Tag Archives: Poetry

Interview with Sarah Das Gupta, Poet

Sarah Das Gupta is a poet who has been published several times in both Rural Fiction Magazine and in The Chamber Magazine (both published by Slattery Publishing). Recently, I sent several questions to her for an interview. Below her published works in RFM and The Chamber (following) are the questions I sent and then her responses.

Poems Published in The Chamber and in Rural Fiction Magazine
Questions

Q: Correct me if I am wrong, but I have seen in a couple of bio notes for other magazines that you are about 83 years old. So you were born about 1943 and graduated college around 1965 (maybe?). Then I take it you taught for sixty years, meaning you retired about 2003.  That period from about 1965 to the present day (assuming you read a lot during that timeframe) was an interesting one for the evolution of literature. Have you seen an overarching trend or tendency in the literature of the English-speaking world during that timeframe?  Does anything about this period fascinate or disappoint you?  What genres or styles of literature from then or from other periods do you enjoy most?

Q: You have lived in India and Tanzania per your bio notes. Have you read much of the literature of either one or from any other nation(s)?  

Q: Did you live in rural areas while in India and Tanzania?  What did you enjoy most and what did you find most challenging about living in each? Do you find living there peaceful, idyllic, chaotic, frightening, or what?

Q: While in Tanzania, did you live near Kilimanjaro or the Serengeti plain? These are probably the two most famous landmarks our readers will recognize. What do you treasure or dislike most about living in India?

Q: You taught English in Kolkata and Tanzania.  Did you primarily teach grammar and conversation or did you also teach literature? Were you employed by an organization or university?   What were the joys and challenges of teaching in these two nations?

Q: Did you learn Bengali or Swahili while living abroad? 

Q: What is your writing process? What is a typical day for you as a writer?

Q: How do you come up with ideas for stories or poems? Do you sit and try to think up things or search your memories for something to write about? Or does something trigger a memory (like in A Remembrance of Things Past/In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust) or an idea and then you write it down quickly? 

Q: Are you a disciplined writer or one that basically flows with the stream of consciousness or somewhere in between?

Q: Do you have any works soon to be published that RFM’s readers should watch for and where they might find them? Are you giving any talks, presentations, or lectures?

Responses
  1. Early Background: I was born in 1942 in the middle of World War 11. My father was in command of a team of gunners on the cruiser, HMS Orion.

I saw little of him in the first three years of my life. My maternal grandparents lived near Biggin Hill, the Royal Airforce Air Base from which the Battle of Britain was fought. Apparently, my mother watched

with me in her arms as German aircraft come in to bomb London and then flew over the house, dropping untargeted bombs, to save fuel on the return route. 

My godfather was drowned off the Irish coast when his cruiser was tragically cut in half by the liner, The Queen Mary, carrying American troops to Glasgow. Nobody ever talked about him.

I never heard my father talk of the war. In fact, only last year, I discovered his ship, The Orion, was one of two British ships which won the most battle honours in the War.

We lived at the highest point of the North Downs. Our house was a menagerie first and foremost. We kept over thirty horses (some ours, some at livery), every type of poultry, five or six dogs, farm cats and Burmese cats. The garage never housed a car but all the injured wildlife which the locals brought to my father. When you opened the garage door, a falcon would fly at you or a snake slither over your feet! I have remained a great lover of animals all my life.

  1. University: 

When I arrived aged 18, at London University, I think it was the first time I had been to central London. I studied medieval and modern history, a subject I had always enjoyed at school. Here I first met a young Indian student whom I was later to marry.

3.  Trends in Literature

 I became an English and History teacher after graduation and teacher        training. Certainly, in the UK at least, I taught Literature and in the course of my work I covered the range of the subject from Chaucer to Joyce. I have always particularly enjoyed teaching and reading poetry. As I only retired at eighty,  my opportunity for developing other interests and hobbies has been limited. Certainly, from the 1960’s, Western literature has changed in style, content and authorship. Women have become increasingly important, voices like Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison are not only women’s voices but also Black voices too. In fact, in the post-colonial era the number of Black and ethnic minority writers has increased prodigiously. This perhaps has been most evident in ex- British colonies, specially in India, the Caribbean and African nations like Nigeria. Many of these nations have not only written about colonisation but also engaged with Indian or African cultures more deeply, for example, in novels like ‘A Suitable Boy’ by Vikram Seth. In much of Europe and North America the voices of recent immigrants have forced countries to look at themselves in a less favourable light as in ‘White Teeth’ by Zadie Smith.

