram, Shiv Ji, Kali-Durga,
Guru Nanak, Mahavir and Buddha,
families of Sufi renouncing all but Allah,
families of Moses, Jesus, Zoroaster.
Families of maharishi top-knots under turbans,
ash on the forehead, third eyes of red powder;
this Brahmin family wears a shaved tuft of hair,
these lace skull caps are all facing Mecca.
Spinning wheels, cane knives, humped bull and tractor,
raw chili families, white buffalo butter,
gypsy carts, truck drivers, itinerant bicycle tinkers,
fish hunter families on midnight rivers.
Families of fundamental Hindu and Mussalman,
militant grit in the Government eye,
black money families, unfair election tactics,
families of bosses, families of thugs.
This family fought the Moguls, this fought the British,
this family chopped off heads during Partition;
this family went on non-violent hunger strikes,
this family plundered, that family looked on.
This family left the village, that family found the city,
this family migrated on false passports,
this family placed an ad in The Times of India,
this dutiful daughter got a green-card husband.
Well-fed families, choked platforms of families,
endless traffic of uncles and aunties;
and this is a family of child prostitutes,
this is a family of railway orphans.
Families of priests, families of bureaucrats,
families in business, families with one acre,
beggars, street people, Dalits and tribals,
castes of inheritors and the eternal outsiders.
Caste systems
The
poem is a slice of Indian society with its classes and caste systems.
What is obvious is that the class system will go on unabated with
families of beggars, Dalits and outsiders. Despite change, nothing
changes in the social order here. The poet has captured the diversity
of the Indian human landscape which is an amalgam of ethnicities with
their inherent disparities in socio-economic terms. The poem also
touches on aspects of dislocation, re-location and memo-realisation.
Diasporic writers while looking backward for ‘home’ also look for the
new belongings that can be owned and built upon. In this process, the
transformation of ‘identity’ is accompanied by change of place. One may
not regain a ‘home’ in the diasporic existence. It is due to this
factor that a diasporic writer often tries to realise memory or
memo-realisation.
One of the poems which captures the
quintessential form of the lost ‘home’ is ‘Another Bhagwanpur’. The
poem offers a microscopic view of a village with its cultural and class
diversity, abject poverty and deprivation:
A country village stuck in the buffalo mud
piles up its cow-pats, balancing clay pots
of mosquito water on the heads of women
who wear pregnancy under flimsy shawls
The village council of five cannot fight
the school’s wrong sums and cane-learning;
cement walls, white-washed by government,
the young men employed by opium.
Here buffalos don’t budge from bor trees
and doctors deal in snake-bit mantras,
while last Gandhian freedom fighter
props up old glory on a walking stick.
How poignant the hopes for a better harvest,
the flimsy huts laying down for floods,
the naïve child-brides of the king of malaria,
the night-long typhoid prayers to Ram.
Chris
Mooney-Singh has admirably dealt with many issues such as the caste
system in India (particularly in the two-part poem ‘To the Dalits’) and
how globalisation is affecting Indian cities. There are also several
narrative sketches and character monologues that again skillfully
depict Indians in their home settings, or troubled circumstances such
as ‘Yogesh Meets Ganesh’, an agnostic executive forced to accept the
faith of his ancestors in an eleventh hour bid to save his infant son
from fever; or the story of Mrs Pritima Devi, the school teacher and
survivor of poisoning at the hands of her in-laws who tells her story
(in Indian English blank verse) to a foreign colleague on the staff.
Despite creating an epic frieze of ancient India transitioning to a
modern one, there is still a feeling of reverence portrayed in between
the moments of confusion, gentle satire and tragi-comic irony. In
addition, Mooney-Singh’s metrical and open form virtuosity abounds,
especially in his adaption of the ghazal into English while still
retaining its inherent rhyme scheme, equivalent English metres and deep
metaphorical conventions while delivering contemporary moments of
intimate experience.
