Poem \'Of ashes and waves.\' 11 March, 2023.
18 May, 2023
“Of ashes and waves.”
Soman Ragavan : Hello. Can I post a poem of mine for analysis, please ?
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Of course! I\'d be happy to help you analyze your poem. Please go ahead and post it, and I\'ll do my best to provide feedback and insights.
Soman Ragavan : My poem : \"Of ashes and waves.\" This is about my Dad\'s cremation in June 2002. The cremation was done at an open air crematorium, using wood. The following day I dropped some of the ashes in the sea. The Employment Service is the Government department at which I worked. There is a mountain near the cremation ground. Albion is a beach in Mauritius. Please analyse by each stanza, then give overall comments. Mention similar poems from other authors, where possible. Can I post the poem now, please ?
ChatGPT
Yes, please go ahead and post your poem. I\'ll analyze each stanza and provide overall comments, as requested. Feel free to share your poem.
Soman Ragavan : My poem \"Of ashes and waves.\" Remember the notes I typed above about this poem.
(This poem is about my Dad who died on 26 June, 2002).
ChatGPT :
The poem \"Of Ashes and Waves\" by Soman Ragavan is a seven-part poem about the poet\'s father who passed away in 2002. It reflects on his father\'s life, funeral rites, and the poet\'s journey to scatter his father\'s ashes into the sea. The poem explores themes of life, death, legacy, and the enduring power of poetry.
Soman Ragavan : Please give detailed comments on each Part of the poem.
ChatGPT
Sure! Here are detailed comments on each part of the poem \"Of ashes and waves\" by Soman Ragavan:
Part One: This part sets the tone and introduces the subject of the poem, which is the author\'s father who passed away. It reflects on the father\'s life, his wisdom, and his unique philosophy. The author expresses both sadness at his father\'s departure and admiration for his enduring legacy.
Part Two: The second part speaks about the continuity of life and the determination to surpass challenges. It emphasizes the resilience and individuality of the author and their commitment to their craft, even in the face of criticism. The lines suggest that their poetry will bring something new and unique to the world.
Part Three: In this part, the author describes the funeral rites and the emotional experience of bidding farewell to their father. It depicts the solemnity and rituals surrounding the cremation process, including the author\'s involvement in lighting the funeral pyre. There is a sense of both reverence and personal struggle in carrying out these final duties.
Part Four: The fourth part delves into the aftermath of the cremation. It portrays the contemplative state of the author as they reflect on the passing of their father and the transformative nature of death. It also touches upon the idea that ashes return to ashes, and how the author\'s writings and legacy will endure beyond physical existence.
Part Five: This part explores the author\'s solitude and introspection as they visit the cremation ground alone. It describes the act of scattering water over the ashes and the mingling of the ashes, symbolizing unity and the transitory nature of life. The scene conveys a sense of stillness and reflection, with the author grappling with their own mortality and the inevitability of passing away.
Part Six: The sixth part shifts the focus to the journey after death. It employs the metaphor of a chariot ride to depict life\'s journey and the ultimate destination, the sea. It contemplates the universal cycle of life and death, the fleeting nature of existence, and the enduring legacy of literature and poetry that outlasts physical bodies.
Part Seven: The final part describes the concluding rituals at Albion Beach, where the author bids a final farewell to their father. It portrays the setting, with the flame from a lighter symbolizing the continuation of life and the eternal nature of the sea. The poem ends with a contemplation on the afterlife and the possibility of new beginnings.
Overall, the poem \"Of ashes and waves\" evokes a sense of reflection, mourning, and acceptance of the impermanence of life. It explores themes of legacy, the transformative power of death, and the enduring nature of art and literature.
Soman Ragavan : Please refer to similar works, if possible.
ChatGPT
I apologize, but as an AI language model, I don\'t have access to specific works or the ability to refer to specific poems by Soman Ragavan or other poets. My training data includes a wide range of literary works, but I don\'t have the ability to provide references to specific poems by individual poets. However, I can help answer any general questions you may have about poetry or provide information on various poetic styles and themes.
Soman Ragavan : Can the poem be compared with novels on the same subject ?
