Tum Aaao gay to phoolon ki barsat karen gay,
Mousam k farishto'n say meri baaat hui hai..!
Mousam k farishto'n say meri baaat hui hai..!
Friday, 31 January 2014
Yeh mohabbat bhi kya rog ha Faraz
Yeh mohabbat bhi kya rog ha Faraz,Jisey bhooley woh sadaaa yaad aaya.!
Har shakhs nahin hota har shakhss ke kabil
Har shakhs nahin hota har shakhss ke kabil,Har shakhs ko apne liye socha nahin kartey.!
Qissa Abhi hijab se agey nahi barha..
Qissa abbi hijaab se agey nahi barha,
Main ap, abhi janab se agey nahi barha,
Lekin mein pehle baab se agey nahi barha..
Muddat hui kitaab-e-mohabbat shuru kiye,
Hum bhi hon ge...
Hum bhi hon ge ap ke dil mein magar,
Magar ik bhoolay huye qissay ki tarah,
Kabhi jo na baant pao ge dard to yaad aonga,
Hum tum jo they aik jism ke hissay ki tarah.!
Khushi k geet gaaney ko
Khushi ke geet gaaney ko zara si baat kaafi hai,
Naseeb-e-gham bhulaaney ko zara si baat kaafi hai,
Ghareeb-e-sheher ke ghar udaasi laakh rehti ho,
Magar hansne hasaaney ko zara si baat kaafi hai..!
Zindagi khaak na thi
Zindagi khaak na thi, khaak urratey guzri,
Tujhse kya kehtey tere pass jo Aatey guzri,
Din jo guzraa to kisi ki yaad mein guzra,
Shaam ayi to koi khawb dikhatey guzri.!
Majbooriyuin Kay Naam Pe
Majbooriyuin Kay Naam Pe Lut-ti Hain Hr Gharri,
Hawaa Ki Betiyoun Kay Muqaddar bhi Ajeeb Hain.!
Bara Shouq Tha Unhay!
Bara Shouq Tha Unhay Mera Aashiyana Dekhnay Ka,
Jab Dekhi Meri Ghareebi To Rasata Badal Liyaa.!
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Long Urdu Stories
کسی یونیورسٹی کا ایک نوجوان طالب علم ایک دن اپنے پروفیسر کے ساتھ چہل قدمی کر رہا تھا۔ پروفیسر اپنی مشفقانہ طبیعت کی وجہ سے تمام طالب علموں میں بہت مقبول تھے۔ چہل قدمی کرتے ہوئے اچانک ان کی نظر ایک بہت خستہ حال پرانے جوتوں کی جوڑی پر پڑی جو پاس ہی کھیت میں کام کرتے ہوئے کسی غریب کسان کی لگتی تھی۔
طالب علم پروفیسر سے کہنے لگا: "سر! کسان کے ساتھ کچھ دل لگی کرتے ہیں اور اس کے جوتے چھپا دیتے ہیں اور خود بھی ان جھاڑیوں کے پیچھے چھپ جاتے ہیں اور پھر دیکھتے ہیں کہ جوتے نہ ملنے پر کسان کیا کرتا ہے"۔
پروفیسر نے جواب دیا: "ہمیں خود کو محظوظ کرنے کے لئے کبھی بھی کسی غریب کے ساتھ مذاق نہیں کرنا چاہئیے، تم ایک امیر لڑکے ہو اور اس غریب کی وساطت سے تم ایک احسن طریقہ سے محظوظ ہو سکتے ہو۔"
ایسا کرو ان جوتوں کی جوڑی میں پیسوں کا ایک ایک سکہ ڈال دو اور پھر ہم چھپ جاتے ہیں اور دیکھتے ہیں کہ یہ سکے ملنے پر کسان کا کیا رد عمل ہوتا ہے"۔ لڑکے نے ایسا ہی کیا اور پھر دونوں نزدیک ہی چھپ گئے۔
غریب کسان اپنا کام ختم کر کے اس جگہ لوٹا جہاں اسکا کوٹ اور جوتے پڑے ہوئے تھے۔ کوٹ پہنتے ہوئے اس نے جونہی اپنا ایک پاؤں جوتے میں ڈالا تو اسے کچھ سخت سی چیز محسوس ہوئی۔ وہ دیکھنے کی خاطر جھکا تو اسے جوتے میں سے ایک سکہ ملا۔
اس نے سکے کو بڑی حیرانگی سے دیکھا، اسے الٹ پلٹ کیا اور پھر بار بار اسے دیکھنے لگا۔ پھر اس نے اپنے چاروں طرف نظر دوڑائی کہ شاید اسے کوئی بندہ نظر آ جائے لیکن اسے کوئی بھی نظر نہ آیا اور پھر شش و پنج کی ادھیڑ بن میں اس نے وہ سکہ کوٹ کی جیب میں ڈال لیا۔
لیکن اس وقت اس کی حیرت کی انتہا نہ رہی اور اسے ایک جھٹکا سا لگا جب دوسرا پاؤں پہنتے وقت اسے دوسرا سکہ ملا اس کے ساتھ ہی فرطِ جذبات سے اس کی آنکھیں اشکوں سے لبریز ہوگئیں۔ وہ اپنے گھٹنوں کے بل گر پڑا، اور آسماں کی طرف منہ کر کےاپنے رب کا شکر ادا کرنے لگا کہ جس نے اس کی کسی غیبی طریقے سے مدد فرمائی وگرنہ اس کی بیمار بیوی اور بھوکے بچوں کا، جو گھر میں روٹی تک کو ترس رہے تھے، کوئی پرسان حال نہ تھا۔
طالب علم پر اس کا بہت گہرا اثر ہوا اور اس کی آنکھوں میں آنسو آ گئے۔ تب اچانک پروفیسر بول پڑے اور لڑکے سے پوچھنے لگے: "کیا تم اب زیادہ خوشی محسوس کر رہے ہو یا اس طرح کرتے جو تم کرنے جا رہے تھے؟"
لڑکے نے جواب دیا: "سر! آج آپ نے مجھے ایسا سبق سکھایا ہے جسے میں باقی کی ساری زندگی نہیں بھولوں گا"
Long Urdu Stories
ایک کسان اپنے مالک کے کھیت میں کام کرتے کرتے سوچنے لگا ۔۔۔ کاش کہ میں مالدار ہوتا تو میں زمین خرید لیتا جس میں میں کھیتی کرتا۔۔میں اپنی زندگی سے لطف اندوز ہونا چاہتا ہوں، لذیذ کھانے کھانا چاہتا ہوں اور آرام دہ گھر میں رہنا چاہتا ہوں, اچانک کسی کی آواز سن کر وہ چونک پڑا جو اعلان کر رہا تھا کہ:" بادشاہ سلامت ان کھیتوں کے پاس والے راستے سے آئندہ ہفتے گزریں گے، اور سبھی کسانوں کے لئے ضروری ہے کہ ان کے استقبال اور ان کو سلام کرنے کے لئے صف بستہ ہوکر کھڑے رہیں"۔
کسان نے اپنے دل میں سوچا۔۔۔"یہی موقع ہے۔۔اگر میں نے بادشاہ سے کچھ سونے کے سکے مانگ لئے تو کیا ہوا، اس سے میرے سبھی خواب تو پورے ہو جائیں گے۔۔۔اور وہ کبھی بھی میری درخواست کو رد نہیں کریں گے اس لئے کہ جیسا کہ میں نے سنا ہے وہ اچھے اور بھلے انسان ہیں"
اسی طرح کسان ہفتہ بھرخواب بنتا رہا۔۔۔آخر کار وہ دن بھی آ پہونچا۔ تمام کسان بادشاہ کے استقبال کے لئے راستے کے دونوں طرف صف بستہ کھڑے تھے۔۔۔ اچانک دور گاڑیاں دکھائی دیں جنھیں گھوڑے کھینچ رہے تھے، کسان شاہی گاڑی کی طرف دوڑ پڑا اور چلانے لگا:"اے بادشاہ۔۔ اے بادشاہ۔۔ مجھے آپ سے ایک بات کہنی ہے"۔ بادشاہ نے گاڑی کو روکنے کا حکم دیا اور کسان سے پوچھا:"تم کیا چاہتے ہو؟" کسان بہت پریشان ہو گیا اور اس نے کہا :"میں کچھ سونے کے سکے چاہتا ہوں تاکہ میں زمین کا ایک ٹکڑا خرید سکوں"۔ بادشاہ مسکرایا اور اس نے کسان سے کہا:" میں چاہتا ہوں کہ تم مجھے اپنے پاس سے کوئی چیزدو"
