Editor’s Note
When I first read Aakanksha’s poem Greens, I felt bewitched. I closed my eyes and felt I had been transported to a lush forest. In the next read, I kept my eyes open and tried to follow what she had been doing and was delighted to find something unusual. Bucking the convention of relying heavily on description, imagery & adjectives to evoke the senses like in a typical nature poem, the poet instead uses a very specific set of verbs to animate our reading of the poem.
She employs these verbs to do two things — one, to create a sense of motion, and, second, to create an acoustic landscape. Words like stroll, sculpt, knock, infuse a sense of movement in the poem. We plod alongside her on this walk, getting knocked on the head by trees. While verbs like paddle, whistle and blabber construct a rich soundscape, enhancing the poem’s sonic atmosphere.
Additionally, the poet complements these senses by using visual imagery with phrases like ‘foliage of Indian laurels’ or ‘my sky, a dark forest green’. It feels like this visual aspect further boosts the kinesthetic and auditory elements of the poem making it an overall immersive ambience. By engaging at least three senses, Aakanksha creates a three-dimensional experience on the page, which is what truly helps us envision, sense and imagine the greens in the mind’s eye.
—Yashasvi Vachhani
The Bombay Literary Magazine
I have learnt a new way to stroll. I face up
& walk & walk & walk. & instead of the
black asphalt, foliage of the Indian laurels &
Monkey Pods sculpt my path. Sometimes, the red
bells of kaju trees knock my small forehead,
as if to say, Welcome, make yourself a home. My sky,
a dark forest green. Clouds, nothing
but an umbrella of bright lime, seafoam, & olive
leaves. Just like that, I am a sunbird
all purple plumage, pointy claws. I paddle
in the cover of thickets & groves. I whistle
instead of blabber. My tail turns to
a wind song. To me, oriental robins &
drongos contribute to rowdy traffic.
Orioles & bulbuls rollick & dart
from chikoo plants to guava to
coconut palm. As does the proud kingfisher. Electric
wires form sturdy highways & street lights make for
mini-layovers. When I peer down at the
expanse of tropical grasslands, the bulls graze
with egrets atop their humps. Safe to say,
all must be okay with the world. I soak up all
this arboreal glee & retire to the timberline.
—No one finds me here. I dream in greens.—
Dangling in the middle of the flyover overlooking Akshardham. Facing the ashy fields of Noida, where the sun yawns. By the jittery road-side masala lemonade stall. Further, between the endless tri-laned Barapullah & open-armed JLN. In the calls of jutti sellers at Delhi Haat. Buzzing through the trails of wedding-ready Karol Bagh. Resting (& snoring) on pavements of Katwaria Sarai. Under the tombs of Nizamuddin & mowed lawns of Sunder Nursery. On the wild hill tops of Sanjay Van. Tottering in the inner & outer circles of CP (mostly lost). Hanging in the air-conditioned blue DTC. In the swearing of the holier-than-thou attitude of airport cabbies. In the mad honking of Krishna Nagar scooties. Diffusing in the steam of Hunger Strike momos. Fighting hot spells at India Gate with 10 rupee lollies. Amidst the immortal tree awnings of Chanakyapuri. Multiplying & multiplying in Yamuna’s putrid mouth.
My back is arched across the
yoga wheel. The tip of my head
is melting into the floor. Our instructor
is chanting—feel the stillness, the whole body,
slow the breath. Still. Still. Still. Outside
the window, elephantine-trees
are having their annual spring gala. The piercing
blue sky—a terrific terrace venue. Limbs bow
to greet, shake hands gracefully. Branches begin
to braid each other’s hair. In a fishtail please,
yellow silk says. Pink Poui flowers nod &,
sway like temple bells. Teeee Toooo Teeee Tooo Teee
the chime of all things alive. Jacarandas
scuttle past late & overdressed. The party
pullulates with shrubs, creepers, & humped cook pines. Above them,
clouds smooch sensually. A whole
minute later, I am being summoned to
my electric purple mat. Late
to the soiree, I swim
the watery sky—flaunting
my new fins to the flora clan.
Acknowledgements
Image credits: Henri Rousseau. Le_Rêve (The Dream, 1910). Oil on canvas, 204.5 x 298.5 cm (80.5 x 117.5 in). Museum of Modern Art, New York City. Image courtesy. Google Art Project. Wiki Media.
Rousseau wasn’t sure viewers would “get” his painting. As was his wont, he wrote a bad poem to explain what it was about. But the poem was less than transparent, so he wrote a couple more. He also letters to critics clarifying his painterly intents. Aakanksha’s poem ‘Greens’ with its rich green imagery, dreaming narrator and strange ascension is perhaps the poem Rousseau should have written.
Author | Aakanksha Ahuja
Aakanksha is on an odyssey to read & write delightful poems. One day, she dreams of tongue-kissing a cumulus cloud. She’s an ex-journalist & a make-do business editor/writer. Her work has appeared in HT Mint, Gulmohar Quarterly, Pena Lit Mag, and elsewhere.
