365bet娱乐

A Critical Study of S. Babu Rao鈥檚

鈥淭he Still Small Voice鈥�

New Poetry In India:

No drawing, not even of Salvator Rosa, is as thought-provoking as the hawk descending upon a bird. This has been very symbolic颅ally engraved on the title page of S. Balu Rao鈥檚 newly-published collection of poetry, The Still Small Voice. The bird seems to be singing not knowing its approaching doom. The tree it sits on is with a scanty foliage. The sky is perhaps simmering with grey. One may want to know why the poet has preferred to adorn the title page of his book with the head piece of a hawk descending upon a tiny bird, a picture that shows nature in tooth and claw. Western sensibility, trained up in the atmosphere of the philosophy of doom, may suggest that the hawk is an emissary of death indicating destruction. But we are here not to say this. Our business is to shift our mind to another clime. This is not to forget the implied meaning of the image however. Rather than this, our intention is to say that the picture has sprouted from an oriental tradition of thought. Although the hawk reminds us, of

tyranny and terror
of war, hunger, disease, death and separation,
a thousand other stings of humiliation.
(The Still Small Voice)

with another turn of mind, the bird, with a song in its throat, is meaningfully suggestive of the continued mirth of life, a suggestion added to the value of existence. Studied in this light the image is able to tell us of the forgotten philosophy which India used to teach ages ago. It is necessary to say that among all the heinous activity of men the poet鈥檚 voice is alone true, for it is capable enough to raise the standard of life and please the souls of men. And so no force on earth can knock it down even if his mortal body is destroyed. Being the voice of the soul poetry lives in Eternity. But initially it is

A speck of felt feeling
no bigger than a banian seed
a drop of mute hot tear
crusted in the silence
of cold winter nights,
wakes up slowly as if from sleep
(The Still Small Voice)

Certainly, the emotion is based on a realisation that poetry in essence is an offshoot of a drop of mute hot tear. Many such sombre thoughts (symbolically, winter nights) may, on occasions, impel the Poet to hold his pen. In this process mute words become vibrant with the power of speech under the magic spell of imagi颅nation.

The voice
now free intense passionate
bursts forth
leaving the poet behind
(The Still Small Voice)

If the spell of the imaginative moment is not retained either in memory or in language, it is likely to fade away in the calm void of the mind. Once the poem is born, it travels into the future leaving the poet far behind. Because of his poetry the poet becomes one with Eternity. Mr. Rao explains the complexity of this process with a surprising clarity.

When under a fairy spell, I work on a
poem feverishly for a couple of nights
at a stretch and if it acquires a fairly
agreeable shape in the first attack itself,
it is as good as done. Otherwise, tired and bored,
I put it aside for another day which may never dawn at all.
(About These Poems)

The immediate need to retain this moment is language, which, in the inner glow of the imagination, is clearly seen by the poet. The word, that physical incarnation of the poet鈥檚 experience, is the first necessity. To an unimaginative mind the word is without flower or fruit. But to the poet who knows his art well the word is everything. It is the vehicle of his total experience.

The word
in calm contemplation
builds itself up
word by word
phrase by phrase
now accepting
now rejecting
gaining in meaning
and going beyond
moving
in unperceived rhythms.
(The Still Small Voice)

The poetic voice moves beyond the immediate to merge with the universal. But every time the word remains to be the significant factor in the creation of poetry. The poet by the nature of his art is an architect of words. The poem is like a temple. In it is enshrined meaning which is also the idea. The Still Small Voice is a beautiful poem related to the general principles of life and literature.

Unlike those that weep at the flux of things, Balu Rao looks forward with a hope that never comes to rest. Spreading its wings to the ends of time and knocking at the gates of unborn tomorrow, poetry transcends time and space and keeps the hope of the poet alive for prosperity. With this the spirit of Indian optimism expands its ever-opening frontier. One鈥檚 expectation does not end with the setting sun nor does he lose his hope of a beautiful dawn that ensues the night. Here language thinks for us.