کسان اور بھی پریشان ہو گیا اور اس نے اپنے دل میں کہا کہ :" اس بادشاہ کی بخیلی کی بھی حد ہو گئی۔۔ میں اس کے پاس آیا تھا کہ مجھے کچھ دے اور اب وہ خود مجھ ہی سے مانگ رہا ہے"۔۔ کچھ دیرسوچنے کے بعد اس نے چاولوں سے بھری ہوئی ایک تھیلی سے جو اس کے ہاتھ میں تھی چاول کا ایک دانہ نکالا اور اسے بادشاہ کو دیدیا، بادشاہ نے اس کا شکریہ ادا کیا اور قافلے کو دوبارہ چلنے کا حکم دیا۔۔ نامراد ہوکر کسان کبیدہ خاطر اپنے گھر واپس لوٹ آیا، اور اپنی بیوی کو چاولوں کی تھیلی دی کہ اسے پکا دے۔۔اچانک اس کی بیوی چلائی کہ:" مجھے چاولوں کے بیچ اصلی سونے کا چاول کا ایک دانہ ملا ہے" اب کسان انتہائی تکلیف سے چیخ پڑا: "کاش کہ میں نے بادشاہ کو سارے چاول دے دئیے ہوتے"
یہی مثال دنیا اور آخرت کی ہے، یہاں ہم جو کچھ اللہ کی راہ میں خرچ کریں گے، آخرت میں جب اس کا اجر و ثواب دیکھیں گے تو خواہش کریں گے کہ کاش ہم نے سارا مال ہی راہ خدا میں لٹا دیا ہوتا۔
ارشادِ بارى تعالٰى ہے
"بے شک خیرات کرنے والے مرد اور خیرات کرنے والی عورتیں اور جنہوں نے الله کو اچھا قرض دیا ان کے لیے دگنا کیا جائے گا اور انہیں عمدہ بدلہ ملے گا." (سورة الحديد-18
ایک کسان اپنے مالک کے کھیت میں کام کرتے کرتے سوچنے لگا ۔۔۔ کاش کہ میں مالدار ہوتا تو میں زمین خرید لیتا جس میں میں کھیتی کرتا۔۔میں اپنی زندگی سے لطف اندوز ہونا چاہتا ہوں، لذیذ کھانے کھانا چاہتا ہوں اور آرام دہ گھر میں رہنا چاہتا ہوں, اچانک کسی کی آواز سن کر وہ چونک پڑا جو اعلان کر رہا تھا کہ:" بادشاہ سلامت ان کھیتوں کے پاس والے راستے سے آئندہ ہفتے گزریں گے، اور سبھی کسانوں کے لئے ضروری ہے کہ ان کے استقبال اور ان کو سلام کرنے کے لئے صف بستہ ہوکر کھڑے رہیں"۔
کسان نے اپنے دل میں سوچا۔۔۔"یہی موقع ہے۔۔اگر میں نے بادشاہ سے کچھ سونے کے سکے مانگ لئے تو کیا ہوا، اس سے میرے سبھی خواب تو پورے ہو جائیں گے۔۔۔اور وہ کبھی بھی میری درخواست کو رد نہیں کریں گے اس لئے کہ جیسا کہ میں نے سنا ہے وہ اچھے اور بھلے انسان ہیں"
اسی طرح کسان ہفتہ بھرخواب بنتا رہا۔۔۔آخر کار وہ دن بھی آ پہونچا۔ تمام کسان بادشاہ کے استقبال کے لئے راستے کے دونوں طرف صف بستہ کھڑے تھے۔۔۔ اچانک دور گاڑیاں دکھائی دیں جنھیں گھوڑے کھینچ رہے تھے، کسان شاہی گاڑی کی طرف دوڑ پڑا اور چلانے لگا:"اے بادشاہ۔۔ اے بادشاہ۔۔ مجھے آپ سے ایک بات کہنی ہے"۔ بادشاہ نے گاڑی کو روکنے کا حکم دیا اور کسان سے پوچھا:"تم کیا چاہتے ہو؟" کسان بہت پریشان ہو گیا اور اس نے کہا :"میں کچھ سونے کے سکے چاہتا ہوں تاکہ میں زمین کا ایک ٹکڑا خرید سکوں"۔ بادشاہ مسکرایا اور اس نے کسان سے کہا:" میں چاہتا ہوں کہ تم مجھے اپنے پاس سے کوئی چیزدو"
کسان اور بھی پریشان ہو گیا اور اس نے اپنے دل میں کہا کہ :" اس بادشاہ کی بخیلی کی بھی حد ہو گئی۔۔ میں اس کے پاس آیا تھا کہ مجھے کچھ دے اور اب وہ خود مجھ ہی سے مانگ رہا ہے"۔۔ کچھ دیرسوچنے کے بعد اس نے چاولوں سے بھری ہوئی ایک تھیلی سے جو اس کے ہاتھ میں تھی چاول کا ایک دانہ نکالا اور اسے بادشاہ کو دیدیا، بادشاہ نے اس کا شکریہ ادا کیا اور قافلے کو دوبارہ چلنے کا حکم دیا۔۔ نامراد ہوکر کسان کبیدہ خاطر اپنے گھر واپس لوٹ آیا، اور اپنی بیوی کو چاولوں کی تھیلی دی کہ اسے پکا دے۔۔اچانک اس کی بیوی چلائی کہ:" مجھے چاولوں کے بیچ اصلی سونے کا چاول کا ایک دانہ ملا ہے" اب کسان انتہائی تکلیف سے چیخ پڑا: "کاش کہ میں نے بادشاہ کو سارے چاول دے دئیے ہوتے"
یہی مثال دنیا اور آخرت کی ہے، یہاں ہم جو کچھ اللہ کی راہ میں خرچ کریں گے، آخرت میں جب اس کا اجر و ثواب دیکھیں گے تو خواہش کریں گے کہ کاش ہم نے سارا مال ہی راہ خدا میں لٹا دیا ہوتا۔
ارشادِ بارى تعالٰى ہے
"بے شک خیرات کرنے والے مرد اور خیرات کرنے والی عورتیں اور جنہوں نے الله کو اچھا قرض دیا ان کے لیے دگنا کیا جائے گا اور انہیں عمدہ بدلہ ملے گا." (سورة الحديد-18
ایک کسان اپنے مالک کے کھیت میں کام کرتے کرتے سوچنے لگا ۔۔۔ کاش کہ میں مالدار ہوتا تو میں زمین خرید لیتا جس میں میں کھیتی کرتا۔۔میں اپنی زندگی سے لطف اندوز ہونا چاہتا ہوں، لذیذ کھانے کھانا چاہتا ہوں اور آرام دہ گھر میں رہنا چاہتا ہوں, اچانک کسی کی آواز سن کر وہ چونک پڑا جو اعلان کر رہا تھا کہ:" بادشاہ سلامت ان کھیتوں کے پاس والے راستے سے آئندہ ہفتے گزریں گے، اور سبھی کسانوں کے لئے ضروری ہے کہ ان کے استقبال اور ان کو سلام کرنے کے لئے صف بستہ ہوکر کھڑے رہیں"۔
کسان نے اپنے دل میں سوچا۔۔۔"یہی موقع ہے۔۔اگر میں نے بادشاہ سے کچھ سونے کے سکے مانگ لئے تو کیا ہوا، اس سے میرے سبھی خواب تو پورے ہو جائیں گے۔۔۔اور وہ کبھی بھی میری درخواست کو رد نہیں کریں گے اس لئے کہ جیسا کہ میں نے سنا ہے وہ اچھے اور بھلے انسان ہیں"
اسی طرح کسان ہفتہ بھرخواب بنتا رہا۔۔۔آخر کار وہ دن بھی آ پہونچا۔ تمام کسان بادشاہ کے استقبال کے لئے راستے کے دونوں طرف صف بستہ کھڑے تھے۔۔۔ اچانک دور گاڑیاں دکھائی دیں جنھیں گھوڑے کھینچ رہے تھے، کسان شاہی گاڑی کی طرف دوڑ پڑا اور چلانے لگا:"اے بادشاہ۔۔ اے بادشاہ۔۔ مجھے آپ سے ایک بات کہنی ہے"۔ بادشاہ نے گاڑی کو روکنے کا حکم دیا اور کسان سے پوچھا:"تم کیا چاہتے ہو؟" کسان بہت پریشان ہو گیا اور اس نے کہا :"میں کچھ سونے کے سکے چاہتا ہوں تاکہ میں زمین کا ایک ٹکڑا خرید سکوں"۔ بادشاہ مسکرایا اور اس نے کسان سے کہا:" میں چاہتا ہوں کہ تم مجھے اپنے پاس سے کوئی چیزدو"