One subject I feel less at home with because perhaps of my age, is that of gender. When I submitted an article for an American magazine, I had to consult the dictionary and the internet to find how to classify myself. I am sorry to admit, I have now forgotten the correct term. Positive discrimination seems to me to be in danger of alienating the majority of the population from the very causes it is trying to promote. That being said, there is no doubt that the causes remain valid and very much worthy fighting for. Therein lies the dilemma.

Not only the ethnicity of authors has widened but also the socio-economic class. Writers from working class backgrounds have had opportunities to be published and have had considerable success which is certainly to be welcomed.

Certainly, the development of communications and technology have challenged the printed word. A whole new band of critics has found a voice on twitter/X, Facebook/ Instagram etc. Writers are expected to maintain a presence on these platforms and face criticism, often from anonymous voices who are without any knowledge or qualification. Everyone appears to have a right to express a view on any subject.

  1. Living Abroad

 After my graduation, I married and went to live in Kolkata, West Bengal, India where my husband worked as a journalist on ‘The Statesman’, the main English language newspaper at the time. I taught in one of the main girls’ schools in the city. We had two daughters who were able to attend this school from the age of three as it had a Nursery department. 

I taught English language/ literature and all the staff spoke fluent English, as did my husband. This meant I did not learn Bengali, apart from day to day essential phrases. My husband was a great admirer of the songs, poetry and writing of Rabindranath Tagore one of the major figures in the Bengal Renaissance of the mid- nineteenth and early twentieth century. Tagore was a true polymath: poet, short story writer, song writer, social reformer, philosopher, essayist, educationist, artist and the first non- European to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913. I read many of his poems in translation which never quite captures the lyrical beauty of the original. He died in 1941 so never lived to see India’s independence.

I greatly enjoyed teaching in Loreto House, a school for girls run by an order of Irish nuns which Mother Theresa belonged to, before founding the Missionaries of Charity.   At the time, many sisters were from the Irish Republic but on a recent visit, I found most of the Sisters were from South India. It was a great school to teach in where the majority of students were Hindus, a minority were Moslem and a small number of Anglo-Indians, Christians. The academic standard was high, behaviour, exemplary and students highly motivated. English Literature was widely covered, also Bengali, Hindi and Sanskrit. We read and performed a number of Shakespeare plays: ‘The Merchant of Venice’, ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ ‘Julius Caesar’ and a full performance of ‘Macbeth’. In sixty years of teaching, I have never worked with such talented and responsive students and such a friendly and devoted staff. Nearly half a century later, I am still in touch with most of my Loreto students!

Most of my memories of Kolkata are positive, especially my work. Of course, as anywhere, you have problems day to day. A major crisis arose when our ground floor flat flooded, and we had to move to the roof! It was also rather frightening when I had to find my way alone in a blackout to the hospital where my second daughter was born, only a few minutes after I arrived. This was during the war between Bangladesh and Pakistan when my husband was away reporting. Then there was the crisis when my husband’s elderly aunt, threw all our beautiful clay water jars out on the pavement because the bathroom cleaner, from the lowest class in Hindu society, had walked past the ewers in the hallway.

Later in my career after I returned to the UK following my husband’s death. I taught for a short time in Tanzania. This was a very different situation from Kolkata. The children were younger and the emphasis was on language and oral English. Many children came from poor families of agricultural workers. Often, they walked many kilometres a day to and from school. In some cases, they shared a pair of shoes so were not able to attend every day. In one school, the classroom overlooked the Rift Valley. There was an unforgettable view of thousands of bright pink flamingos standing along the river bank. Here, rather than use English text books, I used local African legends or stories which the children dramatized. They all had a remarkable sense of rhythm and great singing voices. They were lively and dedicated to mastering English. I remember, one day, I came back from lunch to see the older children had organised the youngsters into class groups and they were practising the songs I had taught them. When I asked,’ Why?’, they said, ‘So they will remember and sing them perfectly!’ I wondered if you’d ever find this enthusiasm in Europe or the US? 

One of my greatest experiences was climbing half-way up Kilimanjaro, the  highest peak in Africa. The climb to the summit was a little too much, so I kept to the limited option. I had an outstanding guide who suggested I should extend his English vocabulary and I would learn basic Swahili! His English was already reasonably fluent and he definitely got most out of our agreement. I explained to him I was a geriatric and had to move slowly. He immediately repeated ‘geriatric’ until he had mastered the word. In return he advised me to go ‘slowly’, ‘polepole’ in Swahili. That evening he came to the hostel and left  a red and white t-shirt for me with the slogan written across the front!