Invisible sensibility
Overall,
Mooney-Singh delivers many gifts in a post-modern package - flawless
technique, psychological insight and a knack for catching the flavour
of Indian speech without turning it into parody through his role as a
cultural translator. He is someone equally at home in the Indian milieu
he writes about and yet retains the invisible sensibility of his
Western upbringing and education which does not dominate or try to
colonise its subject with ‘easy judgements’ (p29, ‘Apartment of a
Bombay Millionaire’). Just as Vikram Seth masterfully wrote his
tetrameter sonnet-novel
The Golden Gate in the voices of satirical
Californians, Mooney-Singh has done something equally deft, reversing
the perspective from Australia to India, in turn, adding a deeply
engaging book to the canon of diasporic literature. Whether Eastern or
Western-born,
The Beaded Chameleon offers both macro and micro views of
the diasporic reality in which its writer is virtually caught between a
cultural home that no longer exists, while coming to terms with the new
‘home’ - a modern India that is still being constructed through the tug
of war of globalization. In the third and final section of the book, a
single ‘homecoming’ poem - ‘I Come in Winter to a City Without You’ in
seven sections, the speaker has left his partner back on the
sub-continent while he ventures to his original ‘home’ to Australia. In
doing so, he is forced to acknowledge that his true home is not a
physical one, but the intimate relationship he is now forced to inhabit
via the virtual world of ‘ennui and email’:
Distant intimacy
demands imaginings,
a new domicile of words
as the ocean swells
under galaxies, out of time zones.
When do we meet under stars?
And
thus, the collection returns us again to the symbolic ‘Ocean’ of
‘Punjab Pastoral’ which opened the collection, emphasizing that all
journeys aim toward an inwardness and expansive understanding, and that
all diasporas are allegories of the developing self, learning to
embrace truth in the global world. Such are the rich layers of thought
and experience to be found within the pages of
The Bearded Chameleon.
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Blending into the Buddha Tree
Mark
Roberts
Rochford Street Review
(rochfordstreetreview.com),
13 December 2011
There
is little wonder that there is a sense of ‘otherness’ running through
Chris Mooney-Singh’s second major collection
The Bearded Chameleon.
As
in his first collection,
The
Laughing Buddha Cab Company, Mooney-Singh
is very aware that it is impossible not to stand out in either India or
Australia when you are a turbaned, bearded westerner. Having converted
to Sikhism in 1989 his poems reflect an inspiration which is perhaps
unique to Australian poetry.
But If Mooney-Singh is unique among
Australian poets, his position in India is also slightly complicated. A
number of times in this collection he comments on how he is perceived
in his adopted land. In the first poem in the collection, ‘Punjab
Pastoral’, for example, he begins by describing how much he blends into
the Indian landscape:
This cotton shawl is pulled up
round my ears
keeping out the fog as I
defecate
on fallow field like any
other farmer.
I wear a turban, bobbing
like a sunflower
But there is a fundamental difference here:
Yes, they all want to leave and
yet I’ve come
to squat and shit and
chew on grass and spit
like village elders by
the panchayat tree.
‘Punjab Pastoral’
The fundamental difference, of course, is that Mooney-Singh has a
choice. He can stay, leave and come back:
For what? A cultural look and
see and then
to fly back when the
travel cash runs dry?
This
is a theme he returns to in a later poem, ‘Apartment of a Bombay
Millionaire’. This poem begins in a mock deferential tone “Sir, you
have wide windows, facing West/to the Arabian Sea”. But the
trappings of wealth can’t hide the reality of every live for the vast
majority:
yet I find it hard to talk of
‘higher things’
seeing the tin shacks of
the servant slums
directly below these
apartment blocks.
At
the same time as the poet feels disgust at the hypocrisy of the
millionaire donating to the temple while ignoring the slums, he also
releases that there are points where both them are more similar than he
would like to admit:
It’s
all too easy
to invent tidy
aphorisms. It is high time
I was gone. Mine are
also the words of privilege
‘Speaking’
But
there is hope in the ending as the poet understands that he must
‘escape’ back into reality. As he is washing his hands he realises:
I must take myself far away from
Your sparkling
unblemished rose standing in this vase,
And make them into
useful hands.
‘Apartment of a Bombay Millionaire’
The
strength of this poem lies in its almost spiritual sense of temptation.
From a western tradition one thinks immediately of Satan’s role in
tempting ‘virtuous men’. In the same way in this poem Mooney-Singh is
escaping the temptation to cut himself off from the reality of his
adopted land by retreating into an Indian version of the West.
While
he can sense this ‘difference’ Mooney-Singh can also see a way out. In
the title poem of the collection he sees himself like the chameleon
adapting and fitting in so that, over time, the ‘differenceness’ fades
away:
My sun-cracked soles have drawn
some sap
from green Punjab. An
Aussie chap,
I chew on sugarcane each
week
and sport this beard – a
converted Sikh
but in the end his skill at disguising his difference is not as good as
the chameleon:
Perhaps, I will, one day, be free
to blend in with the
Buddha tree.
