http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff.

Creative Writing Critique: Chicken of India Unite! (Satis Shroff)

Review: Aravind Adiga: The White Tiger. Atlantic Books, London, 2008. Man Booker Prize 2008. German version: ‘Der Weisse Tiger’ published by C.H. Beck, 2008.

Aravind Adiga was a correspondent for the newsmag Time and wrote articles for the Financial Times, the Independent and Sunday Times. He was born in Madras in 1974 and is a Mumbai-wallah now. The protagonist of his first novel is Balram Halwai, (I’m a helluva Mumbai-halwa fan, you know) who tells his story in the first person singular. Halwai has a fantastic charisma and shows you how you can climb the Indian mainstream ladder as a philosopher and entrepreneur. An Indian entrepreneur has to be straight and crooked, mocking and believing, sly and sincere, at the same time (sic). Balram’s prerogative is to turn bad news into good news, and the White Tiger, who’s terribly scared of lizards, slits the throat of his boss to attain his goal, and doesn’t even regret his deed.

In the subcontinent, however, Aravind Adiga’s novel has received sceptical critique. Manjula Padmanabhan wrote in ‘Outlook’ that it lacks humour, and the formidable Delhi-based Kushwant Singh 92, who used to write for the Illustrated Weekly of India and is regarded as the doyen of Indian English literature, found it good to read but endlessly depressing.

‘And what’s so depressing?’ you might ask. I found his style refreshing and creative the way he introduced himself to Wen Jiabao. At the beginning of each capital he quotes from a part of his ‘wanted’ poster. The author writes about poverty, corruption, aggression and the brutal struggle for power in the Indian society. A society in which the middle class is reaching economically for the sky, in which Adiga’s biting and scathing criticism sounds out of place, when deshi Indians are dreaming of manned flights to the moon, outer space and mountains of nuclear arsenal against China or any other neighbouring states that might try to flex muscles against Hindustan.

India is sometimes like a Bollywood film, which the poverty-stricken masses enjoy watching, to forget their daily problems for two hours. The rich Indians want to give their gastrointestinal tract a rest and so they go to the cinema between bouts of paan-spitting and farting due to lack of exercise and oily food. They all identify themselves with the protagonists for these hundred and twenty minutes and are transported into another world with location shooting in Switzerland, Schwarzwald, Grand Canyon, the Egyptian Pyramids, sizzling London, fashionable New York and romantic Paris. After twelve songs, emotions taking a roller-coaster ride, the Indians stagger out of the stuffy, sweaty cinemas and are greeted by the blazing and scorching Indian sun, slums, streets spilling with haggard, emaciated humanity, pocket-thieves, real-life goondas, cheating businessmen, money-lenders, snake-girl-destitute-charmers, thugs in white collars and the big question: what shall I and my family eat tonight? Roti, kapada, makan, that is, bread, clothes and a posh house are like a dream to most Indians dwelling in the pavements of Mumbai, or for that matter in Delhi, Bangalore, Mangalore, Mysore, Calcutta (Read Günter Grass’s Zunge Zeigen) and other Indian cities, where they burn rubbish for warmth.

The stomach groans with a sad melody in the loneliness and darkness of a metropolis like Mumbai, a city that never sleeps. As Adiga says, ‘an India of Light, and an India of Darkness in which the black, polluted river Mother Ganga flows.’

Ach, munjo Mumbai! The terrible monsoon, the jam-packed city, Koliwada, Sion, Bandra, Marine Drive, Juhu Beach. I can visualise them all, like I was there. I spent almost every winter during the holidays visiting my uncles, aunts and cousins, the jet-set Shroffs of Bombay. I’m glad that there are people like Aravind Adiga, Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy and Kiran Desai who speak for the millions of under-privileged, downtrodden people and give them a voice through literature. Aravind deserves the Man Booker Prize like no other, because the novel is extraordinary. It doesn’t have the intellectual poise of VS Naipaul or Rushdie’s masala language. It has it’s own Mumbai matter-of-fact speech, a melange of Oxford and NY. And what we get to hear when we take the crowded trains from the suburbs of this vast metropolis, with its mixture of Marathi, Gujerati, Sindhi and scores of other Indian languages is also what Balram is talking about. Adiga was bold enough to present the Other India than what film moghuls and other so-called intellectuals would have us believe. Balram’s is a strong political voice and mirrors the Indian society which wants to present Bharat in superlatives: superpower, affluent society and mainstream culture, whereas in reality there’s tremendous darkness in the society of the subcontinent. Even though Adiga has lived a life of affluence, studied at Columbia and Oxford universities, he has raised his voice in his book against the nepotism, corruption, in-fighting between communal groups, between the rich and the super-rich, a dynamic process in which the poor, dalits, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi’s Children of God (untouchables), ‘scheduled’ castes and tribes have no outlet, and are to this day mere pawns at the hands of the rich in Hindustan, as India was called before the Brits came to colonise the sub-continent. Balram, Adiga’s protagonist, shows how to assert oneself in the Indian society, come what may. I hope this book won’t create monsters without character, integrity, ethos, and soulless humans, devoid of values and norms. From what sources are the characters drawn? The story is in the form of a letter written by the protagonist to the Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao and is drawn from India’s history as told by a school drop-out, chauffeur, entrepreneur, a self-made man with all his charms and flaws, a man who knows his own India, and who presents his views frankly and candidly, sometimes much like P.G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster. The author's attitude toward his characters is comical and satirical when it comes to realities of life for India’s poverty stricken underdogs, whether in the form of a rickshaw puller, tea-shop boy or the driver of a rich Indian businessman. His characters are alive and kicking, and it is a delight to go with Balram in this thrilling ride through India’s history, Bangalore, Old and New Delhi, Mumbai and its denizens. The major theme is how to get along in a sprawling country like India, and the author reveals his murderous plan brilliantly through a series of police descriptions of a man named Balram Halwai. The theme is a beaten path, traditional and familiar, for this is not the first book on Mumbai and Indian society. Other stalwarts like Kuldip Singh, Salman Rushdie, Amitabh Ghosh, VS Naipaul, Anita and Kiran Desai and a host of writers from the Raj have walked along this path, each penning their respective Zeitgeist. In this case, the theme is social, entertaining, escapist in nature, and the reader is like a voyeur in the scenarios created by Balaram. The climax is when the Chinese leader actually comes to Bangalore. So much for Hindi-Chini Bhai-Bhai. Unlike Kiran Desai (The Inheritance of Loss) Adiga says, “Based on my experience, Indian girls are the best. (Well second best. I tell you, Mr Jiaobao, it’s one of the most thrilling sights you can have as a man in Bangalore, to see the eyes of a pair of Nepali girls flashing out at you from the dark hood of an autorickshaw (sic). As to the intellectual qualities of the writing, I loved the simplicity and clarity that Adiga has chosen for his novel. He intersperses his text with a lot of dialogue with his characters and increases the readability score, and is dripping with satire and humour, even while describing an earnest emotional matter like the cremation of Balram’s mother, whereby the humour is entirely British---with Indian undertones. The setting is cleverly constructed. In order to have pace and action in the story Adiga sends Balram to the streets of Bangalore as a chauffeur, and suddenly you’re in the middle of a conversation and narration where a wily driver Balram tunes in. He’s learning, ever learning from the smart guys in the back seat, and in the end he’s the smartest guy in Bangalore, evoking an atmosphere of struggle for survival in the jungles of concrete in India. Indeed, blazingly savage, this book. A good buy.

