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William Topaz McGonagall was a Scottish poet, actor and weaver. He has been widely acclaimed as the worst poet in British history. A major criticism of his poetry is that he is deaf to poetic metaphor. His poetry is said to have inappropriate rhythm and weak vocabulary, making him one of the most spontaneously comic poet in the English language. This poem, which I read recently, had me in splits.

THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE

Mr. Smiggs was a gentleman,
And he lived in London town;
His wife she was a good kind soul,
And seldom known to frown.

'Twas on Christmas eve,
And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
When the thought of buying a goose
Came into his head.

So the next morning,
Just as the sun rose,
He jump'd out of bed,
And he donn'd his clothes,

Saying, "Peggy, my dear.
You need not frown,
For I'll buy you the best goose
In all London town."

So away to the poultry shop he goes,
And bought the goose, as he did propose,
And for it he paid one crown,
The finest, he thought, in London town.

When Smiggs bought the goose
He suspected no harm,
But a naughty boy stole it
From under his arm.

Then Smiggs he cried, "Stop, thief!
Come back with my goose!"
But the naughty boy laugh'd at him,
And gave him much abuse.

But a policeman captur'd the naughty boy,
And gave the goose to Smiggs,
And said he was greatly bother'd
By a set of juvenile prigs.

So the naughty boy was put in prison
For stealing the goose.,
And got ten days' confinement
Before he got loose.

So Smiggs ran home to his dear Peggy,
Saying, "Hurry, and get this fat goose ready,
That I have bought for one crown;
So, my darling, you need not frown."

"Dear Mr Smiggs, I will not frown:
I'm sure 'tis cheap for one crown,
Especially at Christmas time --
Oh! Mr Smiggs, it's really fine."

"Peggy. it is Christmas time,
So let us drive dull care away,
For we have got a Christmas goose,
So cook it well, I pray.

"No matter how the poor are clothed,
Or if they starve at home,
We'll drink our wine, and eat our goose,
Aye, and pick it to the bone."

Nadia Anjuman Herawi was an Afghani poet. As a student in Herat University, she had her first book of poetry published, which proved quite popular in Afghanistan, Pakistan and Iran. On November 4, her body was found in her home, and her husband suspected of killing her. The United Nations condemned the killing soon afterwards. It is believed that her family was ashamed of her poetry, which deals with the oppression of Afghan women. The following poem is a heart-rending look at how Afghan women feel, like birds trapped inside a cage. To some extent, it is true for women across the globe, trapped in the restrictions imposed by the male world.

A POEM

No desire to open my mouth
What should I sing of...?
I, who am hated by life.
No difference to sing or not to sing.
Why should I talk of sweetness,
When I feel bitterness?
Oh, the oppressor's feast
Knocked my mouth.
I have no companion in life
Who can I be sweet for?
No difference to speak, to laugh,
To die, to be.
Me and my strained solitude.
With sorrow and sadness.
I was borne for nothingness.
My mouth should be sealed.
Oh my heart, you know it is spring
And time to celebrate.
What should I do with a trapped wing,
Which does not let me fly?
I have been silent too long,
But I never forget the melody,
Since every moment I whisper
The songs from my heart,
Reminding myself of
The day I will break this cage,
Fly from this solitude
And sing like a melancholic.
I am not a weak poplar tree
To be shaken by any wind.
I am an Afghan woman,
It only makes sense to moan

Gabriel Okara is a Nigerian poet and novelist. Winner of the Commonwealth Poetry prize in 1979, he has captured the sights and sounds of Africa with remarkable clarity and sensitivity. His famous poem, Once Upon A Time, was part of our English syllabus, and I loved the poem and the feelings of loss of innocence that it conveyed. I had been looking for other poems of his, and came across another equally amazing poem, The Snowflakes Sail Gently Down, where he contemplates how Westernization is eating away at Africa's cultural heritage. The loneliness of the poet, the wistful yearning for his homeland is very evocative. I was particularly struck by his turn of phrase, especially the "touch of silk cotton on water falling", something I found very beautiful. His voice is melancholy and perceptive, and his poem strikes you in the heart.

THE SNOWFLAKES SAIL GENTLY DOWN

The snowflakes sail gently
down from the misty eye of the sky
and fall lightly on the
winter-weary elms. and the branches
winter-stripped and nude, slowly
with the weight of the weightless snow
bow like grief-stricken mourners
as white funeral cloth is slowly
unrolled over the deathless earth.
And dead sleep stealthily from the
heater rose and closed my eyes with
the touch of silk cotton on water falling.


Then I dreamed a dream
in my dead sleep. But I dreamed
not of earth dying and elms a vigil
keeping. I dreamed of birds, black
birds flying in my inside, nesting
and hatching on oil palms bearing suns
for fruits and with roots denting the
uprooters' spades. And I dreamed the
uprooters tired and limp, leaning on my roots --
their abandoned roots
and the oil palms gave them each a sun.


But on their palms
they balanced the blinding orbs
and frowned with schisms on their
brows -- for the suns reached not
the brightness of gold!
Then I awoke. I awoke
to the silently falling snow
and bent-backed elms bowing and
swaying to the winter wind like
white-robed Moslems salaaming at evening
prayer, and the earth lying inscrutable
like the face of a god in a shrine.

I find poetry hard to understand, the subtle nuances and hidden meanings often escape me. For a long time, this has been a reason why I avoided poetry like the plague. But I realized that I am avoiding a very rich, very varied source of literature. So, starting today, I am going to devote this fortnightly to poetry, especially to poets I have never heard of, though I will definitely come back to the masters from time to time. I hope you readers will join me in this poetry reading and carry on the tradition (if you can call it that) on your blogs as well.

This week, I will start off with the Salvadoran Poet Roque Dalton. He was a political activist, journalist and poet associated with the People's Revolutionary Army, shot dead in 1975. His most popular poem is Poema de Amor (Love Poem). In this poem, originally "El Descanso Del Guerrero", he writes about the fate of the modern revolutionaries, whose deaths raise more questions than their lives.

THE FALLING OF THE FREEDOM FIGHTERS

The dead are more unmanageable every day.

Before it was easy with them:
we gave flowers to the uptight ones
we gave the relatives the names on one long list:
to these we gave national borders
to those we gave remarkable peace
that one we gave a monstrous marble tomb

Then we saluted the memory of the corpses
and went to their cemetery rows
marching to the compass of old music.

But where the dead go
is different now.

Today they ask
ironic questions.

And it seems to me that they fall more and more
on account of being
more and more
the majority.