I also stayed in a hotel in Tanzania which looked over a water-hole. At night we saw elephants, buffalo, giraffes and monkeys come to drink. On one trip into a forest, a herd of elephants with young calves passed across the track. The driver whispered to us to ‘be quiet’; he later explained there were two huge bulls in the group and they were likely to attack when calves were in the herd.

  1. Writing

I started writing two years ago after an accident. Unfortunately, this left me only able to walk a few metres without help. My elder daughter, an established writer, tossed me a booklet with a list of writing competitions with the throwaway comment, ‘You’re never too old!’ I was in a geriatric ward where most of the patients suffered from dementia. I started writing at night as a distraction from the screaming, crying and general disturbance in the ward.  My first short story, was set in the early nineteenth century, the age of stage coaches. I started researching the subject and suddenly the uproar went unnoticed. I then started writing poetry, my favourite literary form. I will always be grateful to an East African magazine, ‘The Flying Dodo’ sadly now defunct, for giving me my first chance! 

I start writing most days at ten am and, apart from short breaks, go on to ten or eleven at night. I now write poetry, fiction, flash fiction, creative non-fiction, essays and expanded articles on historical subjects. These have been published in over twenty different countries and in three hundred magazines and anthologies. I have become interested in genres like horror which I had never previously read. I have been reading earlier writers like Lovecraft and Dennis Wheatley and re-reading ‘Dracula’. As, at the moment, I write for many different magazines, the subjects/themes are not usually chosen by me. I have recently written stories/ articles on beavers, surviving in geriatric wards, zombies, time travel, cats, tea gardens, Bay of Bengal, piers, King’s College Cambridge, murder of Archduke Rudolf, the Sun Temple at Konark, Edgar Allan Poe to name but a few, as they say. 

As you can imagine, inspiration comes in many ways. Poems usually come through a line or single word which suddenly goes round and round in my head, or I think of a particular form like the Villanelle or Triolet. In regard to short stories, often an event or experience sparks ideas. Yesterday we were having dinner when my daughter produced a key and gave it to my grandson. She had accidently dropped it down the lift- shaft and a maintenance man had retrieved it. I immediately said, ‘That’s a good beginning for a short story. Suppose it’s a key to a different flat or a cupboard or ?’ Of course, at my age memory plays a major role. I can’t remember phone numbers or where I left my glasses but I can re-call very small details about places, events and people

For example, I was writing the other day about ‘chicken’ and I could picture the mud and foot prints around the duck pond at home seventy years ago, in precise appearance and colour. In many cases I need to read around the subject. I enjoy researching but the only problem is, I become too involved and finish up reading a whole book.

I still have many unrealised ambitions as far as writing is concerned. I wish I had started earlier. At the moment my main hopes are to have a chapbook of horror poems published and to publish a series of short stories about a cat which speaks fluent French and can fly, no I haven’t been drinking, I’m a teetotaller. 

Favourite poets:  Tennyson   T.S. Eliot    Sylvia Plath

Favourite novels: ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’   Thomas Hardy

                                  ‘Emma’     Jane Austen

                                   ‘Beloved’    Toni Morrison

Drama:                      Shakespeare ‘The Tempest’

                                   ‘A Street Car Named Desire’ Tennessee Williams

                                    ‘Long Day’s Journey into Night’   Eugene O’Neill

X/twitter @SarahDasGu42181


Thank you, Sarah, for being a dedicated follower of and contributor to both The Chamber Magazine and Rural Fiction Magazine.


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Three Poems by Diane Funston

Loneliest Highways
Three hours to go.
Coming from lonely highways,
over mountain passes
through rural towns.
Relaxed drive, audiobook novel.
Dogs asleep in backseat sun.

Startled, as too soon awakened,
dust whorls through Lone Pine.
Wind shakes out dirty rugs across road,
blinds, screams, tears down Vacancy signs,
does not slow for traffic.
Peeled-off metal panels from gas station pumps
cartwheel across the parking lot
while gasoline hoses dance like cobras on asphalt.

Jacket hood pasted to my head,
I herd my dogs into car from rest stop,
pull out onto road, slowly.
I drive with hands welded to steering wheel,
chassis swings, bumps, gyrates.
Wild throws confetti of leaves, celebrates
my cautious return to concrete coliseum
to face roaring velocity in my unarmed armor of car.