Review by Satis Shroff, Germany: Getting Along in Life in Tricky Kathmandu

Bhatt, Krishna: City Women and the Ghost Writer, Olympia Publishers, London 2008, 191 pages, EUR 7,99 (ISBN 9781905513444)

Krishna Bhatt, the author, a person who was ‘educated to get a graduate degree in Biology and Chemistry,’came to Kathmandu in 1996 and has seen profound political changes. In this book he seeks to find an ‘explanation for what is happening.’ Life, it seems, to him, is tricky, while political violence has been shocking him episodically. That’s the gist of it: twenty-one short episodes that are revealed to the reader by an author, who’s trademark is honesty, clarity and simplicity---without delving too deep into the subject for the sake of straight narration. What emerges is a melange of tales about life, religion, Nepalese and Indian society packed with humour. A delightful read, a work of fiction and you can jump right into the stories anywhere you like.

Additionally, Bhatt has published ‘Humour and Last Laugh’ in October 2004, a collection of satirical articles published in newspapers in Kathmandu, which is available only in Kathmandu’s bookstores. The author emphasises that he has always written in English and adds, “Reading led me to writing.” He found his London publisher through the internet. Lol!

Did you know that people who are married wear an ‘air of sacrificial glory’ about them in Nepal? The other themes are keeping mistresses in Kathmandu, sending children abroad for education, the woes of psychotherapists in Nepal (no clients). I’ll leave it to you to find out why. Nepal is rich in glaciers and the water ought to be harnessed to produce drinking water and electricity, but in Kathmandu, as in many parts of the republic, there’s a terribly scarcity of water among the poor and wanton wastage among the Gharania---upper class dwellers of Kathmandu. The Kathmanduites fight not only against water scarcity but also a losing battle against ants and roaches. The author explains the many uses of the common condom, especially a sterilised male who uses his vasectomy for the purpose of seduction. However, his tale about the death of his father in “The Harsh Priest and Mourning” remains a poignant and excellent piece of writing, and I could feel with him. It not only describes the Hindu traditions on death and dying but also the emotions experienced by the author.

Like the Oxford educated Pico Ayer who has the ability to describe every ‘shimmy’ that he comes by when he travels, Bhatt too says that Thamel District is all ‘discotheques and massage parlours’ in the story ‘A Meeting of Cultures,’ in which the author meets two former East Germans and one of them thinks ‘people in Germany are lazy.’ Did she mean the Ossies or the Wessies? If that doesn’t get you, I’m sure the many uses of English and vernacular newspapers will certainly do. What’s even amusing is a ritual marriage ceremony of frogs to appease the rain gods. It might be mentioned that in Kathmandu Indra is the God of Rain, the God of the firmament and the personified atmosphere. In the Vedas he stands in the first Rank among the Gods. When you come to think of it, we Hindus are eternally trying to appease the Gods with our daily rituals, special pujas and homs around the sacred Agni (Ignis). Agni is one of the chief deities of the Vedas, and a great number of Sanskrit hymns are addressed to him.

Bhatt uses life and the people around him, and in the media, as his characters and his attitude towards his characters is of a reconciling nature. The characters work sometimes flat for he doesn’t develop them, but the stories he tells are about people you and I could possibly know, and seem very familiar.
Most of the stories are short and quick, good reads in this epoch of computers, laptops,DVDs, SMS, MMS, which is convenient for people with not much time at their disposal. Other themes are: writing, the muse, fellow writers (without naming names, except in the case of V.S. Naipaul), east meet west, abortion, art and pornography, colleagues and former HMG administrators. His opinions are always honest and entertaining in intent, and his tales have more narration than dialogues. Krishna Bhatt is a welcome scribe in the ranks of Kunda Dixit, Samrat Upadhya, Manjushri Thapa and is another new voice from the Himalayas who will make his presence felt in the world of fiction writing. His ‘Irreconcilable Death’ is thought-provoking, a writer who wants to change morality and fails to reconcile with death, like many writers before him. Writers may come and go, but Bhatt wants to leave his impression in his own way and time. Time will certainly tell.
I wish him well.

Review German version by:Satis Shroff Rezension:
Grünfelder, Alice (Hrsg.), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 S., EUR 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder hat Sinologie und Germanistik studiert, lebte zwei Jahre in China und arbeitet gegenwärtig als freie Lektorin und Literaturvermittlerin in Berlin. Dieses Buch ist vergleichbar mit einem Strauss zusammengestellter Blumen aus dem Himalaya, die die Herausgeberin gepflückt hat. Es handelt von den Menschen und deren Problemen im 450 km langen Himalaya Gebirge. Das Buch orientiert sich, an englischen Übersetzungen von der Literatur aus dem Himalaya.

Nepal ist literarisch gut vertreten mit dem Anthropologen Dor Bahadur Bista, dem Bergsteiger Tenzing Norgay, die in Kathmandu lebenden Journalisten Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, dem Fremdenführer Shankar Lamichane, dem Dichter Pallav Ranjan und dem Entwicklungsspezialisten Harka Gurung. Manche Geschichten sind nicht neu für Nepal-Kenner, aber das Buch ist für Leser, die in Deutschland, Österreich, Südtirol und die Schweiz leben, bestimmt. Außer sieben Nepali Autoren gibt es Geschichten von sieben indischen, drei tibetischen, zwei chinesischen und zwei bhutanesischen Autoren.

Die Themen des Buches sind: Die Vorteile und Nachteile der Verwestlichung in Nepal, da Nepal erst 1950 für den Fremden sozusagen geöffnet wurde. Kanak Dixit erzählt dies deutlich in „Welchen Himalaya hätten Sie gern?“. In einer anderen liebenswerten Gesichte erzählt er über die Reise von einem Nepali Frosch namens Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, ein umweltbewußter Bergsteiger, erzählt über das empfindliche Erbe—die Himalaya und deren spirituelle Bedeutung. Die „Himalaya-Ballade“ von der chinesischen Autorin Ma Yuan, „Die ewigen Berge“ von dem Han-Chinesen Jin Zhiguo, und der indischer Bergsteiger H. P. S. Ahluwalia in „Höher als Everest“, schließlich Swami Pranavanadas in seinem „Pilgerreise zum Kailash und der See Manasovar“ haben alle die Berge aus verschiedenen Sichten thematisiert. Tenzing Norgay, der erste Nepali, der auf dem Gipfel von Mt. Everest mit dem Neuseeländer Edmund Hillary bestiegen war, erzählt, dass er „ein glücklicher Mensch“ sei. Der Nepali Journalist Deepak Thapa beschreibt den berühmten Sherpa Bergsteiger Ang Rita als einen sozialen Aufsteiger.

