Text, Summary and Analysis of A Letter (poem) by Dom Moraes

            A Letter 

        by Dom Moraes

Almost I can recall where I was born: 

The hot verandas where the chauffeurs drowse,

Backyard dominion of the raged thorn,

And nameless servants in my father’s house,

Whispering together in the backyard dirt

Until their talk came true for me one day:

My father hugging me so hard it hurt, 

My mother mad, and time we went away. 

 

We travelled, and I looked for love too young,

More travel, and I looked for lust instead. 

I was not ruled by wanting: I was young, 

And poems grew like maggots in my head. 

A fighting South-East Asia, with each gun

Talking to me; then homeward to the green 

And dung-smeared plains ruled over by the sun. 

When I had done with that, I was fifteen. 

 

At sixteen I came here to start again. 

An infant's trip, where many knew to walk,

I stumbled dumbly through the English rain, 

The literature, the drink, the talk, talk, talk.

I wrote about them: it was waste of breath. 

For many they were home, for me too wild, 

Too walled for me those valleys full of death 

Who had grown up as wanderer and child.

 

Of one dying poet I was not afraid 

In conversation like an avalanche,

Convincing mainly by the noise he made. 

He reinforced his views with gin-and-French, 

Wrinkled and heaving, tuskless elephant, 

He levelled a thick finger, grained with ink 

‘To love somebody, that is what you want.’ 

‘Yes’, I would say, accepting one more drink. 

 

Three winters I was drunk: one early spring 

Brought me first love for you, my great good news: 

Then my excuse to play the drunken king,

Staggering through bars, became a bad excuse. 

The naked valleys shaken with alarms 

Where hawk and serpent watched, were touched, and slept.

Morning and night your image in my arms

Taught me a harder task than to accept. 

 

Earlier in time I prayed to be forgiven.

Through tide-scurf to the acreage of the whale, 

Truest to loneliness my sail was driven. 

The westward haven of the traveller's tale

I have forgotten, making landfall where 

Chin in your hand, you sit, and gentle things 

Drift on your dream, transparent river where 

The swan sleeps with her young under her wings.

Summary, Text and Analysis of Africa by David Diop

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Africa by David Diop

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Africa my Africa

Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs

Africa of whom my grandmother sings

On the banks of the distant river

I have never known you

But your blood flows in my veins

 Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields

The blood of your sweat

The sweat of your work

The work of your slavery

The slavery of your children

Africa, tell me Africa

Is this you this back that is bent

This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation

This back trembling with red scars

And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun

But a grave voice answers me

Impetuous son that tree young and strong

That tree there

Is splendid loneliness amidst white and faded flowers

That is Africa your Africa

That grows again patiently obstinately

And its fruit gradually acquire

The bitter taste of liberty.

Text, Biography, Summary and Analysis of Self-Portrait (poem) by A K Ramanujan

Text

Self-Portrait

I resemble everyone

but myself, and sometimes see

in shop-windows,

despite the well-known laws

of optics,

the portrait of a stranger,

date unknown,

often signed in a corner

by my father.

About the Author

A.K. Ramanujan was a distinguished Indian poet, writer, translator, and philologist, born in Mysore in 1929. Raised in a multicultural Tamil Brahmin family where Tamil, Kannada, and English were spoken, he pursued an academic path, earning his MA in English from the University of Mysore. After teaching in South India, his interest in linguistics deepened, leading him to obtain a diploma from Deccan College in 1958 and subsequently a Ph.D. in Linguistics from Indiana University on a Fulbright fellowship. This academic journey culminated in his 1962 appointment at the University of Chicago, which became his professional home until his death in 1993.

At the University of Chicago, Ramanujan became closely associated with the Department of South Asian Languages and Civilizations. His long-term residence in the United States profoundly shaped his writing, which often explored the "contrast between the East and the West" and the "anxiety of an exile" searching for native roots. His significant contributions as a translator and interpreter of Indian epics and devotional poetry earned him international acclaim. He was recognized with the Padmashri by the Indian government in 1976 and received the prestigious MacArthur "genius award" in 1983 for his groundbreaking work.

Ramanujan's literary output was diverse, including notable poetry collections like The Striders (1966) and Second Sight (1986), as well as significant works in Kannada. He became internationally renowned for his masterful translations from Tamil and Kannada, such as The Interior Landscape (1967) and Speaking of Siva (1993), and later focused on folklore with Folktales from India (1994). His poetry is known for its "psychological realism" and is largely autobiographical, drawing "substance" from his Hindu heritage and Indian folklore. His style is distinguished by "masterly craftsmanship," utilizing "precise, concrete, vivid" imagery and a "terseness of diction" that solidified his place as one of India's most significant poets.

Critical Appreciation

The speaker opens with a stark paradox: "I resemble everyone / but myself." This line immediately establishes a sense of dislocation. The speaker feels he is not a defined individual. Instead, he is just a collection of resemblances, alienated from his own core identity. This feeling is crystallized in the poem's central image: his reflection in "shop-windows."

This image clearly captures the "anxiety of an exile." The speaker lived between India and America, and in this reflection, he finds "the portrait of a stranger." The reflection should be an objective confirmation of the self, based on "the well-known laws of optics." However, this scientific law fails him. It presents an alien figure, highlighting his profound displacement. He is a stranger to himself. His "native roots" are distant, making his current self unrecognizable.

The poem's concluding lines brilliantly connect this personal anxiety to family and heritage. The lines read: "date unknown, / often signed in a corner / by my father." The "stranger" in the glass is not random; it is a portrait created by his father. This suggests his identity is not self-made but inherited. He is defined by his lineage and "Hindu heritage" rather than his own self. The father's signature implies a predetermined identity. This ancestral legacy overshadows his individuality. This idea connects directly to his biography, which notes his poetry "reminiscences his family."