On 'Gandu Bagicha'

[Radetof.Yahska]

// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt (link to the English translation): http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html

What I wrote below is old, and I'd like to work on it. //

Currently on version 1.2.


Revision #2

Broken glass vials
soil the shattered surface
Junk courses through you. 
Watch the giant 
Lift boulders 
Out of his way 
Lie in the floating dusk 
Cease your chatter 

The promiscuous soil
does not mind 
the dog, 
the seal, the lion, 
the drunk rickshawallah. 
Unceasing in her devotion 
to mutilate
Fleshless horses
tear up plastic wrappers 
This boat holds too many 
The river claims us lustily 
Watch the vials levitate 
The dark inside 
is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
full of old leaves 
and green clippings

This ugly vortex
bleeds
The liquid drips and turns 
into marrow 
My feet taste the soil 
the damp afterbirth  
It smells of 
limp steel 
stale bodies 
warm mulch 
raw sewage 
Soil tickles my neck
My throat is one 
with larks, worms, 
disillusioned agriculturists 
My head is a clay pot 
Back in the cradle


On 'Gandu Bagicha' (Revision #1)

The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil
Junk courses through you 
Watch the giants 
Lift the boulder 
Out of his way 
Lie in the floating dusk 
Cease your chatter 

The promiscuous soil 
does not mind 
loves the dog, 
the seal, the lion, 
the drunk rickshawallah 
Unceasing in her devotion 
to blind consumption 
The junk takes hold of you 
Ancient beasts 
claw at your innards 
This boat holds too many 
The river claims us lustily 
Watch the vials levitate 
The dark inside 
is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
full of old leaves 
and green clippings

The vials now burn 
and melt. the leaves 
burn. the clippings smoke 
The liquid drips and turns 
into marrow 
My feet taste the soil 
the damp afterbirth 
The junk passes 
It smells of 
dead steel 
stale bodies 
warm mulch 
raw sewage 
The soil tickles my neck
My throat is one 
with larks, worms, 
long-dead agriculturists 
My head is a clay pot 
back in the cradle


Original

On 'Gandu Bagicha'


The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil; 
Junk is coursing through you. 
Watch the giants 
Lift the boulder out 
Of his way. 
Lie in the floating dusk. 
Cease your chatter. 

The promiscuous soil 
Does not mind, 
Loves the dog, 
The seal, the lion, 
The drunk rickshawallah. 
Unceasing in her devotion 
To blind consumption. 
The junk takes hold of you. 
Ancient beasts 
Claw at your innards. 
This boat holds too many. 
The river claims us lustily. 
Watch the vials levitate. 
The dark inside 
Is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
Full of old leaves 
And green clippings. 

The vials now burn 
And melt. The leaves 
Burn. The clippings smoke. 
The liquid drips and turns 
Into marrow. 
My feet taste the soil, 
The damp afterbirth. 
The junk passes. 
It smells of 
Dead steel 
Stale bodies 
Warm mulch 
Raw sewage. 
The soil tickles my neck. 
My throat is one 
With larks, worms, 
Long-dead agriculturists. 
My head is a clay pot 
Back in the cradle.

[Achebe]

Loved it. Particularly:

My head is a wicker basket
Full of old leaves
And green clippings

wrong forum, though, so the mods will have it moved...

EDIT: I now understand that this is your original work inspired by the original, and not a translation of the original. So right forum in that case. Thanks for clarifying.

[Radetof.Yahska]

Loved it. Particularly:

My head is a wicker basket
Full of old leaves
And green clippings

wrong forum, though, so the mods will have it moved...

Why is it the wrong forum? I am looking for critique.

[Richard]

Hey Radetof.Yahska,
Some of the wording in this poem is strong. However, some of the wording is a bit distracting. I'll go into more detail below:

// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt: http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html  //


On 'Gandu Bagicha'

The broken glass vials
Breed in the rabid soil; -How can soil be rabid? I kind of get what you mean here, but it needs to be explored more.
Junk is coursing through you. -This line and the first line give me the impression that the speaker is doing some sort of drug. Was that your intention?
Watch the giants 
Lift the boulder out 
Of his way. 
Lie in the floating dusk. 
Cease your chatter. 