Während wir in einer Geschichte von Kunzang Choden (Auf den Spuren des Migoi) erfahren, dass die Bhutanesen, als ein buddhistisches Volk, nicht einmal einen Tier Leid zufügen können, erzählt uns Kanak Dixit von 100 000 Lhotshampas (nepalstämmige Einwohner), die von der bhutanesischen Regierung vertrieben worden sind und jetzt in Flüchtlingslagern in Jhapa leben.

James Hilton hat das Wort Shangri-La für eine Geschichte, in Umlauf gebracht die sich in Tibet abspielte. Genauso ist mit dem Ausdruck „Das Dach der Welt“ die tibetische Plateau gemeint und nicht Nepal oder Bhutan. Die bewegende Geschichte, die der Kunsthändler Shanker Lamechane erzählt, handelt von einem gelähmten Jungen. Sein Karma wird in Dialogform zwischen ein Nepali Reiseleiter und einem überschwenglichen Tourist erzählt. Das hilflose Kind bringt uns dazu, über die Freude in Alltag nachzudenken, was wir meistens nicht tun können, weil wir mit dem Alltag so beschäftigt sind. Während Harka Gurung „Fakten und Fiktionen über den Schneemensch“ zusammenstellt, schildert uns Kunzang Choden, eine Psychologin aus Bhutan, über „Yaks, Yakhirten und der Yeti“. Wir erfahren von einem alten Yakhirt namens Mimi Khandola, wie das freundliche Wesen Migoi, gennant Yeti, von einem Rudel Wildhunden erlegt wurde. In „Nicht einmal ein Leichnam zum Einäschern“ lernen wir von dem tragischen Schicksal eines Mädchens namens Pem Doikar, die von einem Migoi entführt wurde.

Diese Anthologie versucht nicht die Himalaya Literatur als ganzes zu repräsentieren, aber betont bestimmte Themen, die im Alltagsleben der Bergbewohner auftauchen. Die Welt, die die Dichter und Schriftsteller aus dem Himalaya beschreiben und kreieren, ist ganz anders im Vergleich zur westlichen Literatur über die Himalaya Bewohner. Es ist wahr, dass der Trekking-Tourismus, moderne Technologie, die Entwicklungshilfeindustrie, die NGOs, Aids und Globalisation die Himalayas erreicht haben, aber die Gebiete die vom Tourismus unberührt sind, sind immer noch ursprünglich, gebunden an Traditionen, Kultur und Religion.

Auf der Frankfurter Buchmesse gibt es kaum Bücher die von Schriftstellern und Dichtern aus dem Himalaya stammen. Es sind immer die reisenden Touristen, Geologen, Geographen, Biologen, Bergsteiger und Ethnologen, die über Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh und seine Leute, Religion, Kultur und Umwelt schreiben. Die Bewohner des Himalaya sind immer Statisten im eigenen Land gewesen in den Szenarios, die im Himalaya inszeniert worden sind, und die in New York, Paris, München and Sydney veröffentlicht werden. Sie werden durch westliche Augen beschrieben.

Dennoch gab es Generationen von denkenden und schreibenden Nepalis, Inder, Bhutanesen und Tibeter, die Hunderte von Schriftstücken, Zeitschriften und Bücher geschrieben und veröffentlicht haben, in ihren eigenen Sprachen. Allein in Patans Madan Puraskar Bibliothek, die Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, beschreibt als „der Tempel der Nepali Sprache,“ gibt es 15,000 Nepali Bücher und 3500 verschiedene Zeitschriften wovon die westliche Welt noch nie gehört oder gelesen hat.

Der englische Professor Michael Hutt machte einen Anfang. Er übersetzte zeitgenössische Nepali Prosa und Gedichte in „Himalayan Voices“ und „Modern Nepali Literature“. Die erste Fremdsprache wird weiterhin Englisch bleiben, weil die East India Company dort zuerst ankam.

Dieses Buch von Alice Grünfelder erzeugt Sympathie und Verständnis für die nepali, indische, bhutanesische, tibetische, chinesische Psyche, Kultur, Religion. Es beschreibt die Lebensbedingungen und menschlichen Probleme in den dörflichen und städtischen Himalayagebieten und ist eine willkommene Ergänzung zu der langsam wachsenden Sammlung von literarische Übersetzungen aus dem Himalaya, die von den einheimischen Autoren geschrieben worden sind. Ich wünsche Frau Grünfelder Erfolg in Ihre Aufgabe als Vermittlerin zwischen den literarischen Welten von Asien und Europa.

© Review: Satis Shroff, Freiburg

Book-review English Version by: satisshroff, freiburg
:
Grünfelder, Alice (Editor), Himalaya: Menschen und Mythen, Zürich Unionsverlag 2002, 314 pages, EURO 19, 80 (ISBN 3-293-00298-6).

Alice Grünfelder has studied Sinology and German literature, lived two years in China and works in the publishing branch in Berlin. This book is comparable to a bouquet of the choicest Himalayan flowers picked by the editor and deals with the trials and tribulations of a cross-section of the people in the 450 km long Abode of the Snows--Himalayas. The book orients, as expected, on the English translations of Himalayan literature. The chances of having Nepali literature translated into foreign languages depends upon the Nepalis themselves, because foreigners mostly loath to learn Nepali. If a translation is published in English the success of the book is used as a yardstick to decide whether it is going to be profitable to bring it out in European or in other languages.

Nepal is conspicuous with contributions by the anthropologist Dor Bahadur Bista, the climber Tenzing Norgay, the Kathmandu-based journalists Kanak Dixit and Deepak Thapa, the tourist-guide Shankar Lamichane, the poet Pallav Ranjan and the development-specialist Harka Gurung. For regular readers of Himal Asia, The Rising Nepal and GEO some of these stories are perhaps not new but this book is aimed at the German speaking readers in Germany, Austria and Switzerland. In addition to the seven Nepali authors, there are also stories by seven Indian, three Tibetan, two Chinese authors and two Bhutanese authors.

Some of the themes that have been dealt with in this collection are: the pros and cons of westernisation as told by Kanak Dixit in “Which Himalaya would you like?” and an endearing story of a journey through Nepal as a Nepali frog named Bhaktaprasad. K.C. Bhanja, the ecology-conscious climber writes about the spiritual meaning of our fragile heritage—the Himalayas. “The Himalayan Ballads” by the Chinese author Ma Yuan, “The Eternal Mountains” by the Han-Chinese Jin Zhiguo, the Indian climber H. P. S. Ahluwalia in “Higher than Everest” und Swami Pranavanadas in his Pilgrim journey to Kailash and the Manasovar Lake” have presented the mountains from different perspectives. Tenzing Norgay, the first Nepali who reached the top of Mount Everest with Edmund Hillary, says that he was a happy person.

