I.K.Sharma As A Poet (1932--): Readings In Contemporary Indian English Poetry

I.K.Sharma As A Poet (1932--): Readings In Contemporary Indian English Poetry
I.K.Sharma is one of those poets of contemporary Indian English poetry who figure on the margins, sidelines of it together with a host of others linking with the old with the new or filling in the gaps of literary traditions , who, for example, are O.P.Bhatnagar, K.V.S.Murti, Syed Ameeruddin, R.Rabindranath Menon, Krishna Srinivas, Hazara Singh, Baldev Mirza, A.C.Sahay and so on to be counted in collectively. Though he started with long ago, but the things could not materialize in his favour as he had been slick and thin then. Instead of that, he got the opportunity. Now it is that he has substantiated his postition and has emboldened his stature. I.K.Sharma as a poet is one of wit and humour, irony and polish. Not so sarcastic and sardonic, Sharma kept plodding and prodding in his own way. Starting the journey on a bullock-cart, he has reached where he had to reach and now he is racing on the horse-back of fame. Slow and steady wins the race is the case with him. The tortoise has defeated the hare is the thing to be reckoned with. At the snail's pace, trekking and trudging it all alone, he has now covered a long distance to stake a claim. The poet as a satirist is not the fact with him; the poet as a humorist too applies to him not; the poet as an ironist is the case with him, as poems come to him as the ironies, verses put as ironical statements and he has succeeded in putting forth. A poet of the seventies, Sharma has been writing in his own way and if one studies him from the sense of finding the influence, one may definitely count John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Samuel Johnson, Edward Lear, Ogden Nash and so on and in the absence of these, it could not have materialized is a truth far from acceptance, definitely to be held in acknowledgement. The muse of Sharma is the muse of irony and polish; wit and humour and he hones in the art of satire, the art of humour from time to time. A satirist not, nor a humorist, but an ironist is Sharma who has been writing so deftly the skilled verses showing a tight craftsmanship. Comment, taunt, jibe, criticism, slander, vengeance, malice, jealousy, etc. have nothing to do with him, as he pursues a path of his own. Though may be from the same branch of writing, but is different in writing poetry which one can come to mark and feel it oneself while persuing and pursuing him for a paper or commenatry or an understanding of his poetry.
I.K.Sharma had not been so much adept in , as poems tumbled down to him in ones or twos. A retired professor of Rajasthan University, Jaipur, English Department, Sharma took to poetry as love for irony and wit, turns and twists of thought and expression and he went dabbling in ink with his poetic attempts and efforts . A few have known the difference between irony and satire. His poems are not the marvels of satire, but of irony, which A.K.Ramanujan is adept in, as he kept honing and bemusing others with his witty South Indian statements.

Sow The Seed Deep as a small poem from his poetic pen can be put as an example of his poesy:
Sow the seed deep far from curious eyes
no spade should soil its re-cretive sleep,
let it suffer the clasp of warm earth
and feed on springs of invisible teat;

silence of dark hours no sign of gloom:
a green room for the second coming,
cosmos rises from a cell in no flash
breathe in deep before break into being.

(I.K.Sharma, The Shifting Sand-Dunes, Jaipur Publishing House, Jaipur, 1976,p.9)



The Leader as a poem is humorous and entertaining:

He gave them a loud call
like a cock in a lane
announced on the air:
dawn is not far-off.

The early risers followed him
stumbled, and found:
he walks with his back towards them
hides the rising sun.
(Ibid, p.10)

The Shifting Sand-Dunes is a beautiful poem where the sand-dune imagery is the power of his poetic incantation and charm which the poet holds with, depicts herein. The title poem speaks of itself in a Wordsworthian manner the formation of the sand-dunes in a natural way when the winds keep blowing and the sands swapping positions and shifting:

It was a clear night.
The moon was full,
the wind was gay and in high gear.
I was in the thick of the desert
alone, sand-girt.

The dunes that were dead an hour back
began to twitch and move
like nomads in search of new homes;
the whispering procession of sand
made its slow, cold, ecroachment
upon the silent pits,
the resting cattle shuffled,
and the swirling sand sealed
their half-heard voices for ever
in their own familiar yard.

The game of making, unmaking pits
went through the night,
by sunrise
the wind had lost its morning tang
and the moon hung---
a poor husk of light.
(Ibid, p.22)

The Death of Atlas can be put as an example:

The Atlas contains all
from Alaska to Australia,
lies snug in a box
whose key is
with my curious son.

He unlocks, opens the lid,
turns over the sleek surfaces
of coloured lands,
--a tree laden with luxuriant fruit—
tears them off one by one
from their bound text.
Soon all crumpled lie at his feet.

Now he stands aghast
knows not
how to reassemble them all.
(Ibid, p.21)


Sharma definitely has come of age to register his presence.Poetry to him is a representation of wit and humour, intellect and idea, image and smile. His satires not, but sweetly-polished ones are the chief properties of Sharma. It is a quality of Sharma that he has refined satires and facetious humours and is polished. Ironies, ironies of life and the world, doublespeak statements are the things of his with which he regales and entertains. Slowly and steadily, he has mastered the art of satire; the art of humour and he is really an ironist in making.