کسان اور بھی پریشان ہو گیا اور اس نے اپنے دل میں کہا کہ :" اس بادشاہ کی بخیلی کی بھی حد ہو گئی۔۔ میں اس کے پاس آیا تھا کہ مجھے کچھ دے اور اب وہ خود مجھ ہی سے مانگ رہا ہے"۔۔ کچھ دیرسوچنے کے بعد اس نے چاولوں سے بھری ہوئی ایک تھیلی سے جو اس کے ہاتھ میں تھی چاول کا ایک دانہ نکالا اور اسے بادشاہ کو دیدیا، بادشاہ نے اس کا شکریہ ادا کیا اور قافلے کو دوبارہ چلنے کا حکم دیا۔۔ نامراد ہوکر کسان کبیدہ خاطر اپنے گھر واپس لوٹ آیا، اور اپنی بیوی کو چاولوں کی تھیلی دی کہ اسے پکا دے۔۔اچانک اس کی بیوی چلائی کہ:" مجھے چاولوں کے بیچ اصلی سونے کا چاول کا ایک دانہ ملا ہے" اب کسان انتہائی تکلیف سے چیخ پڑا: "کاش کہ میں نے بادشاہ کو سارے چاول دے دئیے ہوتے"
یہی مثال دنیا اور آخرت کی ہے، یہاں ہم جو کچھ اللہ کی راہ میں خرچ کریں گے، آخرت میں جب اس کا اجر و ثواب دیکھیں گے تو خواہش کریں گے کہ کاش ہم نے سارا مال ہی راہ خدا میں لٹا دیا ہوتا۔
ارشادِ بارى تعالٰى ہے
"بے شک خیرات کرنے والے مرد اور خیرات کرنے والی عورتیں اور جنہوں نے الله کو اچھا قرض دیا ان کے لیے دگنا کیا جائے گا اور انہیں عمدہ بدلہ ملے گا." (سورة الحديد-18
Long Urdu Story
بہت عرصہ پہلے ایک جگہ سیب کا ایک بہت بڑا درخت تھا ور روزانہ ایک بچہ وہاں آکر اُس درخت کے اِرد گِرد کھیلا کرتا تھا وہ بچہ اس درخت کی ٹہنیوں سے چمٹ چمٹ کر اس کی چوٹی پر چڑہتا اس کے سیب کھاتا اور تھک کر اس کے سایے کے نیچے لیٹ کر مزے سے اونگھتا وہ بچہ اس درخت سے محبت کرتا تھا اوروہ درخت بھی اس سے محبت کرتا تھا اور اس کے ساتھ کھیلنا پسند کرتا تھا۔ وقت گذرا اور بچہ بڑا ہو گیا
اور پھر بچہ ہر روز درخت کے ارد گِرد نہیں کھیلتا تھا ایک دن بچہ واپس آ گیا لیکن وہ دُکھی تھا، درخت نے کہا آؤ میرے ساتھ کھیلو، بچے نے جواب دیا میں اب اتنا چھوٹا نہیں رہا کہ درختوں کے اِرد گِرد کھیلوں مجھے کھلونے چاہیں ، اور کھلونے خریدنے کے لیے مجھے پیسے چاہیں، درخت نے کہا """ میرے پاس تو پیسے نہیں ہیں """ لیکن یہ ہو سکتا ہے کہ تُم میرے سارے کے سارے سیب لے لو اور انہیں بیچ دو تاکہ تُمہیں پیسے مل جائیں
بچہ بہت ہی خوش ہو گیا بچہ درخت پر چڑھا اور سارے سیب توڑ لیے اورخوشی خوشی وہاں سے چلا گیادرخت نے اپنے سارے پھل کھو دیے لیکن اُس کی خُوشی سے بہت ہی کم تھا وہ خُوشی جو اُسے بچے کی خُوشی دیکھ کر ہوئیلیکن درخت کی خوشی کچھ زیادہ دیر تک نہ رہ سکی کیونکہ ، بچہ سیب لے جانے کے بعد واپس نہیں آیالہذا درخت دُکھی ہو گیا
پھر ایک دن اچانک وہ بچہ واپس آ گیا لیکن اب وہ ایک مرد بن چکا تھا درخت اُس کے آنے پر بہت ہی زیادہ خوش ہوا اور اس سے کہا آؤ میرے ساتھ کھیلو، بچے نے جواب دیا میرے پاس کھیل کے لیے وقت نہیں کیونکہ مجھے اپنے بیوی بچوں کے لیے کام کرنا ہے میں ایک گھر چاہیے جو ہمیں تحفظ دے سکےکیا تُم میری مدد کر سکتے ہو؟ مجھے افسوس ہےمیرے پاس تو کوئی گھر نہیں لیکن تُم اپنا گھر بنانے کے لیے میری ٹہنیاں اور شاخیں کاٹ سکتے ہو
اُس آدمی نے درخت کی ساری ہی ٹہنیاں اور شاخیں لے لیں اورپھر خوشی خوشی سے چلا گیا جس طرح وہ پہلے اس کے پھل لے کر چلا گیا تھا درخت اس کو خوش دیکھ کر پھر سے بہت خُوش ہوا اور وہ ایک دفعہ پھر غائب ہو گیا اور درخت کے پاس واپس نہ آیا درخت ایک دفعہ پھر اکیلا ہو گیا ، دُکھی ہو گیا، پھر ایک لمبے عرصے کے بعد ، گرمیوں کے ایک گرم دِن میںوہ آدمی واپس آیا اوردرخت ایک دفعہ پھر خُوشی کی انتہاء کو چُھونے لگا اب ہی شاید یہ میرے ساتھ کھیلے، آؤ میرے ساتھ کھیلو درخت نے کہا،
آدمی نے درخت سے کہا میں اب بوڑھا ہو گیا ہوں اور چاہتا ہوں کہ کسی دریا میں کشتی رانی کرتے ہوئے کسی پرسکون جگہ میں جا پہنچوں آدمی نے درخت سے کہا کیا تُم مجھے ایک کشتی دے سکتے ہو؟ درخت نے کہا تُم میرا تنا لے کر اس کی کشتی بنا لو اس طرح تُم اس کے ذریعے دور تک جا سکتے ہو اور خوش ہو سکتے ہو، تو اُس آدمی نے درخت کا تنا کاٹ لیا اور اس کی کشتی بنا لی اور پھر آدمی کشتی میں سوار ہو کر چلا گیا اور ایک لمبی مدت تک واپس نہ آیا آخر کار دیر تک غائب رہنے کے بعد وہ آدمی واپس آیا اُسے دیکھ کر درخت نے دُکھ سے کہا
مجھے افسوس ہے میرے بیٹے کہ اب میرے پاس تُمہیں دینے کے لیے اور کچھ نہیں اور کہا تُمارے لیے اب اور سیب بھی نہیں ہیں، آدمی نے کہا کوئی بات نہیں اب میرے دانت بھی نہیں جن سے میں سیب کو کاٹ سکتا، تُمارے کودنے پھاندنے کے لیے اب میرا تنا بھی نہیں، تو آدمی نے کہا میں اب بوڑھا ہو گیا ہوں ایسا کام نہیں کر سکتا،
درخت نے کہا، میرے بیٹے اب میرے پاس واقعتا کچھ بھی نہیں جو میں تمہیں دے سکوں اب صرف میری مرتی ہوئی جڑیں ہی بچی ہیں درخت نے روتے ہوئے آنسوؤں سے لبریز آواز میں کہا، آدمی نے کہا، اب مجھے صرف کوئی ایسی جگہ چاہیے جہاں میں سُکون سے آرام کر سکوں، بہت اچھی بات ہے بوڑھے درخت کی بوڑہی جڑیں تُمارے آرام کرنے کے لیے بہت اچھی جگہ ہیں، درخت نے کہا، آؤ میرے ساتھ بیٹھو تا کہ تُم سُکون پاؤ ،،،آ جاؤ،،،آدمی درخت کے پاس آ بیٹھا درخت پھر سے خُوش ہو گیا مسکرایا اور اُس کی آنکھیں آنسوؤں سے بھری ہوئی تِھیں،
کیا آپ جانتے ہیں یہ درخت کون ہے ؟؟؟ یہ درخت آپ کے والدین ہیں،،، اپنے والدین کی قربانیوں کی قدر کیجئے ، آپ ان کا حق تو کبھی بھی ادا نہیں کر سکتے مگر انکی خوب خدمت اور فرمانبرداری کیجئے تا کہ آپ کی دنیا اور آخرت سنور جائے ان شاء الله ! اللہ سوہنا ہم سب کو سمجھ کر عمل کی توفیق دے، آمین
Monday, 27 January 2014
An Interview with Poet Frank Montesonti
It's almost as if I'm in a place not quite a place, heaven
almost. When you turn on a lamp, stars are silent.