The Nepali journalist Deepak Thapa portrays the famous Sherpa climber Ang Rita as a social “Upwardly Mobile” person. Whereas in Kunzang Choden’s story (In the Tracks of the Migoi) we learn that the Bhutanese, as a Buddhist folk, are not capable of harming even a small animal, in another story Kanak Dixit tells us about the 100 000 Lhotshampas (Bhutanese citizens of Nepali origin) who were thrown out by the Bhutanese government and live in refugee-camps in Jhapa. The curio art-trader Shanker Lamichane’s “The Half Closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Setting Sun” is a poignant tale of a paralysed boy’s karma, related as a dialogue between a Nepali guide and a tourist. The helpless child makes us think in his mute way about the joys in everyday life that we don’t see and feel, because the world is too much with us. Whereas Harka Gurung has gathered facts and fiction“ and tells us about the different aspects of the Snowman, another author who is a psychologist from Bhutan, tells us about yaks, yak-keepers and the Yeti and we come to know through an old yak-keeper named Mimi Khandola, how the friendly creature called the Migoi, alias Yeti, gets chased and killed by a group of wild-dogs. In “Not Even a Corpse to Cremate” we learn about the traumatic shock and tragic fate of a girl named Pem Doikar, who was kidnapped by a Migoi.

This anthology does not profess to represent Himalayan literature as a whole, but lays emphasis on the people and myths centred around the Himalayas. For instance, the Nepali world that the poets and writers describe and create is a different one, compared to the western one. It is true that trekking-tourism, modern technology, the aid-industry, NGOs, aids and globalisation have reached Nepal, Bhutan, India, but the areas not frequented by the trekking and climbing tourists still remain rural, tradition-bound and untouched by modernity.

There are hardly any books written by writers from the Himalayas at the Frankfurter Book Fair. It's always the travelling tourist, geologist, geographer, biologist, climber and ethnologist who writes about Nepal, Tibet, Zanskar, Mustang, Bhutan, Sikkim, Ladakh and its people, culture, religion, environment, flora and fauna. The Himalayan people have always been statists in the visit-the-Himalaya-scenarios published in New York, Paris, Munich and Sydney and they are described through western eyes.

But there have been generations of thinking and writing Nepalis, Indians, Bhutanese and Tibetans who have written and published hundreds of books and magazines in their own languages. In Patan's Madan Puraskar Library alone, which Mr. Kamal Mani Dixit, Patan's Man of Letters, describes as the "Temple of Nepali language", there are 15,000 Nepali books and 3500 different magazines and periodicals about which the western world hasn't heard or read. A start was made by Michael Hutt of the School of Oriental Studies London, in his English translation of contemporary Nepali prose and verse in Himalayan Voices and Modern Nepali Literature. It took him eight years to write his book and he took the trouble to meet most of the Nepali authors in Nepal and Darjeeling. The readers in the western world will know more about Himalayan literature as more and more original literary works are translated from Nepali, Tibetan, Hindi, Bhutanese, Lepcha, Bengali into English, German, French and other languages of the EU. The first foreign language, however, will remain English because the East India Company got there first.

This book compiled by Alice Grünfelder creates sympathy and understanding for the Nepali, Indian, Bhutanese, Tibetan, Chinese psyche, culture, religion, living conditions and human problems in the urban and rural Himalayan environment, and is a welcome addition to the slowly growing translated collection of Himalayan literature penned by writers living in the Himalayas. I wish her well in her function as a mediator between the literary worlds of Asia and Europe.

Reviewed by: Satis Shroff, Freiburg
About the Reviewer:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. http://www.zfs.uni-freiburg.de/zfs/dozent/lehrbeauftragte4/index_html/#shroff. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

What others have said about the author:
„Die Schilderungen von Satis Shroff in ‘Through Nepalese Eyes’ sind faszinierend und geben uns die Möglichkeit, unsere Welt mit neuen Augen zu sehen.“ (Alice Grünfelder von Unionsverlag / Limmat Verlag, Zürich).

Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).

‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).

“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House UK.

Black Forest Mural on a house wall © satisshroff 2009

Robins in my garden ©Art by satisshroff 2009

Schwarzwaldlyrik (Black Forest Poems):


AUTUMN LEAVES IN KAPPEL (Satis Shroff)

Autumn leaves dancing in the sky,
Gleaming as the sunlight
Caresses them.

Out in the distance,
The blue Schwarzwald,
With its melange
Of conifer and deciduous trees,
Bursting out in autumnal rhapsody.

Guarded by the tall pine trees,
Like sentinels,
Overlooking an amphitheatre.

Its spurs and hidden valleys,

Inhabited by Allemanic denizens,
So long as time can tell.

To the south
The four languidly moving white blades
Of modern windmills,
With their blinking lights
Overlooking Rosskopf.

And far to the East,
The fairy-tale towns
Of Buchenbach and St. Peter.

Is this not Heaven on Earth?
The lush green grass in the meadows,
Has long been cut,
The hay already stacked in the barn.
I gather Löwenzahn for our rabbits,
Tasty salad for humans,
A delight for hares and rabbits.

Frau Frutiker greets me warmly,
Offers Schwarzwälder specialities.
She plays the flute,
Her husband Clemens
The trumpet
At the Buchenbacher Musikverein.

Autumn in Kappel,
A personification
Of serenity and tranquillity.

* * *

The Symphony of the Morning (Satis Shroff)

I discern the recurring chirps
And whistles
Of the birds in the vast foliage
Of an oak tree,
A German Eiche.

Whistles, chirps, hoots
And melodious symphony,
Like the incessant waves
Slashing on the shores of the Atlantic.

A single bird gives the tact,
A strong monotonous chirp.
The others follow suit,
Not in unison
But still in harmony.

You notice so many melodies
When you eavesdrop,
In the quiet comfort of your bed.
The natural symphony of the morning:
Adagio, crescendo,
It’s all there
For your fine ears.

* * *
Glossary:
Eiche: oak

* * *

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.

I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its aries early.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat.
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘ Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

THE WIND FROM THE VALE OF HELL (Satis Shroff)

On a hill in Kappel
You feel free and elated.
The stream that bubbles below,
Like an incessant lyric,
A monk’s chant in a monastery.

The cherry tree hangs
With bloom on its sagging boughs.
Ah, to look at trees in all their splendour,
In this Black Forest idyll.

The blue Schwarzwald range,
Makes poetry out of the dying sun
Around the house,
Like an arena in the Himalayas.
The tulips in bright colours are everywhere,
The lovely lilies are swaying,
So are the gladiolas.