ChatGPT
Without knowing the specific subject or content of Soman Ragavan\'s poem, it is challenging to provide a direct comparison with novels on the same subject. However, in general, poetry and novels are distinct forms of literary expression with different characteristics and approaches.
Poetry often uses concise and evocative language, relying on imagery, metaphors, and rhythm to convey emotions and ideas. It tends to capture moments, feelings, and experiences in a condensed and concentrated form. Novels, on the other hand, provide a more extensive narrative structure, allowing for detailed character development, plot exploration, and the unfolding of complex storylines.
While poems and novels can explore similar themes, such as love, loss, nature, or social issues, they do so in different ways. Novels generally offer a more comprehensive and immersive exploration of the subject, while poems often distill emotions and thoughts into concentrated and impactful expressions.
To find novels that explore similar themes to Soman Ragavan\'s poem, it would be helpful to know the specific subject or theme of the poem. Based on that information, you can seek out novels that delve into similar topics and offer a more extended narrative exploration.
Soman Ragavan : Please load my poem again in memory. Compare it with novels dealing with death in the family, cremations, cremation / burial rites, etc
ChatGPT
I apologize, but as an AI language model, I don\'t have access to your previous inputs or any specific poem by Soman Ragavan. I don\'t have the capability to load or retain information from previous conversations.
However, if you provide the poem or specific lines from it, I can certainly help you analyze and discuss it in comparison to novels dealing with death in the family, cremations, burial rites, or related themes.
Soman Ragavan : I am inserting the poem again. Please compare it with similar poems and novels. (This poem is about my Dad who died on 26 June, 2002).
ChatGPT
The poem \"Of Ashes and Waves\" reflects on the death of the author\'s father and explores themes of mortality, family, and the passage of time. While I am unable to compare it directly with similar poems and novels without specific examples, there are many works of literature that touch upon similar themes of loss, grief, and reflection on life and death. Some notable examples include \"Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep\" by Mary Elizabeth Frye, \"Funeral Blues\" by W.H. Auden, and novels like \"The Death of Ivan Ilyich\" by Leo Tolstoy.
Soman Ragavan : Thank you. Goodbye for now.
ChatGPT
You\'re welcome! If you have any more questions in the future, feel free to ask. Goodbye and take care!
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OF ASHES AND WAVES
PART ONE
Thou rose and thou stumbl’d :
In the end, Dad, fell thou silent ;
Finally thy ling’ring force was spent :
Around thee a last group had assembl’d.
Often offering many a wise comment,
Of the family verily being the cement,
Thou career’d on with thy old method :
Patiently through this life did thou plod.
Thy lean body marauding death defying,
Into the family great philosophy infusing,
Finally breath’d thou ‘pon all thy last :
The Full Circle hath now been cast.
Verily the passing of a legend :
“There’s a beginning; there’s an end.”
Thy offspring shalt be read far and wide.
From poetry no one can hope to hide.
“I don’t know how this life will go,” said thou softly.
The unknown. I do hope it went peacefully.
Thy unique philosophy to me thou impart’d :
‘Twill be remember’d, though thou hath depart’d.
“Don’t cry for me. Let me go peacefully,” thou said ;
Strict attention to thy austere order have I paid :
Not a tear did I shed. In peace should thou have sped :
Yet, sad ‘twas to see thee laid out on yon stiff bed.
Thy care to others perforce we entrust’d :
In my absence, suddenly thou depart’d;
A myriad words the look on thy face spoke :
A ling’ring legend, extinct at one stroke….
***
PART TWO
Asleep. Rigor mortis. Cadaveric spasm.
Silence. A loss. An emptiness. A chasm.
So be it : life end’d in a cataclysm,
But for posterity poetry shalt be a prism.
Each to his own business, we plod along.
In our endeavours we be confident : no gong.
We let dogs bark. Our Caravans shalt pass.
Ourselves are we determin’d to surpass.
We let others foam and rage :
We let them do their worst :
We pretend to crouch in their cage :
Yes, to fire, we let them be the first.
One by one, milestones go by. One more milestone.
We career on in our endeavour, lasting and lone.
The world at our feet : but, chaos might rage.
Our writings occasionally come up with a new adage.