Resting your head on the cold car window. Christmas
trees in living rooms. Smells of gasoline in the marina.
almost. When you turn on a lamp, stars are silent.
Resting your head on the cold car window. Christmas
trees in living rooms. Smells of gasoline in the marina.
-from “Heaven's Undershirt,” by Frank Montesonti
* * *
Frank Montesonti is the author of two full-length collections of poetry, Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, Winner of the 2011 Barrow Street Book Prize chosen by D.A. Powell, and the book of erasure, Hope Tree (How To Prune Fruit Trees) by Black Lawrence Press. His poems have appeared in journals such as Tin House, AQR, Black Warrior Review, Poet Lore, and Poems and Plays, among many others. He holds a BA in English from Indiana University, an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona, a longtime resident of Indiana, he now lives in Los Angeles and teaches at National University.
* * *
Happy 2014 from everyone here at Poetry Matters! I’m delighted that this month’s interview is with Frank Montesonti, a California-based poet whose roots are in the Midwest.
Despite the number of times it’s happened, I’m still surprised by reminders of how small the world can be—six degrees of separation and all of that. My introduction to Frank Montesonti is one such event. Last spring, I participated in the Pulitzer Remix Project, along with poets from across the U.S. and other countries. One of the poets, whom I’d met through the project’s social-media efforts, was talking about his teacher Frank Montesonti. Unfamiliar with Frank’s work, I made a mental note to check him out. It wasn’t more than a day or two later that Frank’s name came up again, this time in a different context—as a reader for a local reading series that I was coordinating here in Bloomington, home of Indiana University. It just so happens that Frank is a one-time Hoosier, who attended IU, who just so happened to be doing readings at that time for his book Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, and who just so happened to be planning a trip back to Bloomington during Poetry Month. Sometimes happenstance leads to such wonderful things. When I heard him read from the book, I knew I wanted to review it and do an interview. [You can read the review here.]
Before getting on with the interview, just a few words about Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, which is discussed in the interview. The title itself does an excellent job of preparing the way for the reader: It suggests that the book is made up of three parts blight for every ray of hope. The playful title hints that language will be the playground of the poems—language used in clever and fun ways, maybe with touches of irony, jest, wry wit, perhaps with an enthusiastic abundance of words. At the same time, with those three doses of blight in the title, it signals that the book is not all sunshine and moonbeams. This book is filled with poems that engage issues of sobriety, trust, love and not love, God, loneliness, loss, science, and culture. I find Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope to be a book that invites the mind as well as the heart. In that spirit, here’s the opening poem of the book. Before advancing to the interview, I hope you take time to read it. It’s one to linger over.
– Nancy Chen Long
Despite the number of times it’s happened, I’m still surprised by reminders of how small the world can be—six degrees of separation and all of that. My introduction to Frank Montesonti is one such event. Last spring, I participated in the Pulitzer Remix Project, along with poets from across the U.S. and other countries. One of the poets, whom I’d met through the project’s social-media efforts, was talking about his teacher Frank Montesonti. Unfamiliar with Frank’s work, I made a mental note to check him out. It wasn’t more than a day or two later that Frank’s name came up again, this time in a different context—as a reader for a local reading series that I was coordinating here in Bloomington, home of Indiana University. It just so happens that Frank is a one-time Hoosier, who attended IU, who just so happened to be doing readings at that time for his book Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, and who just so happened to be planning a trip back to Bloomington during Poetry Month. Sometimes happenstance leads to such wonderful things. When I heard him read from the book, I knew I wanted to review it and do an interview. [You can read the review here.]
Before getting on with the interview, just a few words about Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, which is discussed in the interview. The title itself does an excellent job of preparing the way for the reader: It suggests that the book is made up of three parts blight for every ray of hope. The playful title hints that language will be the playground of the poems—language used in clever and fun ways, maybe with touches of irony, jest, wry wit, perhaps with an enthusiastic abundance of words. At the same time, with those three doses of blight in the title, it signals that the book is not all sunshine and moonbeams. This book is filled with poems that engage issues of sobriety, trust, love and not love, God, loneliness, loss, science, and culture. I find Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope to be a book that invites the mind as well as the heart. In that spirit, here’s the opening poem of the book. Before advancing to the interview, I hope you take time to read it. It’s one to linger over.
– Nancy Chen Long
The Incalculably Long Geometry of Sobriety by Frank Montesonti
November always starts out this way:
You feel like a box; then you feel trapped in a box.
A week since my last drink. The falling from the high blue I was, was
more crystalline in the memory than climbing spiral
apartment staircases in Chicago.
It’s called a flight of stairs
because you’re rising. You feel like a movie,
rapping on someone’s door;
then you’re in a movie;
you could swing the camera around and watch the brickwork of snow.
I’m going to miss the winter,
how it throws a white sheet over the lawns and caps
the trashcans. How it expects
us to wait like starved doves under a magician’s cape
for the disappearing. It will hurt the first time you look
at the winter and the winter in us.
Out there in the snow is a kid in a blue sweater with a head full of bronze gears
who is trying to grasp the incalculably long geometry
of loss and life. I’ll miss him too.
But not having the shakes so bad,
stumbling by bungalow-style houses spiked with ice,
it seemed the world would shatter.
Today, under the cold
and overcast sky I go to the laundry room to buy another soda.
O Loneliness.
I love the staged heartbeat of a Coke shouldered from the machine.
first published in Green Mountains Review
© Frank Montesonti, Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope (Barrow Street Press, 2012)
© Frank Montesonti, Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope (Barrow Street Press, 2012)
[This interview was conducted via email.]
The title of your first full-length book, Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, is unforgettable. Could you tell us something about it?
FM: I felt I didn't have a great title to my collection for a long time and then one night I was at a party talking to the fiction writer, Cheryl Klein, about how depressing NPR news stories are and she said, "Yeah, the formula is all blight, blight, blight, ray of hope." I instantly realized the title was perfect for my, bleak, self-conscious collection. Thanks, Cheryl.
Some say that one of the primary difficulties a poet may have with a first manuscript is shaping it into a book, as opposed to of a collection of disparate poems. Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope comes together as a book in a number of satisfying ways—through the use of theme (I’m thinking of your poem “Salutatorian’s Speech as I write this :) , repetition, and tone just to name a few. Was that something that you set out to do—to write a series of related poems—or was it something that unfolded as you went along, or perhaps even a last minute epiphany? In other words, please share how you shaped the manuscript.
FM: As poets we are always touching the same old wounds over and over again. So, if you work on a collection long enough it will find its thematic project because to a great extent we can't get away from our preoccupations. I think it would actually be harder to write a collection of random poems. Lately, I have realized that anything that I write is somehow related. What I often do to create a poem is to combine many different starts. The poem you mentioned, "Salutatorian Speech" came from about fifteen different starts of poems.
Getting a first book of poetry published is difficult (getting a second published is even more so—congratulations on Hope Tree!) Regarding Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, please share something of your experience in getting it published. For example, how long did you work on the manuscript? How long did it take to get the manuscript accepted? Did you revised it at some point? Did you send only to contests?
FM: About a fourth of the collection was straight from my MFA thesis. The rest was slowly revised and added to over the course of nearly a decade. I wasn't working on it constantly. I would write a new poem here and there and maybe subtract another. Over that time the book (in its various forms) was a finalist for contests about seven or eight times, a semifinalist many more. Like many poets, I started to feel like I was always the bridesmaid. The rejection, however, I think it really forced me to make a better collection. I improved the collection every season until I really had something solid. So, don't give up on a manuscript. Just keep listening to it and trying to make it better one poem at a time. My second manuscript was a breeze to publish. My wife suggested I send it to the press that did my chapbook and they loved it and the deal was done. So, sometimes you struggle for ten years, sometimes it takes a week. Go figure.
Speaking of contests, what are your thoughts about them?
FM: Personally, I like contests. I think you tend to get a fair read. There are many first-book contests out there now, so it is a good option if you are trying to publish a first book. A nice added convenience is that many times even if a press doesn't want the book they will ask for an unpublished poem or two for their related journal. Also, you can start to tell when your manuscript is getting better by how often it makes semifinalist or finalist. It can, however, be expensive. But at least your money goes to publishing a new book of poems, which is probably more valuable to society than buying a new pair of shoes. One other thing is that if you win a contest they publish your book much more quickly than if you get one picked up through open submissions where the backlog can be several years. But do some research. There are some very good small presses that don't charge fees or run contests, like my friends down at Cooper Dillon in San Diego.
Once your first full-length manuscript was published, were there things you thought would happen, yet didn’t? unexpected things that did happen?