‘The Bearded Chameleon’
One
of the surprising strengths of this poem, at least for me, was the
poet’s use of rhyming couplets. While initially a little wary of the
use of the form through a fairly long poem, Mooney-Singh manages to
pull it off with remarkable skill - for the most part the poem
maintains a strong internal rhythm mostly avoiding any forced rhymes
that could disrupt the flow of the poem.
The other strength of
this collection is the way that Mooney-Singh can turn the everyday into
poetry. From the stark contrast of the imagery in a poem like
‘Indian City’ – “satellite dishes on a
temple
sky-line” and “fresh cow pats on the new
overpass” - to the
wonderful juxtaposition of the astrologer in ‘The Thirteenth House’
with the Stock Broker in ‘Mr Chopra’, we begin to sense that the poet
has, perhaps almost a unique insight into the day to day functioning of
Indian life.
In the final instance the contradiction of a
Australian trying to blend, like a chameleon, into the everyday of
Indian life provides the major strength of this collection.
Mooney-Singh has become very close to India, but he still brings the
cultural baggage of the West with him. Like the Chameleon, no matter
how still he stands, no matter how much he tries to blend in, we can
still see the outline of a previous life if we look
closely. There is much to enjoy in this book and I look
forward to
Mooney-Singh’s next collection.
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The Bearded Chameleon
Lindy Warrell
Wet Ink, Issue 25, 2011
The delightfully titled
The Bearded Chameleon refers, in the eponymous poem, to the poet, Chris Mooney Singh who writes about India as an Australian convert to Sikhism -
My sun-cracked soles have drawn some sap
from green Punjab. An Aussie chap,
I chew on sugarcane each week
And sport this beard - a convert Sikh.
As
the poet-chameleon, Mooney-Singh situates himself as both insider and
outsider-observer but, overall, the outsider-observer dominates and,
despite disclaimers in ‘Apartment of a Bombay Millionaire’, often
judges -
I do admit that easy judgements are
A Westerner’s naive undoing. Please excuse
my traveller’s stomach that needs the toilet.
Through the South door? Fine, I’ll try to scrub off
The self-righteous caste of ‘foreigner’ from
These palms in your jasmine-scented bathroom...
Mooney-Singh
borrows from the Indian poetic forms, especially the Ghazal or rhyming
couplets but he uses a range of styles, including short bursts of free
verse. My favourite poem in this collection is ‘Families’, one of the
few where the words themselves do the work of poetry instead of the
pronoun ‘I’, which places the poet front and centre in the telling.
Mooney-Singh’s
poetry is clear and largely descriptive, but there is joy in reading
poets whose work add something unique to the tapestry of Australian
poetry.
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Launch
Speech
The Bearded Chameleon
was launched by John Hawke, lecturer and poet
, on 19 November
2011 at Red Wheelbarrow Books in East Brunswick.
John Hawke
19 November 2011
Chris Mooney-Singh belongs to an intermediate generation of poets
who emerged in Sydney in the 1980s – Steven and Chris Kelen, Adam
Aitken, Dipti Sara and others - whose work seems to have been
underrepresented in anthologies. This may be attributable to the fact
that they are an inter-generation - but it also might be because their
work doesn’t conform to hegemonic nationalist expectations of
Australian poetry. Certainly there is a shared openness of engagement,
particularly evident in Adam’s work, with broader international themes;
and each of these poets is widely travelled. This is perhaps
exacerbated in Chris’ case by the fact that he has spent extended
periods living in Asia - he has made a significant contribution to the
poetry scene in Singapore, and has participated in a wide range of
poetry festivals across South-East Asia in recent years. It is also
worth noting that while it may be relatively easy to ‘emerge’ as an
Australian poet, many experienced practitioners in mid-career tend to
be overlooked - often in spite of the fact that this is when they are
producing their most important work.
This is Chris’ second
full-length collection - I’ve read his first,
The Laughing Buddha
Cab-Company, and I’m also lucky enough to have read some
of the
excellent recent work that’s been completed since this current volume -
and it seems clear that he is now delivering the fully developed poetry
that he’s been working towards for many years. One thing that is
immediately noticeable about Chris’ work is his mastery of prosodic
technique: his poetry has its basis in a flawless metrical sense,
especially in his control of the blank verse line, which allows him to
write extended narrative and dramatic poems. There is a remarkable
variation in formal models, as well as a range in tone, throughout this
book: there are rhymed stanzas, monologues, evocations of the natural
world, even a highly amusing found-text. Each of Chris’ poems is
consistently based in solid technique, which means that they not only
stand up to close inspection, but improve on rereading (the real ‘test
of poetry’).