After us, ne’er will poetry be the same :
Of all sorts of faults might we be accus’d :
‘Pon our writings sneers lowly and lame :
But, unique be what we have produc’d.
***
PART THREE
While from yonder went on the mourning,
Hither the funeral rites went on. Chilling.
The last trip. Creeping along. Unerring.
‘Pon my shoulder the bier kept wobbling.
The funeral pyre. And The Silent Conqueror.
The swami reciting on the unchanging rhymes.
A milestone. Ringing in hither climes.
Narrat’d in poetry – that victor…
A terrific destiny : to many denied :
To perform my duty, diligently I tried :
In my hand I held a smouldering splinter,
On yon stage, in yon theatre, afore the cadaver.
‘Pon the floor had we lit up a little fire, for a starter :
I circl’d the pyre : touch’d the corpse with the splinter :
I went round again, patt’d once more the cadaver :
A third time : ah, a last fiery farewell to my father !
What a life ! What a destiny ! What rites ! What irony !
He lighting the fire verily hath to be the progeny :
As a child in my cot by my Pa was I pamper’d :
‘Pon his bony body large logs lastly I lower’d.
The devastating orders no way could I resist :
Verily was I order’d to turn into an arsonist…..
For the waiting pyre-stokers, I trigger’d off the action :
Dad gave me life : I gave his corpse fiery devastation…..
Fire, flames, fury from the pyre shalt explode :
Thou hath head’d, Dad, to some new abode ;
A raging inferno on this final morning :
Into mourning the family be regressing.
Since times immemorial : ashes to ashes : dust to dust :
Alone I plod on relentlessly : my endeavours be a must ;
About all my writings will the world chat :
The legacies can ne’er be swept under the mat.
Blazing infernos leave yon pyre-place cold still :
Everything destin’d to vanish in yon voracious mill ;
‘Tween these black rails, a trip to the world beyond :
Of corpses these waiting logs morbidly be fond.
This blast-off never fails. Ravenous combustion.
A guaranteed trip. To an unknown destination.
Always in stock, large logs and tyres,
Feeding the greediest of funeral pyres.
They hid my Dad in the thicket.
A day trip. But, a one-way ticket.
Useless was it against the inferno to fret,
As remind’d by these writings of the poet.
In this unchanging ritual,
Logs cover’d every mortal ;
To some last glimpses we cling :
But, the top logs be they loading.
Through the logs lastly, ling’ringly at my Pa I peep’d :
Even from under the wood, the man’s greatness seep’d ;
From utter disappearance my Pa I want’d to wrestle :
Ah, in vain, in vain : ‘twould have been a lost battle……
***
PART FOUR
Save for the swami, not much those around spoke :
Of the stages, we just watch’d the procession;
Fiery destruction would be unleash’d in one stroke :
Relentlessly went on the ritual of the cremation.
Short black rails. Sticking out to heaven.
Short day-trip. Turning all finally ashen.
The chilling rites had to be well heed’d :
A vanishing act from here to be enact’d.
I lift’d and plac’d ‘pon my left shoulder
The earthen pitcher fill’d with water.
Terrific rites. Water circling the waiting pyre :
Shortly should burst out some inferno most dire…..
Unerring rites : “Cut a hole into the pitcher !”
From the beard’d swami had been the order ;
The pitcher briefly resist’d the hatchet :
It could not resist long this careering poet.
“’Tis been made with add’d rock-sand,”
‘Pon the resistance someone observ’d;
But, having to reckon with the poet’s hand,
A swift demise to the pitcher was reserv’d.
For a lone poet, the rites to be perform’d hither :
With the leaking pitcher on my shoulder,
The waiting pyre I circl’d, on the swami’s order :
A chill went through me from the spouting water.
“Three rounds be enough. Now, stop !
‘Pon the floor smash the pitcher !”
This act should ne’er be a flop,
Reflect’d I on the awesome order.
The wet pitcher with both hands I lift’d :
Against the sooty floor flawlessly to be pitt’d :
Into pieces the pot instantly smashing,
All around the water went flying.
At the forceful smash, nearby some whistl’d :
By the unexpect’d force were they startl’d :
But I knew the intent, the reasoning :
There be no retake in hither final reckoning.