The promiscuous soil -How can soil be promiscuous? How does this work with the soil also being rabid?
Does not mind, 
Loves the dog, 
The seal, the lion, 
The drunk rickshawallah. 
Unceasing in her devotion 
To blind consumption. 
The junk takes hold of you. 
Ancient beasts 
Claw at your innards. -I like this as a way to describe how drugs can affect someone.
This boat holds too many. 
The river claims us lustily. 
Watch the vials levitate. 
The dark inside 
Is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
Full of old leaves 
And green clippings. -Is this describing some sort of hangover from the drugs? That's the only sense I can get from it.

The vials now burn 
And melt. The leaves 
Burn. The clippings smoke. 
The liquid drips and turns 
Into marrow. 
My feet taste the soil, 
The damp afterbirth. -For some reason, I love the soil being described like this.
The junk passes. 
It smells of 
Dead steel -How can steel be dead?
Stale bodies 
Warm mulch -Isn't mulch used to enrich soil for growth? That would make this image not consistent with the "Dead Steel", "Stale Bodies", or "Raw sewage".
Raw sewage. 
The soil tickles my neck. -This gives me the impression that the speaker is sinking in quicksand. Is this supposed to be describing his/her experience with drugs?
My throat is one 
With larks, worms, 
Long-dead agriculturists. 
My head is a clay pot -I think you got a good idea here, but you need to focus on how the speaker's head being a clay pot and a wicker basket work together?
Back in the cradle.

Overall, I think you have a good first draft here. My biggest suggestion would be to ask yourself what you want your main message to be here. There are times when it seems like this a poem about the experience of drug use, but there are times when some of the images and wording distract from this idea. I would suggest trimming this piece down in spots while also expanding in some other areas. This would give the poem greater focus. I look forward to seeing where you take this poem from here.

Keep writing,
Richard

[Radetof.Yahska]

Hey Radetof.Yahska,
Some of the wording in this poem is strong. However, some of the wording is a bit distracting. I'll go into more detail below:

// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt: http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html  //


On 'Gandu Bagicha'

The broken glass vials
Breed in the rabid soil; -How can soil be rabid? I kind of get what you mean here, but it needs to be explored more.
Junk is coursing through you. -This line and the first line give me the impression that the speaker is doing some sort of drug. Was that your intention?
Watch the giants 
Lift the boulder out 
Of his way. 
Lie in the floating dusk. 
Cease your chatter. 

The promiscuous soil -How can soil be promiscuous? How does this work with the soil also being rabid?
Does not mind, 
Loves the dog, 
The seal, the lion, 
The drunk rickshawallah. 
Unceasing in her devotion 
To blind consumption. 
The junk takes hold of you. 
Ancient beasts 
Claw at your innards. -I like this as a way to describe how drugs can affect someone.
This boat holds too many. 
The river claims us lustily. 
Watch the vials levitate. 
The dark inside 
Is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
Full of old leaves 
And green clippings. -Is this describing some sort of hangover from the drugs? That's the only sense I can get from it.

The vials now burn 
And melt. The leaves 
Burn. The clippings smoke. 
The liquid drips and turns 
Into marrow. 
My feet taste the soil, 
The damp afterbirth. -For some reason, I love the soil being described like this.
The junk passes. 
It smells of 
Dead steel -How can steel be dead?
Stale bodies 
Warm mulch -Isn't mulch used to enrich soil for growth? That would make this image not consistent with the "Dead Steel", "Stale Bodies", or "Raw sewage".
Raw sewage. 
The soil tickles my neck. -This gives me the impression that the speaker is sinking in quicksand. Is this supposed to be describing his/her experience with drugs?
My throat is one 
With larks, worms, 
Long-dead agriculturists. 
My head is a clay pot -I think you got a good idea here, but you need to focus on how the speaker's head being a clay pot and a wicker basket work together?
Back in the cradle.