I pass through Lone Pine, dodge debris,
now filled with gasoline and determination,
I head slowly toward home.
The gusts fade with the miles,
they soon halt as I drive in to Olancha.
The road is mine again.
My speed picks up, I am on my way, faster,
back in the race I always have with myself
every time I return
across 357 miles, straight yellow lines, weather,
toward home, nothing gets in my way.

Death Valley Lake
Dry.
Void of activity.
Ancient.
The ceaseless wind repeats.
W
I
D
E
Spread out like cracked china,
wrinkled linen tablecloth.
No fish today, this once inland sea.
Harsh.
Sun. Heat. Clouds.
Little rain.
Empty lifeless bottom.
Crust.
Uneven trails of salt.
The Earth's tears.
Starter Home
I knew we had to fix it, sell it,
make it disappear.
The family home in the mountains
for over sixteen years,
my ex called it the starter house,
but it never was.

Pine cabin on an acre and a half,
twelve miles from a small town,
an hour away from Bakersfield,
four seasons of seclusion .

We’d taken so many photographs
of the bobcats, deer, rainbow of birds
that adorned the view.
a home I thought I'd never leave.

I planted 35 trees,
now they’re thriving
since my now husband installed irrigation
they were dry,
as I was, in conservative horse country.

I will choose what to bring
back from the cabin.
The wildlife was always the best part,
and now I am the one who roams free.


Diane Funston has been published in journals including Lake Affect, F(r)iction, Penumbra, Still Points Quarterly, among others.  She served as Poet-in-Residence for Yuba-Sutter Arts and Culture.  Her chapbook, “Over the Falls” was published by Foothills Publishing.  She lives in rural California with her husband and three rescue dogs. 

Facebook Diane Funston Author and Artist 

Instagram @Diane Funston 


Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.

If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines

Financial donations through either our GoFundMe or Buy Me a Coffee accounts will help expand our global reach by paying for advertising, more advanced WordPress plans, and expansion into more extensive Content Delivery Networks.



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Two Poems from Ed Davis: “Blue World” and “One Step”

Blue World
I’d been walking in the twinkling world
left by last night’s ice storm when,
at the edge of a farmer’s field,
I glimpsed blue smoke.

Or so I thought.

Approaching closer, I realized that
bushy bare branches, ice-encased,
had gathered light from the late
winter-early-spring sky, holding
it like a glass globe, fragile and rare,
for me to find.

Blue truth moved through me,
breaking me apart like a ship’s prow,
parting ice at the pole, leaving
white shards afloat on azure waves.

Awake now, I walked back down
the empty bike trail, sight restored.
At the pond, I observed tiny gleams
in the trees, like the last remaining
Christmas strings, winking, whispering,
“All’s the world’s blue for you.”
One Step
How can death be so alive?
I ask, striding through coppery leaf-rot
to pass through the portal of woven
branches into the darkness of the gorge.
After last night’s rain, we step carefully,
the deciduous canopy diminished,
its evidence everywhere underfoot,
silence and solitude the beating heart.

At the fork where yesterday we
turned back at the threat of storm,
today we go on, cliffs on our left,
sun-striped bank to the right.
When it looks as if we can go no farther,
we descend rain-slick wooden steps
to stand at last beside singing stream.

Ahead we see a dappled bank. Treed
on either side, it’s no less a door
than the boughed arch at the glen’s
other end, openings to another world
that tells a story of an earth without
humans and their explosive emotions.

Between water’s murmur
and dark clefts’ deep listening
I envision it all without us
and am one step closer
to letting it all go.

Ed Davis has immersed himself in writing and contemplative practices since retiring from college teaching. Time of the Light, apoetry collection, was released by Main Street Rag Press in 2013. His novel The Psalms of Israel Jones (West Virginia University Press 2014) won the Hackney Award for an unpublished novel in 2010. Many of his stories, essays and poems have appeared in anthologies and journals such as Sky Island Journal, Write Launch, The Plenitude and Slippery Elm. He lives with his wife and three cats in the village of Yellow Springs, Ohio. 


If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines.

Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by back linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.

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“Bivalve Evening” Poem by Matthew Sorrento

Little Jesalee finally
shucked her first shell.
For months, the preteen
was only allowed
to shovel empty oysters,
crunching loud
into the pail.
The broken bits
smelling like hot streets
she'd left in Baltimore
across the bays
before coming to Bivalve, NJ.