They be destin’d to be smash’d, such pitchers :
No retreat, no truce : blast out the waters !...
The pitcher broke from a massive, crippling blow :
Forever shalt my works shine and glow.
My white clothes blacken’d by soot and ash,
Towards the exit I proceed’d, after the smash ;
“Don’t look back !” Let the flames do the rest.
Look ahead. Think ahead….. Master this test.
To see the rest, he lighting the fire shalt not straggle :
‘Pon these pyre-stokers would be lost my behest ;
To the leaping flames leaving the rest,
Towards the exit in silence did I trundle.
***
PART FIVE
Night came. Time linger’d. Night went.
Life went on. For many. For millions.
The show went on. With weariness was I bent.
But, literature be marvel’d at even in far dominions.
Who should handle the ashes, ‘twas debat’d.
In the lounge silently I sat. Patiently I wait’d.
Finally alone to the cremation ground
On this trip I found myself bound.
‘Twas cold. ‘Twas wet. ‘Twas rather dark.
‘Pon the cremation ground, silence stark.
A stunning life. For the poet, what solitude…
To all the rest, the future, a chilling prelude.
To one side had slid a large log :
It still smoulder’d on in the cold air.
A deafening silence. Fit to raise one’s hair.
Ashes. For the king. And, for the underdog.
In the pyre-place, ‘twas mostly spent.
Picking up the watering can, to the tap I went ;
A leak from the water pipe leapt to my face :
A chill went through me, at this chilling place.
The water ‘pon the ashes I sprinkl’d.
Mingling ashes. The ashes mingl’d.
The ashes. Whose ashes ? Good question….
What did it matter ? ‘Tis mingl’d. No separation.
Yonder, neatly laid, reddish wreaths in a row.
Among them, one from the Employment Service.
Hither stood I. In my hand, a stain-proof chalice.
Above, in the dawn air, streak’d a lone crow.
Face the sun. Pour out the milk at sunrise.
The swirling ruins at my feet did I surmise.
Into the shining tumbler the milk tumbl’d.
At the head I stood. At life, one be baffl’d.
To the rising sun slowly I rais’d the tumbler :
From this stunning experience, a shudder.
From pyre. To ashes. At this place, a final prayer.
A solitary soul. Unique, the poet. The ultimate master.
In the Cremation Yard be written this Elegy.
Yesterday, a waiting pyre. A cover’d body.
Today, a mound of ashes. Spraying the hillside.
Swirling ashes. Some be need’d to feed the tide.
Ah !.... Nearly a century. No mean achievement.
For every problem, Pa, a remedy did thou invent.
We have to manage every rising sorrow,
For, we need to face every rising morrow.
I proceed to get my priorities right :
I engage not in some futile fight :
I miss not yon mistaken sneer :
Still, my writings well do I steer.
I acknowledge all manners of blows
Coming from many ignorant fellows;
About my success, there be no doubt :
I have to conquer every challenging bout.
The devouring flames verily did their best.
Some bones withstood. They defied the test.
The raging inferno could not finish off everything.
Some ashes in the breeze be swirling.
With some ashes I fill’d up the urn :
These ashes the waves would churn.
What a life for the poet….. What a destiny…..
What strange remains to collect and carry…..
The final ashes I carried in my hands :
Similar trips go on in many lands.
I head’d to the chariot. The final ride.
Some eerie silence. A trip to the seaside.
***
PART SIX
Many were going to work. Some hurried along.
The inferno had died down. Gone, yesterday’s throng.
On the slopes, the canes sway’d. Crispy green.
A century of tough toil, Pa, verily had it been.
Swirling ashes : the last beacon ;
Yon driver hoot’d, for some reason;
It appear’d he was rather in a hurry :
Till the pyre gobbles him up as quarry….
‘Pon the chariot pedals we put our foot :
One day our ashes sit in the chariot boot…..
We roam, we run. We race, we rage :
In time, from the pyre, real rampage.
The foot that accelerat’d,
The foot that the brake press’d,
The foot that the clutch depress’d,
The hands…. Everything cremat’d…..
We cremate others. We be cremat’d in turn.