Overall, I think you have a good first draft here. My biggest suggestion would be to ask yourself what you want your main message to be here. There are times when it seems like this a poem about the experience of drug use, but there are times when some of the images and wording distract from this idea. I would suggest trimming this piece down in spots while also expanding in some other areas. This would give the poem greater focus. I look forward to seeing where you take this poem from here.

Keep writing,
Richard

Hi Richard,

This was written after reading Dhasal's poem again, after a gap of a few years. It was the impression left by the poem in my mind, I think. The similarities to drug use are partly intentional - India has an issue with censorship, and Dhasal can, at first look, seem like garbage, or 'junk', and has been dismissed as so by many, partly due to the strong language.

This is, again, mostly about the experience of the poem, and its impression, that led me to write this. I don't think I can explain the rabid/promiscuous soil bit, but it was to conjour up images of greed, hunger, depravity, a sense of urgency, of the need to consume.

The bits and pieces in between are there to explain how it feels to read his poetry, and how it affects you, seeing where it comes from.

Thank you for the feedback. I'll work on it.

[Lizzie]

Ooooo, this is good. Welcome to the Pen! >< 

Right off the bat, I can recommend a couple of things: first, don't capitalize the first of every sentence automatically. It's not done that much anymore and makes it harder to read. I found the amount of full stops made the read a little choppy, so I'd think about combining more sentences to free up the flow a little bit.

I like the "illogical" descriptions that you have, like rabid soil, promiscuous soil, feet taste the soil -- it gives the poem a surreal feeling while still making a kind of round-about sense.

I'll be back to say more.

If you really want to workshop this, I'd recommend putting it in Serious, or at least Mild -- your work can withstand the heat.

[Radetof.Yahska]

Ooooo, this is good. Welcome to the Pen! >< 

Right off the bat, I can recommend a couple of things: first, don't capitalize the first of every sentence automatically. It's not done that much anymore and makes it harder to read. I found the amount of full stops made the read a little choppy, so I'd think about combining more sentences to free up the flow a little bit.

I like the "illogical" descriptions that you have, like rabid soil, promiscuous soil, feet taste the soil -- it gives the poem a surreal feeling while still making a kind of round-about sense.

I'll be back to say more.

If you really want to workshop this, I'd recommend putting it in Serious, or at least Mild -- your work can withstand the heat.

Thanks, Lizzie, for the feedback. I have a problem with punctuation, because I vocalize this crap and think of all the pauses and stuff - need to work on it.

As for the capitalization, will fix.

I'll workshop some other stuff, current stuff. I've been getting worse with passing time. No practice and all play is taking its toll, and I've lost a good dozen of the poems I wrote about two years ago, so I keep pining and procrastinating. This too, if it gets leaner and meaner here.


Edit: Is it bad to capitalize? I tried to fix it, but it was painful to look at. // Done.

[Achebe]

OK - so here's some more detailed crit since it's not a translation...

// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt (link to the English translation): http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html

What I wrote below is old, and I'd like to work on it. //

On 'Gandu Bagicha' (Revision #1)

The broken glass vials ..can discard the 'the'
breed in the rabid soil ....while there is a tenuous link to 'dog' later on, there are better choices than 'rabid' here. 'Breed' suggests number, and is somewhat appropriate here, even though being discarded is the opposite of breeding. Ist ed, it works.
Junk courses through you 
Watch the giants ...singular to be consistent with 'his'
Lift the boulder ..watch the giant / lift boulders / out of his way avoids one too many 'the's
Out of his way ...this is a nicely surreal image
Lie in the floating dusk 
Cease your chatter .... ..'floating dusk' is one of those unusual phrases that adds to the atmospheric quality of the poem