Her family shack
was some way in the marsh;
though no shore seen there,
the shuckers owned the air.

The knife was heavy, but her
mommy held the wood handle
steady in her hand,
showing just
how to break it open
and get the meat
for frying.

Jesalee held
the smooth inside,
as mommy rushed
back to work.
Shells fell on and on
and, for the girl
never stopped,
long after she'd left.


A tribute to the transplanted shuckers of Bivalve and surrounding areas.

Matthew Sorrento is editor of Retreats from Oblivion: The Journal of and Film International Online. His poetry has appeared in The Five-Two and The Ekphrastic Review, and he has contributed reviews and essays to the Los Angeles Review of Books, CrimeTime, and Noir City Magazine, with introductions forStark House Press Crime Classics and booklet essays for Arrow Video. He teaches film studies at Rutgers-Camden, and his edited collection, Becoming Nosferatu: Stories Inspired by Silent German Horror (co-edited with Gary D. Rhodes), is forthcoming from BearManor Media. 

Matthew says about this poem: “The poem reflects the experiences of late-19th/early-20th-century Delaware Bay oyster workers in South Jersey, many of whom came from the Chesapeake. I have provided a link about their history, in case it’s of interest. “


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A Journey Through Indian Tea Gardens (3 poems by Sarah Das Gupta)

Up in the Clouds
Christmas Eve,
a scatter of snow.
Cold, very cold
as only the mountains
can be.

Darjeeling, midnight,
bells ringing,
ghosts of the Raj
dream in cold tombs
of lost Indian summers.

Kanchenjunga,
the sacred mountain
Her five peaks
the five treasures
of snow.

Salt, gold, jewels,
sacred scroll,
impenetrable armour,
guarded by
demons of old
Delightful to Meet Earl Grey
Delightful to Meet Earl Grey
Who was the first, original Earl Grey?
People ask in a quite careless way.
He was a British Prime Minister
Always charming, never sinister.

Bergamot was mixed with a black tea.
The citrusy flavour was the key.
This is very much a royal brew,
But humbler folk can purchase it too.

Bergamot oranges flavour the tea
which grow mainly in France and Italy,
a hybrid of oranges from Spain
and lemons grown in South Asian rain.

A Chinese mandarin made the tea
Blent it with bergamot for no fee,
but as a free gift to my Lord Grey.
So, the famous blend was on its way.

Grey lived away in the far North East.
Limescale in the water never ceased.
But the Bergamot redressed this flaw,
which popularised the tea much more!

Its fame quickly spread throughout the world.
The banner of ‘Earl Grey’ was unfurled.
Yet few knew who he could really be,
as they chatted and drank this great tea!

Note; The reason for the mandarin’s gift is
disputed. It is said it was in thanks for Grey’s rescue
of the mandarin, or his family.
A Nice Cuppa
Walking through the gardens
in the cool of the morning,
above loom the mountain peaks,
Green leaved tea bushes
wash against the skyline,
waiting to be picked.

Bright dots of colour,
the pickers are scattered,
on their heads, conical hats
of neatly plaited straw.
On their backs baskets
bags, full of loose leaves.

Behind the tea gardens,
like a scene from
a Bollywood romance,
rise the five peaks of
the mighty Kanchenjunga,
mysterious, snowcapped
sacred, home to
a fearful mountain monster.

Early morning mists
drift through the valleys.
In the East, a pale, orange
banner waves across
the lightening sky.
Ghosts of the Raj
linger among the hills,
lie in the churchyards,
dreaming of sipping tea
beneath Indian skies.

Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK who has also lived and worked in India and Tanzania. Her work has been published in twenty countries from Australia to Kazakhstan. It has appeared in over 200 literary magazines and anthologies including ‘The New English Review’, ‘ Moss Piglet’, ‘Songs of Eretz’, ‘Quail Bell’, ‘Waywords’, ‘Cosmic Daffodil’, ‘Dorothy Parker’s Ashes’, ‘Hooghly Review’, ‘Meat for Tea’, ‘Rural Fiction’ and many others. This year she has been nominated for Best of the Net’ and a Dwarf Star’.


If you would like to be part of the Rural Fiction Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines.

Please share this story to give it maximum distribution. Exposure is our authors’ only pay. You can also help our contributors gain exposure by back linking to them and to RFM’s homepage.


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