As I walk along a mountain stream,
I smell hyacinths.
The marigolds are in full blossom,
And a wave of nostalgia sweeps over me,
For marigolds and Tagetes grow
When it’s Dasain and Tihar,
Festival time,
Far in the Himalayas.
From the Himalayas to the Black Forest,
Such a long journey.

The evening wind whispers gently
From the Vale of Hell,
Der Höllentäler,
As we fondly call it.
The birds are coming home to roost.

I discern the attentuated tone
Of my little daughter Elena
Playing on her violin.
My feet take me home
With tardy steps.
I feel at peace
With myself

* * *

FRIENDS (Satis Shroff)

I sit on my chaiselonge,
Serving Darjeeling to my friends,
Strengthened with masala,
And Sahne.
There’s Murat from Turkey,
Rosella from Italy,

Stefan and Barbara from Rheinfelden,
Frau Adolph from downtown Freiburg.

Rosella has brought North Italian flair
And cakes that I relish,
From Milano.
Pannetone with Mascapone,
Champagne and Tiramisu.

A kiss to the right,
A kiss to the left,
Settles down and says:
‘Isn’t life wonderful, Satish?’
Hubby Samuel has expanded
His aerospace factory.

My friend Murat,
The personification of Miteinander,
Hands me a new novel,
With his signature,
Written despite the protests
Of his family,
Keeping late hours,
To finish his Opus magnum,
A story about his Allevite folk.

A pleasure and honour,
But I’m afraid,
I can’t read it:
It’s Turkish to me.

Barbara and my poet friend Stefan
Have been to the Zermat
And have tales to tell,
Not only of Wilhelm
And his crossbow,
But about the beauty
Of Switzerland.

Frau Adolph, the pensioned lady,
Glows like the sun:
An infectious smile
Over her tanned face.
No botox, only dentures,
And tells of her adventures in Italy,
Latin-lover inbegriffen,
And of her Sudanese seduction.
An elderly lady,
A friend with style
And aesthetic intelligence.

Ain’t it wonderful
To have dear friends?
Home abroad,
Abroad home.
Shanti!
Shanti!
Peace which passeth understanding.

Glossary:
Chaiselonge: long French sofa
Inbegriffen: included
Miteinander: together, togetherness
Shanti: peace
Wechselrhythmus: changing rhythms
Bahn: train
Mumbai: Bombay
Bueb: small male child
Chen: Verniedlichung, like Babu-cha in Newari
Schwarzwald: The Black Forest of south-west Germany

*****

BEYOND CULTURAL CONFINES (Satis Shroff)

Music has left its cultural confines.
You hear the strings of a sitar
Mingling with big band sounds.
Percussions from Africa
Accompanying ragas from Nepal.

A never-ending performance of musicians
From all over the world.
Bollywood dancing workshops at Lörrach,
Slam poetry at Freiburg’s Atlantic inn.
A didgeridoo accompaning Japanese drums
At the Zeltmusik festival.

Tabla and tanpura
Involved in a musical dialogue,
With trumpet and saxaphone,
Argentinean tango and Caribbean salsa,
Fiery Flamenco dancers swirling proudly
With classical Bharta Natyam dancers,
Mani Rimdu masked-dancers accompanied
By a Tibetan monastery orchestra,
Mingling with shrill Swiss piccolo flute tunes
And masked drummers.

As I walk past the Café Bueb, the Metzgerei,
The St. Blasius church bells begin to chime.
I see Annette’s tiny garden
With red, yellow and white tulips,
‘Hallochen!’ she says
With a broad, blonde smile,
Her slender cat stretches itself,
Emits a miao and goes by.
I walk on and admire
Frau Bender’s cherry-blossom tree,
Her pensioned husband nods back at me.

And in the distance,
A view of the Black Forest,
With whispering wind-rotors,
And the trees in the vicinity,
Teeming and shaking
With chirping, whistling, jostling birds
Come home to roost.

* * *

WINTER BLUES (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season of melancholy,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine.
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *

Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.

I’d danced
At the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Where ever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *

Dancing Eyes (Satis Shroff)

The dancing floor,
A heaven to those
Who know how to dance:
The salsa, samba, tango,
The fox and the waltz.

How many shoe soles have I danced,
How may souls have I conquered?
Here I am,
Longing for a dance,
A paraplegic dancer.

I dance now
With my eyes,
Even when I seem
To gaze in the distance.

I hear wonderful melodies
From the Spring of my life.
I dance now
In my mind.

* * *

Isolation (Satis Shroff)

She had a small soul
And little education.
She gave,
But sought
Something else in return.

She loved her husband,
Pampered him in society,
For all to see.
Did she love him,
Or his wallet?
And things money can buy.

She shielded him from his friends,
With whom he’d fought
In the trenches of Stalingrad,
Cornered together like rats,
And prayed when Stalin’s Orgel
Screamed murderously over them.

He needed love and care
After the trauma of war.
Woke up in sleep
With nightmares of the krieg.
He gave up his comrades,
For a wife who said she loved him.
They had sauerkraut and spätzle,
Watched tennis and thrillers on TV,
And had no time for others.
Lonesome pensioners,
In self-inflicted isolation.

What came was depression,
Failing sensory organs,
Sans eyes,
Sans friends.
Varicose veins,
Cerebral sclerosis,
Alzheimer and strokes.
The light went out.
Was someone out there?

* * *

The Feud (Satis Shroff)

The feud I fought
Was not whole heartedly.
I handed it to a lawyer,
Who made a hash of it,
And a judge who was subjective.

I had to pay a heavy loss.
Would it have been better,
Had I put my heart
Into the feud?

Can I forget it,
But not forgive?
Can you forgive,
But not forget?
Questions that still
Torment my soul.

* * *

Surya at Benaras (Satis Shroff)

My eyes and mind were fading
Under the rays of the scorching sun.
I was at Benaras,
Standing in the polluted
But holy river.

Half naked,
With a sacred thread,
Greeting Surya,
The child of dawn,
The great source of light
And warmth:
The Sun.

You are the nourisher,
The brilliant light-maker,
The eye of the world,
The witness of men’s deeds.
Oh, you king of the constellations,
You,
Who possesses a thousand rays.

I was mumbling a Sanskrit litany,
I’d learned from my dear Mom :
Hara, hara Gungay,
Saba paapa langay.

* * *

Wine (Satis Shroff)

He who drinks sings,
He who drinks sinks,
You say.

He who drinks
Drops and spills
His wine,
His self,
His Ich
His life.

And when it’s spilt,
Can you still drink?
Or is it the wine
That spilt your life?

* * *

Seduction (Satis Shroff)

Why do you run after me?
You are seduced by my voice,
My style
And verse.

Follow your own words,
Your own heart.
Till then,
We go different ways.

We follow different paths,
Though we hear the same rhythm.
And in doing so,
We meet again.
Aufwiedersehen,
Arrividerci.