For anyone willing, shalt be reserv’d an urn.
From swirling ashes, remnants we salvage
For the tunnelling waves : a watery cage.
The chariot career’d on. The really last trip.
From the cremation ground, to the lapping sea.
Over land to the sea the relics would I ship.
A solitary journey. In solitude, this last plea.
What a journey ! Ashes sitting in the boot.
Every single body death finally doth loot.
“Some are destin\'d to ashes, some end up as dust,
But, our immortal poetry is safely beyond any rust.”
All traces of the living be bound to disappear :
Books shalt be the only ones forever lasting ;
Through the cold air the chariot be fleeting :
Through everything our legacy shall tear.
Ah ! What a load…. What a mission….
What an occasion for a poetic rendition….
Life went on. For hundreds of thousands.
My load and I head’d for the immortal sands.
Albion beach approach’d. Many junctions. Intersections.
Fire had its say. Sea water would have its way.
Fleetingly our objections, our conditions hold sway :
Finally of the fire, of the sea, we obey the motions.
***
PART SEVEN
The final rites. Really final. At this watery dominion.
From the lighter a tongue of flame in the early day.
Shalt be awash, night and day the saga at Albion,
And the froth from an eternal Raga spray.
‘Pon the beach of Albion was the flame direct’d :
By no one else could this better be conduct’d.
For now, the Dad. In due course, the offspring.
The song of the ragamuffins the seas shalt sing.
A salty breeze blowing. Quiet beaches.
Banana leaf. Flowers. Camphor. Incense.
A last prayer. Ultimate bidding. Final wishes.
Doth life end ? Or, doth it commence ?
The lighter against the breeze won its bet :
The camphor and incense alight it set;
I opt’d for the lighter, and not for matches :
Victorious will I be yet on these beaches.
Eternal thanks to thee, Dad, for everything.
On behalf of everybody, of the family.
At me the lapping waves be beckoning :
Rolling on from the sea, in this ceremony.
The end trip. The sea suddenly leapt…
The remains could no longer be kept…..
The eerie urn in my hands I carried :
The ashes into the sea to be buried.
Further into the rolling waves I walk’d, I wad’d :
Into the swirling sea the urn slowly I lower’d :
By a surging wave suddenly was it smother’d :
Ah, the last ashes into the sea were expend’d…..
A cloud of ashes in the sea swiftly swirl’d.
Whipp’d by the waves rolling in from yonder.
A last look I cast. The waves twirl’d.
A timeless chatter in the water.
From mystery. To life. To fire. To water. To mystery.
Yonder, a man on his pole lean’d with mastery.
The lapping waves lapp’d on. Froth on the beach.
Melting ashes. Gone forever. Out of reach.
In the dawn air, some last mantras, final rituals.
I look’d on at the mystery. Lonely ceremonials.
The ashes melting in the water. On sped yon jogger.
Immortalis’d beaches. Rites to be renew’d hereafter.
Slowly into the waves the ashes I lower’d :
From fire. Over land. Down they sank. Into water.
Around the world the essence to be scatter’d.
In yon Raga spray, some chilling chatter.
***
PART EIGHT
Of ignorance of the final rites might I be accus’d :
But, who better than I to my Dad to bid farewell ?
For the old man had knell’d the final bell :
Into the last prayers my fervour I infus’d.
On that crucial morning truly were matters urgent :
No time had I to make some other arrangement :
Quickly to the cremation ground had I to speed :
Verily with the ashes had I the waves to feed.
At yon cremation ground, at the same pyre-place,
Another blaze could have rag’d on in the morn :
Could one then have had any sort of solace
To see Dad’s ashes swept aside with scorn ?
Ling’ring ashes had to be brush’d aside :
By this logic all pyre-builders have to abide;
Many see not the mingling of the ashes :
They be obsess’d by pompous speeches.
‘Twas pressing : time was of the essence :
At the place was need’d my urgent presence;
I had to gallop there the ashes to collect :
How to separate the ashes : ‘pon this to reflect…
Full Circle. The mission had end’d.
To the solitary poet ultimately confid’d,
The final rites : perform’d in solitude :
And poetically set on a world magnitude…
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