We stretch our years into an eternity
with an unuttered wish that the sun may never set.

(This, too, My Love, is Love)

The intensity of this kind of thought is increased when 鈥渕urkiness would melt into simmering pools of sun鈥� is used in For Father, with Love. It is a message India can only give to humanity at this moment when everyone gropes in the engulfing gloom. And more than this

Ah, to think that there is still
something in these broken lines
that they can hold
this broken world I
(These Broken Lines)

is not a precept but an example for men to believe. Poverty does not obstruct the chosen path of virtue. Men do not set the school bus on fire. Here in India men know how to control their minds and to overcome the rising wave of anger that cries for revenge. The wisdom of the ages descends upon the atmosphere of thought in These Broken lines. Melancholy is not an accepted principle in Indian thought but a forbidden fruit. To understand the symbolism of the 鈥淪mall Voice鈥� one has to arrive at this aspect of thought that stands supreme in the poems.

For the sustaining peace and happiness in society a healthy atmosphere in the family is an imperative need. All feel this today. Amity between the spouses form without doubt the cornerstone of India鈥檚 social life. This, too, My Love, is Love is an epitome of this culture which is visibly absent in other parts of the world today.

Here we sit as close to each other
as the long years of our togetherness
with the same fervour
as when we saw our first moon together.
(This, too, My Love, is Love)

Outside home the landscape may witness commotion or the climate may not be conducive to peace but if the inside of it registers a tranquil situation it will contribute a great deal to society for its health and happiness. The father may be harsh towards his children while imposing discipline on them, yet, like Goldsmith鈥檚 village school master, he is kind and knows well the meaning of his mea颅sures. For Father, with Love is a beautiful poem on this account.

It has been said that art bereft of the experience of life cannot survive. If art reflects the life of the comfortable few, it may be said that it is incomplete. Not dwelling too much upon the picture of life lived by the upper class of people Mr. Rao engages his imagination to build up a poetic structure taking the life pattern of the toiling poor, the aged ageless woman deserted by her son or the ill-fed road-builder and his family. Either The View from my Window or The Poster Story is, therefore, a social document. Here is an account of the road-builder.

you with your woman and the child
huddling in the still cradle of a basket
amidst pots and pans of your noonday meal
under mounds of dirty clothes.
(The View from My Window)

The baby cries amid work and the mother 鈥減icks up the baby and feeds it/from her shaddock-breasts鈥�. How does the poet react to this situation?

My golden-brown toast turns to gravel,
the cottage cheese hardens into stone,

鈥淣o, it is too much鈥� for him and he cannot eat any more. This may be one鈥檚 sacrifice for others, or this may also be one鈥檚 renunci颅ation of his pleasure on realising the misery of the poor that live with us. How great is the moment when man comes to feel for man in this way. Humanity climbs upward through this.

Post-Independence Indian society, in spite of all the develop颅ment for the uplift of the poor, still suffers from an economic im颅balance. As a result of this the life of the poor is intolerably depressing.

An urchin,
one of Mother Hunger鈥檚 brood,
ditched both by God and men,
stood rummaging
the city鈥檚 garbage
for his daily bread.
(The Greater Devil)

At one time the poet is sad and at the other he is satirical since he feels the pinch of this situation in his heart. Not as a passive observer of events but as an active agent of conscience he looks at facts and expresses his concern.

Long years ago,
we made a tryst with destiny.
We craved for the light

But we, the accursed,
long innured to the dark.
(Our Tryst with Destiny)

A clear thinking mind can only find the difference between promise and fulfilment. Today the fact remains that all our hopes have not been fulfilled. Independent India has not been able to keep all her children happy. Now one who lives, to witness the present circumstance in the country is bound to be disillusioned. Still we shall crave for the light as we did once, even if the present is 鈥渁nother night鈥�.

On one count the Still Small Voice is the voice of humanity audible to us through the voice of the poet. On another it is the voice of the present that directs us to the future of mankind.