* * *

The Whiteness in the Zone of Death (Satis Shroff)

The best view of the world
Is from the top
Of the highest mountain,
The Abode of the Gods.

‘The best way to climb a peak
Is not to give it
A single thought.
Think of a thousand other things,’
Said the climber from abroad,
To the sherpa.

Suddenly it became stormy,
The dreaded whiteout came
With howling, biting winds,
Tons of snow everywhere.

The sahib had only a single thought.
‘Hilf mir, O Gott!’
And cried like a new born baby,
Scared of the wilderness,
Trembling at the whiteness
That surrounded him,
Frightened by the icy wind
Which seemed to tear him apart.

He found the sherpa,
Who said:
‘Here, where you stand,
Is almost the summit, Sir.
Welcome to the Abode of the Gods.’

‘The abode of what?’
‘The Gods,’ said the sherpa.
The climber turned around:
Whiteness in the death zone,
As far as he could imagine.

A step to the right,
A step behind,
And a blood-curdling scream.
Swallowed
by a treacherous crevice.
A vast silence ensued.

The half-frozen sherpa mumbled,
‘Om mane peme hum,
Vajra guru peme siddhay hum!’
Till sunrise.

He opened his eyes,
Thanked the Gods of the Himalayas
For saving his life,
Felt sorry for the stubborn sahib,
And descended
With a heavy heart.

* * *

Manjushri and the Heart of the World (Satis Shroff)

The green fields in the Vale of Catmandu
Shuddered as the heavens parted,
Revealing the secrets of the Himalayas.

Manjushri appeared with his mighty sword,
At this very place where you now stand,
For here was once a lake,
With turquoise waters

The people hid behind their house-walls
And ornate windows.
They peered with awe
At what unfurled before them.

The Sanskrit and Nepalbhasa they spoke,
Left them wordless,
For Manjushri was there
To release their hearts,
To create a fertile land,
Below the barren hills.

The warrior from the East,
Raised his sword
And cut a gorge,
Where now the Chovar stands,
With its century old sediments.
Lo and behold!
The turquoise water became
A foamy, swirling, spiralling,
Circling mass with music
To a crescendo.
It left Catmandu Valley
With incessant roars.

What remained was a fertile valley,
Rich in alluvium.
From the centre bloomed a lotus
And became
The heart of the world.

* * *

A White Page (Satis Shroff)

On a white page,
I’m searching for you.
I cannot bear to lose you.
Where have you been,
My lovely?

I remember the day
You entered my life.
Your soft gaze
With deep blue eyes.

We drank white wine at the bar,
Went home laughing,
Tipsy and joyful.
I thought it would last forever
And a day.

We were intoxicated
With love,
I thought.
Skins that sweat
And whispered.
A never-ending longing
For you.
I heard the screeching of an owl,
Ach, where tenderness was uncovered,
When the clouds slithered past the moon.

I humoured you,
I reeled under the silence
Of the years.
I heard distant cries,
But I heard only you.
I had to bear with you.
You remained
A white page
In my life.
Adieu.

* * *

Souvenirs (Satis Shroff)

They come from lands afar
In search of impressions,
Kitsch or treasures,
For their designer cupboards,
Back home in western countries.

Busloads of them stream out,
Digital cameras, camcorders
Mobiles with cameras
And shoot the village people,
Dilapidated huts,
Ornate windows, tattered clothes.
Guerrillas with guns,
Children with running noses,
For Mom is down in the vale,
Chopping wood for the hearth.

They click and store the temples,
Shrines, pagodas, palaces,
Gigabytes of global images
For family albums,
Power-point presentations.
Slide-shows for all and sundry,
The intimate images,
Poverty, shame,
Hidden by coy smiles,
The have-nots
Of a foreign country.

Will the tourists tell,
When they reveal what they’ve stored,
Of how hard it is to survive,
In the foothills of the Himalayas?
Where the sun shines at day
And Himalayan winds howl at night.
Where the monsoon brings
Torrential rain and death
From June to September,
And where the earth is dry,
Barren in winter.
Where the waters of the lake Phewa
Mirror the snows of Annapurna
And the fish-tailed one.

* * *

Cocktail Klatsch (Satis Shroff)

A cocktail party is an intermittent dance,
With champagne glass in the hand,
And a blonde’s waist in the other.
Dodging and negotiating
Between sips and slips,
Small talk.
With zeitgeist music,
As a psycho-barrier,
When confronted by
Ladies and gents,
We don’t prefer
To exchange niceties,
Personal secrets
Or somatic secretes
With.

* * *

THE HIMALAYAN WIND (Satis Shroff)

It is night,
The sky,
This inverted bowl,
Is prussian blue.

The winds are blowing
Across the swaying mustard fields.
This prussian darkness weighs me down,
It licks and chews,
On my desires concealed.

I’m hungry for ambrosia,
My stomach groans.
My heart yearns.

I enter a cave near the lake,
Stalagtites
And stalagmites.
A cave of loss.

Phewa the lake nearby,
Frequented by the Himalayas,
To mirror themselves
At dawn and dusk.
A reward for pilgrims
From afar.

* * *
The Whisper of the Glaciers (Satis Shroff)

The mountains loom above
The deeds of humans,
Blind chopping of trees.

The ascent of sacred peaks,
Whether singular
Or with a team,
With sauerstoff,
Or without.

Have you heard the whisper of the glaciers
Or the crash of the moraines,
As their long tongues
Bring to light
Remains of climbers
And adventurers,
Crushed in icy graves?

The tongues of the moraines
Lick the frozen, distorted torsos
Of heroes, sons and husbands
In search of glory and fame,
Who haven’t lived to tell their tales,
At cocktail parties,
And power-point palavers
In Manhatten, Santiago, Osaka,
Potsam or Prague.

* *
On Poetry (Satis Shroff)

A long time ago,
An established bard motivated me,
A poet from the American mainstream.
Words of praise that soothed
And amused me.
He compared my lyrical fragments
With works of poets
Of whom I’d never heard.

A protest poem about a drunk landlady
Reminded of W. H. Auden.
A ballad about a Gurkha mother
He said: ‘the best of Auden
And E.E. Cummings in tone here.’

Namaste,
Auf wiedersehen.
Auf wiedersehen,
Namaste.
I greet the godliness in you.
We shall see again.

‘There is such a surprise and delight.
A triumphant moment (here).
A small miracle of revelation.”

* * *

Zeitgeistlyrik:
GROWTH AND STASIS (Satis Shroff)

LOL!
Oh My God,
Das ist Toll,
Dear Frau Moll.

It comes from textese,
An English computer dialect
That causes teachers and language lovers
To sigh in anguish and despair.

Great feelings and words
Are compromised
Per SMS today.

Circumlocution has gone away.
Why beat around the bush?
Keep it precise,
Don’t waste words.
LOL!