FM: Being copy-edited was a humbling experience! But other than that, it was pretty much what I expected. I expected to be thrilled seeing my work in print, and I was. It was also very exciting to do a reading tour. The reception I received everywhere was wonderful, and I met a lot of new poets.
Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope has some beautifully lyrical prose poems. Some of them could be said to blend the boundary of genre, slipping into, say, the lyric essay. I was wondering if you’ve published some of your poems as lyric essay or if you also write what you personally consider prose (regardless of what someone else might consider it.) If so, are you working any prose right now?
FM: They say that prose writers move up and down and that poets move laterally. I am certainly a lateral thinker, so I can't really sustain the story needed for good prose. For some poets the line is very important, and for others, the phrase or the sound of the words, but the sentence is the main formal and musical unit in my poems. If you combine that with the fact that my poems are often rhetorical in nature with a speaker who directs the attention of the audience or meditates on subjects, I can certainly see how they are a close cousin of lyric essay.
Who are you reading now? Do you have a favorite poet or poets? What poets influence you?
FM: Oh, my. That's a big question. The book of poetry I have probably picked up the most in my life is Walt Whitman's, Leaves of Grass. Read the original version, not the deathbed version. I don't know exactly what to say about it other than in it I find a sort of overwhelming compassion for the world that I wish I could emulate. There are many, many, many great younger writers as well, but I'd be sure to leave someone out and regret it, so, I'll leave it at Whitman for now and encourage you to dust him off if you haven't read Leaves of Grass in a while.
When do you remember first being interested in poetry? Was there a mentor who encouraged you? How did you decide pursue poetry academically?
FM: I started writing as a teenager. Back then my poems were just strings of abstractions that probably only made sense to me, but I felt very close to them. Going into college I started out studying business, of all things. Luckily I had some wonderful instructors at IU (Abner Bartequez, Brian Teare, Cathy Bowman, Jonathan Ames) who encouraged me to change my major to English. I was hooked since then.
You teach creative writing. There are those who would argue that creative writing can’t be taught. And there are those who say that MFA programs squash creativity and result in cookie-cutter writing. What are your thoughts on these issues?
FM: I don't really agree with the idea that creative writing can't be taught. How do you know what creative writing really is until you have read extensively, until you know the artistic conversations about the subject that have proceeded you, until you actively try to join that conversation? These are the main ways creative writing is taught. The term "craft" is a sort of a mystic interpretation of "discourse," which can also be taught to an extent. At first that might produce cookie-cutter writing, but then most writers, if they have the dedication, move beyond that. I believe there are many unique brains and experiences out there to listen to, so I don't really trust words like "talent" or "creativity" because someone has to be the judge of what constitutes those terms, and I feel that is a limiting way of thinking for an artist.
When you write, do you imagine a reader? If so, what type of reader?
FM: Before I write, I often imagine that I'm in an empty room with a stage and there is no one in the audience, and I tell myself that my job is to try to say the most heartbreaking thing I possibly could to no one at all, just darkness. I may be disturbed.
Generally speaking, how do you approach revision? Do you use a checklist or have any tried-and-true practices?
FM: At first, I would approach it like most beginning poets. I would write a draft and then change a few lines around and call it done. Now I can never see where one poem ends and another begins. I combine language from any number of given drafts of poems with little regard for my original intentions. I let the language discover the intentions now.
The sestina “Every 1930s French Novel” is a delightful poem. How did that poem came to be? E.g., When did you first draft it? How did it start? Was it heavily revised, or was it one of those born fully formed?
FM: That one was born fully-formed. It's hard to write a sestina that isn't. The poem came from a summer when I was reading a lot of Sartre and Henry Miller. I couldn't stop laughing at how silly and dramatic all the characters acted. I think I wrote the first stanza and then realized it was six lines long. I then thought a sestina would be good form to poke fun at the repetitive themes. It is hard to write a good sestina. I think a poet may only get one or two good sestinas in a lifetime.
Place appears in a good number of the poems, whether geographic (such as Indiana or the Midwest) or nongeographic (such a situating the speaker in a café, hotel, on an airplane or a boat). What is your approach to (and/or your thoughts about the importance or impact of) place or setting in your poems?
FM: The Midwest is part of who I am. Bloomington aside, it can be pretty dreary. I felt like my imagination was formed drifting between corn field and abandoned corporate space, always in winter. Place never leaves some poets. It's what haunts them. It's where they find their poems. The various locations I think come from a sort of cinematic thread that runs through the poems. I suppose they are connected in that one grows up watching a lot of movies in the Midwest.
If you were a place, where or what type of a place would you be? :)
FM: An empty, snow-covered parking lot.
Grappling with the spiritual, considering the transcendent when mired in the mundane, and/or finding the transcendent in the mundane, seems to be pivotal in your poetry. There are a number of biblical, religious, and spiritual references. For me, it’s a subject of prime importance, which needs to shared and explored in community, but it’s also so very intimate and personal. Can you talk a little bit about that aspect of your work?
FM: I believe the mundane is all we have. Ever since I was a kid I had problems with religion, but instead of doubting the magical aspects of God like most people, I really had a problem with the afterlife. "Who would want to live forever?" I once asked my confused Sunday school teacher. Now that I think about it, that is probably the central question that runs through a lot of Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope. When one believes that this world is all there is, you have to construct some personal hope in it, some meaning.
What are you working on now?
FM: The new collection I'm sending out is titled, For Oh, Yvonne, I Am. It is a book-length series of exuberant love poems mixed with overlapping scenes and characters. It's hard to describe, but I'm quite excited about it.
Finally, what advice would you give to an aspiring writer?
FM: The best advice I have ever heard is "Don't make excuses for why you don't have time to write; use writing as an excuse to avoid other obligations."
FM: I felt I didn't have a great title to my collection for a long time and then one night I was at a party talking to the fiction writer, Cheryl Klein, about how depressing NPR news stories are and she said, "Yeah, the formula is all blight, blight, blight, ray of hope." I instantly realized the title was perfect for my, bleak, self-conscious collection. Thanks, Cheryl.
Some say that one of the primary difficulties a poet may have with a first manuscript is shaping it into a book, as opposed to of a collection of disparate poems. Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope comes together as a book in a number of satisfying ways—through the use of theme (I’m thinking of your poem “Salutatorian’s Speech as I write this :) , repetition, and tone just to name a few. Was that something that you set out to do—to write a series of related poems—or was it something that unfolded as you went along, or perhaps even a last minute epiphany? In other words, please share how you shaped the manuscript.
FM: As poets we are always touching the same old wounds over and over again. So, if you work on a collection long enough it will find its thematic project because to a great extent we can't get away from our preoccupations. I think it would actually be harder to write a collection of random poems. Lately, I have realized that anything that I write is somehow related. What I often do to create a poem is to combine many different starts. The poem you mentioned, "Salutatorian Speech" came from about fifteen different starts of poems.
Getting a first book of poetry published is difficult (getting a second published is even more so—congratulations on Hope Tree!) Regarding Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, please share something of your experience in getting it published. For example, how long did you work on the manuscript? How long did it take to get the manuscript accepted? Did you revised it at some point? Did you send only to contests?
FM: About a fourth of the collection was straight from my MFA thesis. The rest was slowly revised and added to over the course of nearly a decade. I wasn't working on it constantly. I would write a new poem here and there and maybe subtract another. Over that time the book (in its various forms) was a finalist for contests about seven or eight times, a semifinalist many more. Like many poets, I started to feel like I was always the bridesmaid. The rejection, however, I think it really forced me to make a better collection. I improved the collection every season until I really had something solid. So, don't give up on a manuscript. Just keep listening to it and trying to make it better one poem at a time. My second manuscript was a breeze to publish. My wife suggested I send it to the press that did my chapbook and they loved it and the deal was done. So, sometimes you struggle for ten years, sometimes it takes a week. Go figure.
Speaking of contests, what are your thoughts about them?
FM: Personally, I like contests. I think you tend to get a fair read. There are many first-book contests out there now, so it is a good option if you are trying to publish a first book. A nice added convenience is that many times even if a press doesn't want the book they will ask for an unpublished poem or two for their related journal. Also, you can start to tell when your manuscript is getting better by how often it makes semifinalist or finalist. It can, however, be expensive. But at least your money goes to publishing a new book of poems, which is probably more valuable to society than buying a new pair of shoes. One other thing is that if you win a contest they publish your book much more quickly than if you get one picked up through open submissions where the backlog can be several years. But do some research. There are some very good small presses that don't charge fees or run contests, like my friends down at Cooper Dillon in San Diego.
Once your first full-length manuscript was published, were there things you thought would happen, yet didn’t? unexpected things that did happen?