I’ve never been to India, but feel I have an
entirely trustworthy guide through the paradoxes and contradictions of
what it must be like to experience that country through reading the
central section of Chris’ book. The adeptness of understanding
demonstrated by the speaker of these poems is most apparent in the
portraits, like the wonderful ‘Apartment of a Bombay Millionaire’; and
also in monologues – recalling those of Clough or Browning - such as
the major poem ‘Mrs Primita Devi’. Obviously there have been previous
Australian poets who have engaged with India - some of the poems in
Judith Beveridge’s
Accidental
Grace, for example; a long travel-poem by
Robert Gray; Vicki Viidikas’
India
Ink, to name a few; and there have
been a growing number of recent books of Australian poetry focusing on
Asia, which Chris has been pointing out for me. But I don’t recall a
comparable sense of immersion, of a genuinely long-term lived
understanding of the country, as one encounters in these poems. I did
sit down to watch the whole of Louis Malle’s six-hour film
Phantom
India shortly after I met Chris, but I needn’t have tried:
it’s all in
the poems.
But this book isn’t just about creating exotic
panoramas and character studies, though it certainly does that. In fact
the personality of the speaker, which is self-evidently suggested in
the book’s title, is acutely important to the reception of what is
being described here - and not only as an observer or cross-cultural
filter. The book opens with a series of confronting poems that are
pitched at extreme level of grief - very carefully handled and shaped,
I should say. That’s quite a risky way to start, but I think it is
deliberately intended to provide a shaping theme for the structure of
this book. We’re immediately made to confront the fact that this is a
very sad world to live in: there is intense grief, there is suffering,
and - as we’ll see in the Indian portraits later - there are also
extremes of acute injustice. So the book from this point on describes
the speaker’s attempt to ‘orient’ himself: it’s quite literally a
search for meaning, as journeys to the east often are. So in this
context, the descriptive poems about India, the chaos and
contradictions they’re identifying, are quite loaded with the speaker’s
own divided perceptions - it’s a kind of purgatory he’s experiencing
after the sudden descent of the opening sequence. There’s a very fine,
and very carefully placed, poem at the conclusion of the first section
that I’d like to read; it’s called ‘A Meditation at Sukhna Lake’, and
it’s about just that: the attempt to, at least fleetingly, clear the
mind of a world of suffering:
Accept you have no inkling of
the power
that walks upon the dragonfly water.
Siberian geese each season migrate here,
yet bird and lake exist beyond your will.
You comprehend so little of this, truly.
Brother of fish, brother of water-lotus
when will you frog-kick out toward the truth?
Only the endless saga, coming, going -
may free your awkward spirit-form today.
Stand witness to the swans, the gliding hours
that slide by here; feel all of sadness,
of happiness beneath the lily-pads,
and realize that neither can be shelter
under the blue sky that you did not build.
A temporary tenant of the flesh,
only your steady mind can save you now.
The leaf will helicopter from the tree,
the yellow blossom crash upon the water.
Wind knocks you down upon a fatal whim,
as the spirit rainbows upward like a fish
gasping between the earth and heaven. Think
where you will go, where you must go, and go.
That’s obviously a religious poem - one which has
more in common with Kabir, or the poets of the sufist tradition, than
with anything we’d recognise in Australian poetry of the natural world.
That’s not entirely true, of course, because we find similar quests in
the work of Harold Stewart, and indeed throughout the imagery of Judith
Wright’s work - the ‘white water-lily’ that appears as the culmination
of her book
The Gateway,
for example; and I know that’s a tradition
which Chris himself is interested to identify and to position himself
within.
As I suggested,
The
Bearded Chameleon
is carefully structured as a volume, and the journey it describes does
lead to some consolation in the beautifully shaped extended poem that
concludes the final section. It’s not a ‘paradiso’ by any means: the
relationship it describes is still affected by absence and separation,
of cultures as much as distance, and that’s what Chris identifies and
chronicles so clearly throughout this book. In doing so he provides a
wonderful foundation for the major work he’s now engaged on - and I
think we should enjoy this volume in anticipation of the poetry to
come. Chris provides quite a unique voice and perspective for our
engagement with and experience of Asia; and that’s mainly because he’s
a highly accomplished and profoundly serious poet.
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Mooney-Singh biography