When someone sends you
A message with ‘I love you,’
Don’t get worked up.
It can be an admirer
Or a pesky virus-ridden spam,
That sends love-you-mails
To your near
And dear ones,
And to all and sundry.

I agree,
That’s neither lol
Nor loll.
Lie lazily,
Hang out your tongue,
As we say in German:
Es ist nicht toll.

That’s language in metamorphosis:
Phases of growth,
Succeeded by stasis,
Dear Madame Moll,
LOL.

* * *


About the author: Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwigs University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff), in addition to Sprachkunde Nepali I & II (Horlemann Verlag, Bad Honnef), article on Nepalese symbols, Gurkhas and Achttausender. His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

The Fifth Season in the Alps and the Black Forest (Satis Shroff)

The night of the torches began at Freiburg’s Swabian Gate (Schwabentor), and 13000 witches, knaves and other ghoulish figures marched to the Allemanic town’s cathedral located in the centre. Right below the olde historical Kaufhaus was a stage with 500 witches in motley clothes and ugly noses, warts and all, who performed their wild and frantic dances. The cacophony caused by the percussion and brass of the Guggen music rose in crescendo, as they staged their monster-concert.

40,000 visitors came to the 75th celebration of the Breisgauer Narrenzunft (BNZ) and 100 clubs (Zünfte) took part in the fasnet merry-making. The BNZ was established in 1934, yes the fateful year in Germany when the Nazizeitgeist raised its ugly head. Among the Narren (knaves) that the Nazis didn’t like was a Jewish Freiburger named Hans Pollock, a physician by profession and very active in the fasnet committee. Today, we would say that he was systematically mobbed and bossed from his working place, and was deported to Dachau. Luckily enough Hans fell ill and was sent back to Freiburg, where he died in 1939. There’s a small metal plate with his name in the cobbled street called Güntertalstrasse.

An ethnologist named Bertold Hamel published a thesis with the title ‘Helau and Heil Hitler.’ In 1984 there was an exhibition at the Albert Ludwig’s university library organised in part by the art historian Peter Kalchthaler. It was he who mentioned that the celebrations had their origin in the Christian faith, and that during the Third Reich the brown shirts turned an age-old belief and tradition into a folk tradition.

But things have changed for the better now. Even a Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Jew can become a member of the many traditional zünfte and cliques, and take part in the historical and traditional jovial events. I’m looking forward to the Rose Monday parade in which more than 5200 masked figures will be taking part.

From the ‘dirty’ Thursday till Ash Wednesday, the Black Forest and the Upper Rhein areas are under the command of witches and knaves after the town councils are stormed by them and freed, for the fifth season has already begun. The witches also come to the schools and kindergardens and ‘free’ the kids from their teachers and lessons, and make them have fun with music, bags of sweets, colourful streamers and sacks of confetti which are thrown on their blonde, brunette and black heads, amid laughter and screams. A wonderful time of the year, you are inclined to say, where people are ordered to have fun, drink a lot of beer, wine, schnaps to drive off the cold, long, depressing winter. I bumped into an amiable German from Pforzheim named Rudi, who raised his krug of beer and said: ‘Prost! My body needs it!’

Well it’s fasnet-time (fasching, carnival) in the alpine countries of Switzerland, Austria and Germany. The streets are full of wild men and women, witches, devils, knaves, masked figures galore in Durlach (Karlsruhe), Baden Baden-Oos, Offenburg, Gengenbach with its ‘Schalk wach uff’ cry, Hausach with its witches with hearts, the march at Haslach, the red devils on Dirty Thursday at Triberg. And Villingen, which is known for its motto: fasnet-meets-carnival.

In Donaueschingen, Hansel and Gretel are woken up from their Schwarzwälder beds by means of a fanfare at 6am on February 19, 2009. There’s a children’s procession at 2pm and the singing of fasnet songs. At 7pm you see people going around with long white sleeping-gowns and white caps with a pom-pom hanging at the end. You can see thousands of people taking to the cobbled streets: there’s music of all manners, costumes and stork wagons in which the wicked witches of Elzach entice beautiful girls from the streets, dump them in their rickety wagons, throw tons of confetti on them and finally set them free with a ‘narri, narrow!’ farewell greeting. The Schuttig procession is known for the cracks of the long whips on the streets, but if you tease and laugh at him, the Schuttig might clobber you with a swine’s bladder. It’s good for a laugh anyway because humour is useful.

And on March 2, 2009 there’s, of course, the famous Swiss Morgenstraich in Basle, an unforgettable experience after the German merry-making is long over and the witches have shed feigned tears, burnt effigies symbolising the banishment of winter.

Exactly at 4am the lights go out in Basle’s inner town buildings. An uncanny silence shrouds the city, and thousands of spectators listen and look around, holding hands lest they don’t lose themselves among the sea of humanity around them. Suddenly, 200 lanterns begin to shine and make their appearance with masked figures elegantly distributing colourful leaflets with the sujet or motto of the respective cliques, which are actually lyrics lampooning Swiss politicians, Sarkosy, Brown & Merkel included, their speeches, promises, collateral decisions that have backfired, scandals or whatever. I love the sound of the shrill piccollo flutes and drums of the Swiss cliques. When you come to think of it, you’re one of the 10,000 fasnacht revellers. There are witch costume balls everywhere in the evenings, where you eat salted pork, drink schnaps, but hopefully not one too much for the road, for fun is the order of the day.

Whereas the Breisgauer members of the Narrenzunft celebrated their 75th jubilee on February 1, 2009, in Switzerland’s small Klinen Valley the ‘Wild Maa’ reached land at 11am on January 20, 2009 and was greeted with firecrackers. On the bank of the Rhine were the bird Gryff and the ‘Leu’ waiting to greet the ‘Wild Maa,’ surrounded by hundreds spectators who’d come to see the spectacle. The three symbolic Swiss fasnet figures danced all the way to Small Basle for the big-shots of Basle. The highlight was the dance in the middle of the bridge across the Rhines near Käpplijoch, and a thunderous crowd, accompanied by blue coated drummers, wearing white wigs and quaint hats like the Tin Drummer.

In the middle of Thun, a town in Switzerland, the Merlinger group ‘Grönbachgusler,’ costumed as blood-suckers with vampire-like canines jutting out of the corners of their mouths, black and white striped clothes and big drums were to be admired. This was the day of the ghouls.

On February 24, 2009 the town of Breisach invites all fasnet-friends to this lovely town upon the Rhine, where the Brysacher Fasnet will be celebrated the whole day. And on Ash Wednesday, when everything’s over, the people of Freiburg wash their wallets at 10am in the clear, cold water of the Freiburger Bächele, a sort of canal that runs through this Schwarzwald town, as it is thought to be auspicious and will bring one happiness and financial benefits in the course of the year. What a pleasant thought, now that the WEF is over, isn’t it?