FM: Being copy-edited was a humbling experience! But other than that, it was pretty much what I expected. I expected to be thrilled seeing my work in print, and I was. It was also very exciting to do a reading tour. The reception I received everywhere was wonderful, and I met a lot of new poets.
Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope has some beautifully lyrical prose poems. Some of them could be said to blend the boundary of genre, slipping into, say, the lyric essay. I was wondering if you’ve published some of your poems as lyric essay or if you also write what you personally consider prose (regardless of what someone else might consider it.) If so, are you working any prose right now?
FM: They say that prose writers move up and down and that poets move laterally. I am certainly a lateral thinker, so I can't really sustain the story needed for good prose. For some poets the line is very important, and for others, the phrase or the sound of the words, but the sentence is the main formal and musical unit in my poems. If you combine that with the fact that my poems are often rhetorical in nature with a speaker who directs the attention of the audience or meditates on subjects, I can certainly see how they are a close cousin of lyric essay.
Who are you reading now? Do you have a favorite poet or poets? What poets influence you?
FM: Oh, my. That's a big question. The book of poetry I have probably picked up the most in my life is Walt Whitman's, Leaves of Grass. Read the original version, not the deathbed version. I don't know exactly what to say about it other than in it I find a sort of overwhelming compassion for the world that I wish I could emulate. There are many, many, many great younger writers as well, but I'd be sure to leave someone out and regret it, so, I'll leave it at Whitman for now and encourage you to dust him off if you haven't read Leaves of Grass in a while.
When do you remember first being interested in poetry? Was there a mentor who encouraged you? How did you decide pursue poetry academically?
FM: I started writing as a teenager. Back then my poems were just strings of abstractions that probably only made sense to me, but I felt very close to them. Going into college I started out studying business, of all things. Luckily I had some wonderful instructors at IU (Abner Bartequez, Brian Teare, Cathy Bowman, Jonathan Ames) who encouraged me to change my major to English. I was hooked since then.
You teach creative writing. There are those who would argue that creative writing can’t be taught. And there are those who say that MFA programs squash creativity and result in cookie-cutter writing. What are your thoughts on these issues?
FM: I don't really agree with the idea that creative writing can't be taught. How do you know what creative writing really is until you have read extensively, until you know the artistic conversations about the subject that have proceeded you, until you actively try to join that conversation? These are the main ways creative writing is taught. The term "craft" is a sort of a mystic interpretation of "discourse," which can also be taught to an extent. At first that might produce cookie-cutter writing, but then most writers, if they have the dedication, move beyond that. I believe there are many unique brains and experiences out there to listen to, so I don't really trust words like "talent" or "creativity" because someone has to be the judge of what constitutes those terms, and I feel that is a limiting way of thinking for an artist.
When you write, do you imagine a reader? If so, what type of reader?
FM: Before I write, I often imagine that I'm in an empty room with a stage and there is no one in the audience, and I tell myself that my job is to try to say the most heartbreaking thing I possibly could to no one at all, just darkness. I may be disturbed.
Generally speaking, how do you approach revision? Do you use a checklist or have any tried-and-true practices?
FM: At first, I would approach it like most beginning poets. I would write a draft and then change a few lines around and call it done. Now I can never see where one poem ends and another begins. I combine language from any number of given drafts of poems with little regard for my original intentions. I let the language discover the intentions now.
The sestina “Every 1930s French Novel” is a delightful poem. How did that poem came to be? E.g., When did you first draft it? How did it start? Was it heavily revised, or was it one of those born fully formed?
FM: That one was born fully-formed. It's hard to write a sestina that isn't. The poem came from a summer when I was reading a lot of Sartre and Henry Miller. I couldn't stop laughing at how silly and dramatic all the characters acted. I think I wrote the first stanza and then realized it was six lines long. I then thought a sestina would be good form to poke fun at the repetitive themes. It is hard to write a good sestina. I think a poet may only get one or two good sestinas in a lifetime.
Place appears in a good number of the poems, whether geographic (such as Indiana or the Midwest) or nongeographic (such a situating the speaker in a café, hotel, on an airplane or a boat). What is your approach to (and/or your thoughts about the importance or impact of) place or setting in your poems?
FM: The Midwest is part of who I am. Bloomington aside, it can be pretty dreary. I felt like my imagination was formed drifting between corn field and abandoned corporate space, always in winter. Place never leaves some poets. It's what haunts them. It's where they find their poems. The various locations I think come from a sort of cinematic thread that runs through the poems. I suppose they are connected in that one grows up watching a lot of movies in the Midwest.
If you were a place, where or what type of a place would you be? :)
FM: An empty, snow-covered parking lot.
Grappling with the spiritual, considering the transcendent when mired in the mundane, and/or finding the transcendent in the mundane, seems to be pivotal in your poetry. There are a number of biblical, religious, and spiritual references. For me, it’s a subject of prime importance, which needs to shared and explored in community, but it’s also so very intimate and personal. Can you talk a little bit about that aspect of your work?
FM: I believe the mundane is all we have. Ever since I was a kid I had problems with religion, but instead of doubting the magical aspects of God like most people, I really had a problem with the afterlife. "Who would want to live forever?" I once asked my confused Sunday school teacher. Now that I think about it, that is probably the central question that runs through a lot of Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope. When one believes that this world is all there is, you have to construct some personal hope in it, some meaning.
What are you working on now?
FM: The new collection I'm sending out is titled, For Oh, Yvonne, I Am. It is a book-length series of exuberant love poems mixed with overlapping scenes and characters. It's hard to describe, but I'm quite excited about it.
Finally, what advice would you give to an aspiring writer?
FM: The best advice I have ever heard is "Don't make excuses for why you don't have time to write; use writing as an excuse to avoid other obligations."
Frank Montesonti On-line
Website: http://frankmontesonti.com/
Some poems:
Listen to Frank read “Salutatorian Speech,” “Quick Study In Unhappiness,” and “Piranha”on WFIU’s The Poets Weave with Romayne Rubinas Dorsey
BLIGHT, BLIGHT, BLIGHT, RAY OF HOPE by Frank Montesonti
Frank Montesonti
Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope
Barrow Street Press
http://www.barrowstreet.org/By the numbers
ISBN ISBN 978-0981987675
Publication: 2012
Total pages: 83
Number of poems: 36
__________
I met Frank Montesonti last spring when he was a featured reader at the First-Sundays Readings and Open-Mic here in Bloomington, Indiana. Frank is a one-time Hooiser who attended Indiana University. He now lives in Los Angeles and teaches creative writing at National University. After hearing him read from his book Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, I immediately purchased it. After reading the book, I knew I wanted to review it and am delighted to share this review with you here.
Also, I had the opportunity to interview Frank. Click here for the interview and to learn more about him. Frank has since published a second book. It’s a book of erasure titled Hope Tree (HOw to PrunE Fruit TREEs). I’m looking forward to reading it!
—Nancy Chen Long
Also, I had the opportunity to interview Frank. Click here for the interview and to learn more about him. Frank has since published a second book. It’s a book of erasure titled Hope Tree (HOw to PrunE Fruit TREEs). I’m looking forward to reading it!
—Nancy Chen Long
__________
Overview
Frank Montesonti’s debut full-length book of poetry Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope has much to recommend it. It's filled with emotionally-charged poems that embody the human condition: ambiguity, ambivalence, the simultaneous holding of contradictions, the greater and lesser strains of beauty that frequently attend sadness. The language is often witty and clever, the tone at times sarcastic or glib. While some of the poems are humorous, taken as a whole, the mood tends to be one of sadness or despair. These are poems that grapple with issues of sobriety, trust, love and not love, God, loneliness, science, and culture, all the while exploring and challenging what we hold to be real.
Frank Montesonti’s debut full-length book of poetry Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope has much to recommend it. It's filled with emotionally-charged poems that embody the human condition: ambiguity, ambivalence, the simultaneous holding of contradictions, the greater and lesser strains of beauty that frequently attend sadness. The language is often witty and clever, the tone at times sarcastic or glib. While some of the poems are humorous, taken as a whole, the mood tends to be one of sadness or despair. These are poems that grapple with issues of sobriety, trust, love and not love, God, loneliness, science, and culture, all the while exploring and challenging what we hold to be real.
The title of the book has an exuberant wordiness that brings to mind Walt Whitman. And simply glancing through the book, one can see the celebratory length of the Whitmanian line. Most of the poems lean towards a longer line; some of the poems extend into prose and could be said to approach the lyric essay. Although there are strong prose-like elements in some of the poems, those who are looking for a definitive narrative arc, a straight-forward story, won’t find one. In Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, there is no unifying narrative that imposes order and creates understanding. Instead, there is much of the postmodern in these poems: an indeterminacy that marshals the reader into active participation to fill in gaps and craft his own meaning out of the text, notions of hyperreality in which one is unable to tell the difference between reality and a simulation of reality, an emphasis on the visual, the view that language shapes our reality, and a self-reflexivity that highlights its own artificiality, such as a poem that lets the reader know that it knows it’s a poem, at times breaking the fourth wall, in which the speaker of a poem addresses the reader directly.