The poetry-collection which he brought out from time to time cannot be called collections, but the booklets of verse, but collectively and separately they have added to his verve and strength and now he is a name who can be reckoned with. In the beginning he used to spot the cockroaches, camels, captains and caps. Now on the camel back he is himself journeying across the desert sands of Rajasthan with the British officers of colonial India falling short of becoming a captain himself. Sharma's humour is Gujarati humour; Rajasthani humour. He like Nissim Ezekiel grins, smiles not open-heartedly. Something keeps he hidden within, never to be shared with all and sundry. His laugh is a laugh of the satirist; his humour the gaiety of a humorist; his irony the polish of an ironist. To turn and twist; to oil and throw with the flick of wrist is the job of the poet Instead of being sruck with satire and humour, he is not emotionally dead, but alive. Though not a romantic nor is romanticism his choice, the wisps and whiffs of it the properties of his, he looks up to the art of the satirist and of the humorist in utter thankfulness to be blessed and endowed otherwise, infusing and instiling in the bubbles of humur and the tinge of irony. One from the land of Rajasthan, he tickles as well as regales with his imagery, idea and reflection.

It is heard in the literary circles that somebody has collected his poems, which but is not acceptable to us, as it comes to the mind, who can be other else to pick and collect his poems on his behalf rather than the poet himself? His growth and development is not a sudden turn of criticism swung in his favour, it has time in being raised and elevated and to make credenials for creativity. All the previous weaklings have been tied into a whole to give a voluminous outlook and he is successful to the new readers of his verse, but the older ones value his previously brought out thinner ones of poesy. Even if one edits his poetry-pieces, one will just represent them, tagging them as usual, with nothign new in it.

Sow The Seed Deep, The Leader, The Hawa Mahal, The Roundworms, The Holy Land, Three Stones, The Pink City, If I Die Tonight, The Quest for Mother, The Death of Atlas, etc. are the poems which figure in The Shifting Sand-Dunes poetry-collection.
Excursion, Waiting for Rain, A Bull Castrated, Vigilance, Honesty, The Redeemer, Three Cheers for Haryana, May in Jaipur 1982, The Foundling, etc. are the poems which appear in The Native Embers (1986).
A Lonely Furrow, Myth, Dharamsala-I, The Cats and the Priest, Our Village Bus, On Revisiting Shimla, House on Fire, A Letter to My Brother, The Master-Key, Seth Maganlal on the Train, Modern Cleopatra, Dharamsala-2, My Student, Night to the Day, Gangu Teli (Or ,The Discovery of India), My Maiden Ride, At Kanak Brindavan (The Return of a Temple), The Big Two, The Last Look and 21st Centry are the poems of Dharamsala and Other Poems (1993). Sharma's merit lies in the depiction of archetypal Gangu Teli wanting to be a socialist; an oil-presser whose hair is astonishingly black and wiry without any hair dye even in his old age and one who is exceptionally miserly, penny wise pound foolish, but no less than a millionaire or a billionaire. Gangu Teli's tales we have heard in our villages too which Nehru perhaps failed to discover in his The Discovery of India, but it is there in I.K.Sharma's discovery.

A Lonely Furrow can be picked up:

Should you come across a field ridden with weeds,
strike a lonely furrow in a ground nearby,
scatter there the seeds from your unseen chest,
they will disperse your scent into distant air.

The old cling to days of faded sparks,
they build their drems on yellowing walls,
near the candle-end they burn with a tapering glow,
bats roam and scratch their naked toes.

New paths are harder, need a chest that defies,
levels the mounds that glare in his eye,
he cuts the icy air with his confident scythe
and waits patiently for gold corn to rise.
(I.K.Sharma, Collected Poems, Bokk Enclav, Jaipur, 2010, p.67)



Myth is an excellent poem demanding a comparison with Jayanata Mahapatra's poem of the same title. Sharma outdoes us in presenting this poem of history, art, culture, myth and tradition shrouded in mystery:

When close-fisted history turns deaf
the arrears of events speak in dumb myths,
no moss can ever climb up to their mouths
nor any snake drive its venom into their heart.
Can the forked inteligence of man
ever unlock the wealth of their imaginative sky?
Can the panelled wisdom of his
ever wade through their fathomless stream?

