World Poetry Month: Day Twenty Seven

World Poetry Month: Day Twenty Seven

Today’s poetry is ‘Summer In Calcutta’ a poem by Kamala Das. As a recapitulation of the past, the poem is nothing more than an experience removed from reality.

Due to the conditions of delirium, it conveys only a vague sense of oneness and fragmentation caused by a state of mind under duress of pain half-forgotten.

Throughout the poem, there is an image of a continuous flow. A chain of images begins with the sun as the orange, the heat of the sun as a liquid, the liquid as liquor, and the liquor turning poisonous in the end, leaving us with goosebumps that inevitably follow a realization of deep sadness and pain.

A comparison is made between the sun and an orange. It brings to mind both the mythical incident of Hanumana attempting to eat the sun, thinking it was a fruit, and also the line “April is the cruelest month.”

Using bubbles as a metaphor for a new bride’s nervous smile is both naive and sexually charged at the same time.

A large part of Kamala’s repertoire is sex, which is often invoked both intentionally and unintentionally.

Therefore, Kamala Das surprises us with her erratic and erotic linguistic turns, her unconventional images, and her frank acceptance of life’s bitter truths.

This poem, which appears to be a descriptive one, is in fact a reminiscence of guilt.

‘Summer In Calcutta’ by Kamala Das ▶️

What is this drink but
The April sun, squeezed
Like an orange in
My glass? I sip the
Fire, I drink and drink
Again, I am drunk
Yes, but on the gold
of suns, What noble
venom now flows through
my veins and fills my
mind with unhurried
laughter? My worries
doze. Wee bubbles ring
my glass, like a bride’s
nervous smile, and meet
my lips. Dear, forgive
this moment’s lull in
wanting you, the blur
in memory. How
brief the term of my
devotion, how brief
your reign when I with
glass in hand, drink, drink,
and drink again this
Juice of April suns.

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