There is an intriguing disjointedness and fragmentation to Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope—various images, scenes, and language that at first blush might seem unrelated, but collectively form a satisfying whole. I experienced the thirty-six poems, with their varying degrees of disjointedness, like scenes in a movie—not a linear sort of movie, but more like a montage of images and scenes that taken together form a cinematic-like experience. This cinematic thread, which includes film-related diction, references, and allusions, is one of the organizing forces of the book.
Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope is an impressive and poignant book. Satisfying on a first read, it also amply rewards repeated readings. The poems are deeply layered, rich with metaphors, allusions, and multiple meanings. Each time I return to a poem, it's like a present being unwrapped—I discover something new.
A Closer Look
Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope is an impressive and poignant book. Satisfying on a first read, it also amply rewards repeated readings. The poems are deeply layered, rich with metaphors, allusions, and multiple meanings. Each time I return to a poem, it's like a present being unwrapped—I discover something new.
A Closer Look
To give you a better idea of what you might find in Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope, we'll take a mini-tour through it using the cinematic aspect as a map: First, we'll take a brief look at the opening poem, which establishes a cinematic reading of the book. Then we'll turn to one of the prose-like poems, one that involves the film The Wizard of Oz. The third poem we'll look at is one with shorter lines in stanzas; it involves the film It's a Wonderful Life. We'll conclude with the last poem, which reinforces, as well as closes, the cinematic reading.
The first poem of the book, “The Incalculably Long Geometry of Sobriety,” is set in winter ("November always starts out this way"), with a speaker who is wrestling with sobriety ("A week since my last drink. The falling from the high blue"), who is probably in Chicago ("apartment staircases in Chicago.") So within the first few lines, we encounter some of the motifs that help stitch the book together: winter/cold, sobriety, the Midwest, and the color blue. (The full text of this poem can be found in the interview, which is here.)
The book's motifs combine to support its various subjects, and in this first poem, two notable subjects are introduced: loneliness (“O Loneliness. / I love the staged heartbeat of a Coke shouldered from the machine”) and loss:
Out there in the snow is a kid in a blue sweater with a head full of bronze gears
who is trying to grasp the incalculably long geometry
of loss and life. I’ll miss him too.
The various subjects in the book in turn form the foundation for what I believe is the theme of the book: a questioning of reality, an assertion that life feels like an imitation, like something less than. In the third stanza, we encounter the start of the groundwork for that theme and an invitation to a cinematic reading:
who is trying to grasp the incalculably long geometry
of loss and life. I’ll miss him too.
The various subjects in the book in turn form the foundation for what I believe is the theme of the book: a questioning of reality, an assertion that life feels like an imitation, like something less than. In the third stanza, we encounter the start of the groundwork for that theme and an invitation to a cinematic reading:
… You feel like a movie,
rapping on someone’s door,
then you’re in a movie;
you could swing the camera around and watch the brickwork of snow.
It's likely that the poem is a monologue, so the 'you' in the above snippet is the speaker talking to himself. When the speaker says he feels "like a movie," he could mean that he feels like watching a movie. However, if we let the words stand on their own, he could be saying that he feels like an object...like a movie. When taken together with the line that he's *in* a movie, the speaker calls into question the reality of his life at that moment, and in the doing, he starts the groundwork for the theme.
The next poem on our brief cinematic mini-tour is “Quitclaim of the Wizard of Oz.” It also questions what we hold to be real. “Quitclaim of the Wizard of Oz” is one of the longer, prose-like poems. In it, Montesonti hijacks the movie The Wizard of Oz and beams it into his own universe. The Wizard appears to be the speaker in the poem. Since a quitclaim is a renunciation of any legal claim to rights, at this point the title seems to suggest that the Wizard has given up his rights to the Land of Oz. The first few sentences of the poem read like a script. The first stanza suggests that the Wizard and Dorothy are not in Oz, but perhaps are in their mutual home state of Kansas or somewhere in the Midwest:
The next poem on our brief cinematic mini-tour is “Quitclaim of the Wizard of Oz.” It also questions what we hold to be real. “Quitclaim of the Wizard of Oz” is one of the longer, prose-like poems. In it, Montesonti hijacks the movie The Wizard of Oz and beams it into his own universe. The Wizard appears to be the speaker in the poem. Since a quitclaim is a renunciation of any legal claim to rights, at this point the title seems to suggest that the Wizard has given up his rights to the Land of Oz. The first few sentences of the poem read like a script. The first stanza suggests that the Wizard and Dorothy are not in Oz, but perhaps are in their mutual home state of Kansas or somewhere in the Midwest:
Edge of reaped cornfield. Stood there. Dorothy jump cut-materialized and ran into my arms. “What happened to the scarecrow?” she asked. “You were the scarecrow,” I replied.
“I knew all along,” she said, brushing back her hair.
While the beginning of the first stanza is script-like and suggests a movie, we learn in the second stanza that the Wizard is also talking to someone, a ‘you’, which suggests that the poem is also an epistle or an address to someone who isn't there:“I knew all along,” she said, brushing back her hair.
Dear Anonymous, There are small blue tornadoes in my eyes when I read your poems about the outlines of socks on your floor. Your poems entitled “Depression in a Suitcase.”
The specificity of the second stanza—'your' poems, the socks on the floor, stating the poem’s actual title—all point to a particular, known person, despite the Wizard calling that person 'Anonymous'. In addition, the Wizard seems to know about other poems in this book. For example, the part about the "outlines of socks on your floor" could be a reference to the poem "A Time to Sing in Airports," which comes later in the book and mentions the speaker's socks on the floor. The Wizard ask questions of, and addresses, this anonymous person throughout the poem, for example:Would you trade your lion for courage?
Dear Anonymous, If I were a soldier I’d be a bad soldier because I wouldn't die for anyone or myself. May I digress? Black T-Bird blacking out. Yellow maple tree unzipped. Mattress, independent on hardwood floor.
…
First you’ll miss banana shakes in the summertime; then you’ll learn we’re voices trapped under language.
…
Dear Anonymous, If I were a soldier I’d be a bad soldier because I wouldn't die for anyone or myself. May I digress? Black T-Bird blacking out. Yellow maple tree unzipped. Mattress, independent on hardwood floor.
…
First you’ll miss banana shakes in the summertime; then you’ll learn we’re voices trapped under language.
…
In the fourth stanza, we learn that the Wizard is also a poet ("the light from the poem I wrote about watermelons") and that the Wizard in this poem-version of the story is probably living with Dorothy ("the artificial womb of the bathtub, Dorothy's bare feet out of cuffed jeans; she sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, and spread out her toes.") Given that the Wizard is a poet, given that the anonymous 'you' is also a poet, given that the Wizard has information about other poems in the book, all of these 'givens' together support the idea that the Wizard is either addressing the poet who wrote the poem, or the Wizard is the poet who wrote the poem. So we have the poet speaking as an alternate version of himself (as the Wizard) and we have the speaker, the Wizard, who is speaking to an alternate or separate version of himself (i.e., the poet). This circularity creates ambiguity with respect to speaker and addressee. It has the effect of conflating the role of the Wizard in this poem-film with the personhood of the poet in 'real life'. What is real merges into make-believe and vice versa.
Before leaving this poem, I'd like to spend some time with the last two stanzas:
This is the talking I find significant, talking more like clothing. The broken, frozen reeds of cornstalks, the pale yellow sun struggling to lower its temperature below the silos.
Would you give it all up to go home?
I want to linger here with the simile "talking more like clothing" because it is a simple example of the richness of Montesonti's metaphors, similes, juxtapositions, and other methods of comparison that transfer meaning and attributes. The simile "talking more like clothing" draws me in as I consider talking that is more like something you slip on and off, as something you can leave in a heap on the floor, or wash clean and put away, talking as something you choose to put on in order to form an identity or project a persona, talking as something you wear to protect yourself from being naked and exposed, talking as something wordless.
Lastly, the question that ends the poem "Would you give it all up to go home?" is an example of the multiple meanings that Montesonti layers into his poems. The landscape depicted in the stanza (the "broken, frozen reeds of cornstalks" and the silos), along with some of the other location-descriptors in the poem, suggest that the Wizard and Dorothy could be back home in Kansas. If they are already in Kansas, then the question at the end of the poem could be asking the Wizard if he would give up what was considered home (Kansas) in order "to go home." In this case, asking the question conveys the feeling that home is wherever he is not. However, in the poem, the Wizard and Dorothy also meander to Greece and possibly to Chicago. If they're not in Kansas and are moving around, then asking the question at the end conveys the feeling that home is unattainable. At the same time, if we read the poem as the poet speaking as the Wizard speaking to the poet, then 'home' takes on a more metaphorical meaning, one that is not necessarily a place.