The promiscuous soil 
does not mind 
loves the dog, ..a missing 'but' here? need a conjunction to link with the previous line
the seal, the lion, ..a random train of thought, but that's the point
the drunk rickshawallah 
Unceasing in her devotion ..the 'her' is confusing here as you're now referring again to the soil and not the rickshawallah
to blind consumption ..abstraction. can be avoided/
The junk takes hold of you ...you don't need this line. it is implied.
Ancient beasts ...slightly cliched
claw at your innards ..an abrupt slang. 'entrails', 'stomach' or something regular is suggested
This boat holds too many ...great image
The river claims us lustily 
Watch the vials levitate 
The dark inside 
is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
full of old leaves 
and green clippings ..this metaphor is outstanding. however, I have a slight issue with bringing marijuana up after all the shooting up, but it's still okay at this point/

The vials now burn 
and melt. the leaves ...don't like the repetitiveness of the image here. The vials / leaves bit earlier was impactful. Now it's time to move on. I'm also confused between whether the speaker is on weed or something harder 
burn. the clippings smoke 
The liquid drips and turns 
into marrow 
My feet taste the soil 
the damp afterbirth 
The junk passes ..one too many 'junk's
It smells of 
dead steel ..'dead steel' is a dead metaphor. What does it mean?  Did you mean rusted steel? then don't say 'dead', which is vague and unvisceral
stale bodies 
warm mulch 
raw sewage 
The soil tickles my neck
My throat is one 
with larks, worms, 
long-dead agriculturists ..'agriculturists' and earthworms - I like how the ramble is going, but 'long-dead' is cliched
My head is a clay pot 
back in the cradle ..nicely done loose thought association


Original

On 'Gandu Bagicha'


The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil; 
Junk is coursing through you. 
Watch the giants 
Lift the boulder out 
Of his way. 
Lie in the floating dusk. 
Cease your chatter. 

The promiscuous soil 
Does not mind, 
Loves the dog, 
The seal, the lion, 
The drunk rickshawallah. 
Unceasing in her devotion 
To blind consumption. 
The junk takes hold of you. 
Ancient beasts 
Claw at your innards. 
This boat holds too many. 
The river claims us lustily. 
Watch the vials levitate. 
The dark inside 
Is a shining nothingness. 
My head is a wicker basket 
Full of old leaves 
And green clippings. 

The vials now burn 
And melt. The leaves 
Burn. The clippings smoke. 
The liquid drips and turns 
Into marrow. 
My feet taste the soil, 
The damp afterbirth. 
The junk passes. 
It smells of 
Dead steel 
Stale bodies 
Warm mulch 
Raw sewage. 
The soil tickles my neck. 
My throat is one 
With larks, worms, 
Long-dead agriculturists. 
My head is a clay pot 
Back in the cradle.

[Radetof.Yahska]

@Achebe - Thanks a lot for the crit! I'll get to it.

Edit: No drug use is implied in the poem. It's just how Gandu Bagicha made me feel. Maybe it would help if you had a look at the Dhasal translation linked in the first post.

[billy]

see you're getting lots of feedback on this radetof.
after a couple of reads i think i almost love it. am i right in presuming dead steel is a used syringe? if so, it's a fantastically brilliant image. i love how the poem anthropomorphizes the park. we start off straight away with empty or broken vials which for me can only means drug ampules. and follow up with a great image of the ravaged and dangerous place the park is. that you can make the park the addict without cliche is excellent. i'm struggling to give workable feedback; i like it so bad. works better without caps. thanks for the read

// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt (link to the English translation): http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html

What I wrote below is old, and I'd like to work on it. //

On 'Gandu Bagicha' (Revision #1)

The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil
Junk courses through you
Watch the giants
Lift the boulder
Out of his way
Lie in the floating dusk
Cease your chatter

The promiscuous soil
does not mind
loves the dog,
the seal, the lion,
the drunk rickshawallah
Unceasing in her devotion
to blind consumption
The junk takes hold of you
Ancient beasts
claw at your innards
This boat holds too many
The river claims us lustily
Watch the vials levitate
The dark inside
is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
full of old leaves
and green clippings

The vials now burn
and melt. the leaves
burn. the clippings smoke
The liquid drips and turns
into marrow
My feet taste the soil
the damp afterbirth
The junk passes
It smells of
dead steel
stale bodies
warm mulch
raw sewage
The soil tickles my neck
My throat is one
with larks, worms,
long-dead agriculturists
My head is a clay pot
back in the cradle

[Radetof.Yahska]

@billy: I've changed it to limp steel. The whole "dead steel... raw sewage" bit was about sexual violence, I think, limp noodle, sad sex, pulsating anger, violence.
I hate the city he talks about in the original. So much splendor and poverty, side by side. Angry transvestites fighting over food. I can't really put it across well.