Here, an ant grows into a tiger,
new spots grow on its body every year,
each year of seclusion breeds new children,
their promiscuity further lead to another coil of beings,
they then roam about on the highway of horns and wings,
fastened, they again form a new network of meaning.
(Ibid, p.68)


The Camel, Among the Handicapped, Gulmohur, Keep Lust Indoors, Not Woman, The Return of the Arist, Conscription, Teeth, A.K Ramanujan: A Tribute, A Discussion, Cockroach, Shanidev, A Prayer, Sadabahar, Arjun Meets His Class, Waterfall, The Roadside Workshop, The Saviour, Krishna Srinivas: A Tribute, Montri Umavijani, Our Captains, Good Morning, Sir, Netaji, This Winter, Dogfight, Gopal, On Her Death, Ezekiel on My Scooter, Turns, An Old Palace Revisited and New Heaven of Freedom are the poems of Camel, Cockroach, and Captains collection. What happens when Ezekiel rode his scooter? Ezekiel as a poetic piece is a poem of the place; a situational poem, an occasional one and here Sharma is trying to please the departmental fellows and colleagues too in reciting it. The ribute written in the memory of A.K.Ramanujan is a befitting tribute to the master of irony and satire.
Wandering Discourse, To the Ganga Maiya, Inland Letter, Light, Peacock, Bombay, Analysis, The Nurse, Probe, The Light Traveller, Labour Pain, Naarad, My Lady, Broom, Tulsidas, To A Tomb-lover, Harvest, Wedding, Lovers at a Railway Crossing, The Clerk , Mosquito, St.Valentine's Day, Rain, Come, Come, Buy My Gals, Running Thoughts and A Shadow on Your Face are from My Lady, Broom and Other Poems (2004). The Nurse is no doubt a poem of human love; sympathy and affection. The Light Traveller too is a fine poem from his poetical pen. To the Ganga Maiya, though I have not, but the title appears to be awkward, why not Ganga, Bappa (Father)? Can the Ganges be referred to as the mother? Whatever be that, this is just to regale the wording. Beauty lies it in the poem entitled Light; beauty of thought and expression, idea and reflection. My Lady, Broom is a paen to his ladylove, the partner in love and this is but an Indian story of love-making. One with the broom-stick, everybody fears her as well as loves too as because without her help, how will the house run on and the things keep going? If the sweeping and house-keeping do not go well then the things may not be in order.
To the Ganga Maiya, is it a prayer or an aarti (rounding or showing of light) done to the sacred river? The soulful prayer of Sharma reminds us of the aarti of Narendra Modi who did it on becoming the P.M. in bowing before the Ganga ghats and doing it himself ringing the small brass bells, lighting the diya or the candle.

The poem on Tulsidas reminds us of Tulsidas, Valmiki and Kalidasa's story of life:

Fast he moved, hurt once
by Kama's darts,
plunged himself into the ocean of history,
reflected, and reclyed the old tale
with a new magic.
Time has not torn his choice and form.

He made his heart the city of Ram
and He became the Truth of his life.
In works he rewrote his new self
and gave a text inspiring
that did not fade from mind.
It echoed in huts and havelis.

In his track pandits lost their voice.
Their discourse settled in murmurs,
whispers and asides.
His undertaking churned the air
and charged it with newer marnings.
Soon, he folded the sky in his hand.

In the lounge of his spirit
walls disappear, guiles sleep.
Minds disfigured peel off letters,
coat themselves with his love-script.
Whoever goes in there, comes out,
armed with sunlight.
(Ibid, p.163)

Tulsidas as a poem is of some allegorical sort and is anecdotal too as for the description of the crossing of the river in spate, the scold of Ratna thereafter and his taking to the words and turning into a devotee of Lord Rama. Similar had been the case of Kalidasa who heard the scolds and reprimands of his wife Vidyutama and transformed himself into a scholar. Tulsidas may undergo transformation, but Sharmaji will not, his range of satire and humour will keep encompassing it all.




Mother's Lap, School Interval, Crossing the Bar, Just Like That, Swami Dayanand Sarawati: A Tribute, To the Clouds of the New Millennium, Termites, The Brawl, Sir, at 84, Wild Love, No Kidding, The Singer Who Lost His Voice, When No One Stops to Kiss My Face, Drum Drum Drum, Highway Pangs, An Encounter, A Tribute to Chidambaram, Toothache, Justice, May 13th, Disruption, Testimonial, Bathroom Echoes, Loss, How Untrue, The Lost Face and The Terminator are the poems from End to End (2008).
Among the poets practising poetry today, the name of I.K.Sharma comes to the fore not as a poet reputed and renowned as for laurels and accolades, but as a skilled craftsman of poesy dabbling in Indian satire, humour and irony and perfecting it over the years. His forte lies in his irony, polished humour and balanced statements ever taking, ever eluding the readers. Never a yogi, but a man of this world he keeps marking man and his manners, the way of the world.The art of satire, the art of humour, he has studied them all and has taken the leaves off too to hone in his own to use and apply in. A poet of Gangu Teli not so cruel as Shylock but failing him in miserliness not with the hair browned and dyed, but dark shining black even in his old age as for using in pure mustard oil from his oil pressure, penny wise pound foolish is a marvel of his imagination picking it readily from the folk stuffs and honing it as a poetic classic and his Ekalavya another poem of indirectly dedicated and loyal tribal forestboy student failing even the teacher in the sense of duty as for the world still keeps him on the lips, not Dronacharya, a guru who can be so much prejudiced and partial just for royal Arjuna and their patronage.