The third poem on our brief cinematic mini-tour, “A Flock of Iagos Waiting in the Wings," is one of the poems that appears in shorter-lined stanzas and is an excellent example of Montesonti's use of allusion, ambiguity, and juxtaposition. First, the title. Through the name 'Iago', Montesonti invokes both what some would call high and low culture: Iago in the title alludes to the the charismatically-cloaked Machiavellian character in Shakespeare’s Othello. Iago also alludes to the parrot in Walt Disney’s cartoon TV series and films Aladdin. While both manifestations of Iago have unsavory characteristics, Shakespeare’s Iago is malevolent—Disney’s not so much, more of a trickster character rather than an evil one. If we have in mind Shakespeare’s Iago, it sets the stage for the menacing undercurrent of the poem, especially in connection with the word ‘flock’, which, while meaning a large number, also summons the image of a flock of evil birds. However, if we have in mind Disney’s Iago, then it sets the stage for something comical as we imagine a flock of mischievous cartoon birds. The word 'flock' also hints at a church congregation, giving a slight religious tint to the understanding of the title, an understanding that also presages the biblical references and allusions in the poem.
At the start of the poem, we find the speaker standing on a bridge in Indianapolis “getting covered with coils of snow,” contemplating the 1946 American Christmas movie classic It’s a Wonderful Life, and the alternate world that would have existed had the main character of the movie, George, never lived—how George’s home town would have ended up “… constricted financially, then choked / out by cheap neon from the luminous / vices.” The image of the speaker of the poem on bridge echoes the scene in the movie where the lead character George stands on a bridge in the snow on Christmas Eve contemplating suicide. The movie title It’s a Wonderful Life takes on a sense of irony as the speaker tells us he “feels like Lucifer in a tree” that this alternate harsh, George-less world would never come to be “just because George renege[d] on his wish” to die.
The speaker's consideration of the movie It’s a Wonderful Life is immediately juxtaposed with science, as the speaker starts talking about a science article: “I read this article / about some scientists who theorized / twenty ways the world might end.” This juxtaposition seems to turn from the elusive fantasy of the movie to hard fact. But that turn turns out to be elusive as well, because according to the speaker, the last scientific theory is that “Someone wakes up / and finds it has all been a dream.” The speaker acknowledges with glib sarcasm: “Yes, this trick / is cheap soap opera tripe, but who says / we live in an expensive universe?” There is humor in this ironic turn to science that really isn’t science, a darker humor rooted in cynicism.
The speaker of the poem continues the extension into science with a story he saw on the science TV program NOVA about a man afflicted with Capgras delusion. The man "believed / all his loved ones were carbon-copy imposters.” The speaker recounts that the man “didn't think his parents / were reptiles in rubber suits or Iagos waiting in the wings ... / they just weren't them.” While the poem says that the parents are not “Iagos waiting in the wings,” the title says the opposite, that this poem is about “a flock of Iagos waiting / in the wings.” Here, we have family members who are not family members, a poem that says the parents are not Iagos waiting in the wings, while title says they are. This sort of ambiguity disorients the reader with respect to what is real and what is not.
On the heels of the NOVA show, the speaker returns to standing on the bridge, there in the slush of traffic:
I’m not thinking of doing anything drastic;
I'm just watching the light from the nearby power
plant occasionally coil in a divot of water,
shine like a scale, and then disappear.
Those last two stanzas leave the reader with a final imprint of the snake that has been slithering all through this poem in images and allusions—Lucifer, coils of snow, the alternate universe that "like a snake unhinges its jaw"—as well as in diction, for example “constricted,” “snake-oil salesman,” “the brief venom of visual exultation,” “reptiles in rubber suits,” and the "legless" moonlight and snow.
Related to the image of the serpent, one last comment before we move on: Like other poems in the book, this poem contains biblical references and allusions, both directly through Lucifer and indirectly through Iago, which loops in Shakespeare's Othello, considered by some to be an allusion to the biblical creation story in which Desdemona is Eve, Othello is Adam, and Iago, the serpent that deceives them.
We'll conclude our cinematic jaunt through Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope with the last poem of the book, which has the delightful tongue-in-cheek title “Gratuitous Voice-Over at the End of a Film, Reflecting on the Tribulations of the Plot and Coming Finally to an Epiphany.” The poem is told in the first person, and being a voice-over to a film, I imagine the speaker saying the opening lines out loud, as he watches himself row across the lake:
Then I realized, rowing across the lake
that even if Mother leaves the sanitarium
and they build another aviary and free the bullfinches
The humorous tone of the title spills over into the beginning of the poem and those first few lines have the feel of parody. The first twenty-six lines form one long sentence, a string of collaged images and scenes that feel less and less parodical until we reach the final images of that sentence:
winter rain cutting through tree branches,
all this inevitable turning in my life,
a tornado kicking out shreds of a barn,
or an icebreaker ship rolling like an oily bell.
The last six lines of the poem clinch the cinematic reading of the book with a final, parting shot:
It’s as if there’s a camera that pans out farther
and farther until you question what holds it.
Then I realized, rowing across the lake,
there’s so little to keep me from sinking,
just this small craft,
suspended above the consuming water.
This last poem, in which the speaker approaches his life as if it were a film, suggests that life/reality is something we construct, something we can't help but question; it evidences the postmodern container that holds the poems of this beautiful book.
Like the final poem, the poems in Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope demonstrate a skillful use of tone, juxtaposition, metaphor, and allusion. Montesonti carefully crafts images and language. He is a master of juxtaposition, metaphor, and layered meaning. The result is a book that engages the reader's heart and intellect as it takes us on a journey, an exploration of what is considered real. The book doesn't presume to give answers. Rather, it gifts us with an experience.
Then I realized, rowing across the lake
that even if Mother leaves the sanitarium
and they build another aviary and free the bullfinches
The humorous tone of the title spills over into the beginning of the poem and those first few lines have the feel of parody. The first twenty-six lines form one long sentence, a string of collaged images and scenes that feel less and less parodical until we reach the final images of that sentence:
winter rain cutting through tree branches,
all this inevitable turning in my life,
a tornado kicking out shreds of a barn,
or an icebreaker ship rolling like an oily bell.
The last six lines of the poem clinch the cinematic reading of the book with a final, parting shot:
It’s as if there’s a camera that pans out farther
and farther until you question what holds it.
Then I realized, rowing across the lake,
there’s so little to keep me from sinking,
just this small craft,
suspended above the consuming water.
This last poem, in which the speaker approaches his life as if it were a film, suggests that life/reality is something we construct, something we can't help but question; it evidences the postmodern container that holds the poems of this beautiful book.
Like the final poem, the poems in Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope demonstrate a skillful use of tone, juxtaposition, metaphor, and allusion. Montesonti carefully crafts images and language. He is a master of juxtaposition, metaphor, and layered meaning. The result is a book that engages the reader's heart and intellect as it takes us on a journey, an exploration of what is considered real. The book doesn't presume to give answers. Rather, it gifts us with an experience.
__________
[a poem from Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope]
Blackout Chef
I had a friend whose father,
every night after coming home
from looking for work,
would sit down at the kitchen
table and with medical accuracy
pour six shots of vodka
into six glasses and drink them
one per minute. Then he
would stand, open a bottle of wine
and start cooking in his little
basement apartment,
which he rented after the divorce,
until his memory lifted away.
Starved of himself,
he grew so hungry
he would prepare elaborate
meals: New York strip steaks
a perfect medium,
roasted lamb with rosemary
and mint, tomato
and cilantro gazpacho.
He must have staggered through
the bright aisles of the grocery
rooting around the crisper
for kale while Sheryl Crow
played overhead, or slurred to
the manager about the lack
of fresh tarragon. In his bright warm
kitchen with the snow piled
above the basement windows
in the winter months when the sun
would set at five p.m., he pulled his face
from the steam of the pots,
wrinkled in an expression
of joy in preparing things
that made sense, but the next morning,
he would wake to find it all there
untouched, gleaming on plates,
his night work, having appeared seemingly
from nowhere—from someone
who had the things he lacked in life:
taste, inspiration,
the power
to wake up the next morning,
someone else.
"Blackout Chef" was first published in Spork
* * * * *
All poems printed or quoted in this post © Frank Montesonti Blight, Blight, Blight, Ray of Hope (Barrow Street Press, 2012)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)