Revision #2 is up.


- Akshay

[Lizzie]

Edit: No drug use is implied in the poem. It's just how Gandu Bagicha made me feel. Maybe it would help if you had a look at the Dhasal translation linked in the first post.

It's not about drug use? Errr....that sets me back a little bit. Couple of things:

1. "Junk courses through you" is going to massively predispose the reader to that interpretation. And you say that word, junk, in each stanza. If you mean rubbish, litter, candy wrappers, etc., then IMO you must choose another word.

2. You can't rely on the original poem to speak for you. Your poem has to do the work on its own to convince or persuade the reader.

I'll be back (yes, again) once I figure out what's going on...

[vagabond]

// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt (link to the English translation): http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html

What I wrote below is old, and I'd like to work on it. //

Currently on version 1.2.


Revision #2

Broken glass vials
soil the shattered surface        which surface I wonder
Junk courses through you. 
Watch the giant 
Lift boulders 
Out of his way 
Lie in the floating dusk 
Cease your chatter    disturbing line - makes me think that there´s some inner battle (and the boulders are bot really lifted)   

The promiscuous soil    the "promiscuous" stays mysterious for me, but interesting
does not mind 
the dog, 
the seal, the lion, 
the drunk rickshawallah.

Unceasing in her devotion 
to mutilate
Fleshless horses
tear up plastic wrappers   those 4 lines i like very much - seems like an inversion of who does what to whom

This boat holds too many   an image of fugitives comes to my mind, seems almost too real in comparison to the theme as a whole, but the next line would confirm this in my view
The river claims us lustily 
Watch the vials levitate    makes me see the attempt to escape or soothe reality via drugs
The dark inside 
is a shining nothingness.

My head is a wicker basket 
full of old leaves 
and green clippings    these 3 lines for me would create an image of what might be going on in the subject´s mind, however chopped up and unclear the content remains...

This ugly vortex
bleeds
The liquid drips and turns 
into marrow                               ... and what might be forged from it

My feet taste the soil 
the damp afterbirth  
It smells of 
limp steel 
stale bodies 
warm mulch 
raw sewage  those 7 lines would give me with few words an impression of awakening to some cruel reality, the closeness to this reality increasing as the lines progress

Soil tickles my neck
My throat is one 
with larks, worms, 
disillusioned agriculturists   in connection with the image of the "soil" created above this line is quite genious
My head is a clay pot   clay makes me think of burned out (in comparison to the wicker basket)
Back in the cradle     here the meaning escapes me (and it´s a pity as last lines tend to have some weight)

some haunting vision of a nightmare.
 (and I write this knowing it´s only what I see, but maybe it helps to decide if the poem´s clear enough or as it should be).

[Radetof.Yahska]

Thank you for the feedback, vagabond. I'll need to work on the poem again.

[just mercedes]

I wondered if you'd read Burrough's book 'Cities of the Red Night'? 'junk' is a major part of the imagery used.

This is a quote of his; The junk merchant doesn't sell his product to the consumer, he sells the consumer to his product. He does not improve and simplify his merchandise. He degrades and simplifies the client.

"Letter from a Master Addict to Dangerous Drugs", written in 1956, first published in The British Journal of Addiction, Vol. 52, No. 2 (January 1957), p. 1 and later used as footnotes in Naked Lunch

The way you use it in your poem reminds me of this.

[ellajam]

Moved from Basic to Mild to Moderate.

[Radetof.Yahska]

I haven't read the book, just mercedes, but I think I should. Thank you.