Mahasweta Gogoi- End Term Assignment & Self reflective essay

Visual narratives: Poems

1. Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning

The rain set early in to-night, 

       The sullen wind was soon awake, 

It tore the elm-tops down for spite, 

       And did its worst to vex the lake: 

       I listened with heart fit to break. 

When glided in Porphyria; straight 

       She shut the cold out and the storm, 

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate 

       Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; 

       Which done, she rose, and from her form 

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, 

       And laid her soiled gloves by, untied 

Her hat and let the damp hair fall, 

       And, last, she sat down by my side 

       And called me. When no voice replied, 

She put my arm about her waist, 

       And made her smooth white shoulder bare, 

And all her yellow hair displaced, 

       And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, 

       And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 

Murmuring how she loved me — she 

       Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, 

To set its struggling passion free 

       From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 

       And give herself to me for ever. 

But passion sometimes would prevail, 

       Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain 

A sudden thought of one so pale 

       For love of her, and all in vain: 

       So, she was come through wind and rain. 

Be sure I looked up at her eyes 

       Happy and proud; at last I knew 

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise 

       Made my heart swell, and still it grew 

       While I debated what to do. 

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, 

       Perfectly pure and good: I found 

A thing to do, and all her hair 

       In one long yellow string I wound 

       Three times her little throat around, 

And strangled her. No pain felt she; 

       I am quite sure she felt no pain. 

As a shut bud that holds a bee, 

       I warily oped her lids: again 

       Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. 

And I untightened next the tress 

       About her neck; her cheek once more 

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: 

       I propped her head up as before, 

       Only, this time my shoulder bore 

Her head, which droops upon it still: 

       The smiling rosy little head, 

So glad it has its utmost will, 

       That all it scorned at once is fled, 

       And I, its love, am gained instead! 

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how 

       Her darling one wish would be heard. 

And thus we sit together now, 

       And all night long we have not stirred, 

       And yet God has not said a word! 

2. A leaf falls with Loneliness by E. E Cummings

                        l(a

                        le
                        af
                        fa
                        ll
                        s)
                        one
                        l
                        iness

3. A Supermarket in California by Allen Ginsberg

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

         In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
         What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

         I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
         I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
         I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
         We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

         Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
         (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
         Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
         Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
         Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

4. You fit into me by Margaret Atwood

You fit into me

like a hook into an eye

a fish hook

an open eye 

Self-reflective essay

            I distinctly remember having come for the first class under the impression that the course was one that would teach us newer ways of reading texts, newer ways to analyse different forms, maybe differently or more than what one is taught in an undergrad. Even more clearly do I remember, the apprehension that followed once I found out submissions were to be original creative pieces. As a literature student, I always felt I couldn’t write given the amazing works we come across every day, especially poetry with its structures that reflect the content of the verses, syllables that are metered so poignantly, and much more. So while we have mastered analytical write-ups, so many of us still tremble at the thought of having to actually sit and write an original piece. I immensely enjoyed this paper now reflecting back, for having made writing no longer a distant fantasy kept off for the future under the pretence of ‘I don’t have the time’ or waiting to be inspired.

            The paper I feel made the process of creative writing a little less daunting by reducing the vastness of it through the available prompts. The prompts I believe made us focus on one thing at a time, for instance on maybe on the use of lineation as a technique to reflect thoughts or events, or maybe focus on the minute and the intricacies, while writing a descriptive poem. It helped reduce the vastness associated with poetry, with its myriad structures, meters and rhymes, into something that was more approachable. More importantly it did away with the notion of having to be in a creative head space, being struck by inspiration or having ‘natural talent’ to take to the pen.

            What also helped greatly were the readings prescribed, such as Wagner’s Six, which helped break down things and yet not make it too theoretical or kill the poems. It instead further allowed me to understand how content manifested in the structures of a poem, at the same time, how it is equally possible to employ the same content in different structures and notice the variations in reading that follows.

            Apart from poetry, I also loved how this paper approached fiction novels. The class when we chose lines from Roy’s book that we wished we had written comes to mind. I felt again, we so often busy oursleves with analysing works and movements in literary studies that we rarely get asked about what things we would want to write; neither do we stop to think ourselves. Along this tangent of reflecting, I feel this paper also allowed me to reflect on the day to day. One of the poems I wrote, Do you See me was one based on the recent deaths in Moti Nagar due to manual scavenging.

            In terms of visual narratives, doing graphic novels for the first time as a genre in a classroom; I thoroughly enjoyed working on some of the visual prompts. For instance, creating a narrative for some of my favourite poems, made me understand how words, imageries and events unfold, and try elucidate them more vividly when I write. The biggest take-away from this course, if I were to pick would be the class discussions, and the comments I received from my peers on my work, while at the same time spending the time to reflect on theirs. This process I feel made me realise just how differently we all perceive, and my work with all its intended meanings can be read so differently by others (Barthes was finally known to me). This was quite interesting and greatly influenced my writing process, when I stopped to reflect on possible interpretations, maybe even pick words that allowed room for more ambiguity.