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

Lyrik:
Winter Blues (Satis Shroff)

Winter blues,
Go away!
Season of short daylight,
Coughs and rheuma,
Wet, cold days.
Misty towns,
Snowbound Schwarzwald,
Season depression,
Winter blues.

This cold seasonal change
Influences your hormones.
The lack of sunlight,
Its warm and reassuring rays,
Reduces the endorphine
In your blood vessels.

Serotonin, which regulates
Our happy mental state,
Is sparingly there,
When we need it.
Daylight is the best cure,
For light seasonal depression.

You go for a walk,
Even when the weather
Is misty and wet.
You keep a balanced diet:
Fruits and vegetables,
To create good feelings,
And to avert colds.

But for those have
Endogenic depression?
Low appetite,
Weight loss,
Sleepless nights,
Increased melatonin,
Caused by a lack
Of sunshine,
Makes you tired:
Your activities are at a low.

If walks in the misty countryside
Or city parks don’t help,
You have antidepressiva
As a last resort.
Ach, winter blues

* * *
Aurora borealis (Satis Shroff)

The sky was bathed
In fantastic hues:
Yellow, orange, scarlet
Mauve and cobalt blue.
Buto dancing,
In this surreal light,
On the stage,
Was magnificent.
Your heart pounds higher,
Your feet become light,
Your body sways
To the rhythm
And Nordic lights
Of the Aurora borealis.

Akin to the creation
Of the planet we live in.
And here was I,
Anzu Furukawa.
Once a small ballet dancer,
Now a full grown woman:
A choreographer, performer,
Ballet and modern dancer, studio pianist.
‘The Pina Bausch of Tokyo’
Wrote a German critic
In Der Tagesspiegel.

Success was my name,
In Japan, Germany, Italy,
Finnland and Ghana:
Anzu’s Animal Atlas,
Cells of Apple,
Faust II,
Rent-a-body,
The Detective of China,
A Diamond as big as the Ritz.

I was a professor
Of performing arts in Germany.
But Buto became my passion.
Buto was born amid upheavals in Japan,
When students took to the streets,
With performance acts and agit props.
Buto, this new violent dance of anarchy,
Cut off from the traditions
Of Japanese dance.

Ach, the Kuopio Music et Dance festival
Praised my L’Arrache-coer,’
The Heart Snatcher.
A touching praise
To human imagination,
And the human ability
To feel even the most surprising emotions

I lived my life with dignity,
But the doctors said
I was very, very sick.
I had terminal tongue cancer.
I’d been sleeping over thirty hours,
And stopped breathing
In peace,
With my two lovely children
Holding my hands.
I’d danced at the Freiburg New Dance Festival
Only twenty days ago.
I saw the curtain falling,
As we took our bows.

I bow to you my audience,
I hear your applause.
The sound of your applause
Accompanies me
Whereever my soul goes.

I’m still a little girl
In an oversized dress.
I ran through you all
In such a hurry.

* * *

About the Author:

Satis Shroff is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes and lectures at the University of Freiburg. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.

Lyrik Zeitschrift Berlin:
Gedichte Nepals

Wenn man an die Gedichte Nepals des 20. Jahrhunderts denkt, fallen einem Dichter wie: Lekhnath Paudyal, Bhanu Bhakta Acharya, Balkrishna Sama und Lakshmiprasad Devkota in den Sinn. Nepals vielfältige und anspruchsvolle Literatur ist reich an Gedichten, da fast jeder Schriftsteller auch Gedichte schreibt. Das Gedicht hat immer eine besondere Rolle gespielt, weil es als Mittel benutzt wurde, um sozialkritische und politische Fragen in einer Gesellschaft zu postulieren, in der Regierungen Medien zensierten. Zensusfreie Literatur gibt es in Nepal erst seit November 1990 mit der Umwandlung der absoluten Monarchie in eine konstitutionelle Hindu-Monarchie mit demokratischen Grundprinzipien.
Die Zeit wird uns zeigen, ob in Nepal eine tatsächliche Meinungsfreiheit unter der Maoisten geben wird, da Nepal eine republikanische Staat geworden ist.
Die nepalesische Literatur beschreibt auch die Situation in anderen Himalayastaaten. Die Hochburg der Nepali Literatur findet man in Kathmandu aber auch in Darjeeling, Kurseong, Kalimpong, Assam, Nagaland und Gangtok (Sikkim). Hier gibt es literarische Gesellschaften und jährliche Auszeichnungen für Nepali Schriftsteller und Dichter. Die bekanntesten Preise sind: Royal Nepal Akademie Preis, Tribhuvan Puraskar, Madan Puraskar, Sajha Preis, Nepali Literatur Gesellschaft Preis (Darjeeling), Nepali Akademie Preis (West Bengalen) und Nationale Literatur Akademie Preis (Delhi). Budathoki’s Best Nepalese On-line Writer Preis (International Nepali Literature Society, USA). / Satis Shroff, American Chronicle 14.11.
Satis Shroff has also written political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His anthology of poems has been published by www.Lulu.com:'Katmandu, Katmandu.'
His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe, and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. He carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing is a very important one. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.
Satis Shroff is the published author of three books on www.Lulu.com: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. Satis Shroff is a member of “Writers of Peace”, poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.
Boloji.com: Satis Shroff was Poet of the Week on February 18,2007 and again on June 22, 2008.
Poetry Hearings, Berlin Mitte
In Berlin gibt es ein englischsprachiges Lyrikfestival, die Poetry Hearings, von manchen mit einer Spur Übertreibung "das beste Lyrikfestival der Welt" genannt haben. Denn in der Stadt leben mehr englischsprachige Dichter als jemals zuvor. Vielleicht ist es zu früh, Berlin das Paris der Nullerjahre zu nennen, sagt der Veranstalter Alistair Noon. Aber die Stadt zieht Dichter, Künstler und Musiker an, ebenso aber ein Publikum für sie. Jetzt findet es wieder statt, Freitag 16. bin Sonntag 18.11. Außer in Berlin lebenden Autoren kommen inzwischen auch Dichter aus Europa und Übersee. Expatica
Poetry Hearings stellt Lyriker englischer Sprache vor, besonders solche aus Kontinentaleuropa. Quer zu allen Einteilungen versammelt das Festival Autoren, die in verschiedenen Traditionen stehen: Mainstream, Experimentelle, Formale, Freilaufende ("free-ranging"), Performance- und Prosagedichte. Lesenswerte, gute Arbeiten gibt es in allen diesen Formen; das Festival will ihnen ein Forum bieten.

CHIRPS IN MY GARDEN (Satis Shroff)

Ach,
To lie in bed
And listen to the birds sing.
I peer at the pine trees above,
Heavily laden with fluffy snow,
Like sentinels of the Black Forest.

I espy something moving:
Three deer with moist black noses,
Sniffing the Kappler air,
Strut among the low bushes
In all their elegance,
Only to vanish silently,
Into the recesses of the Foret Noir.

I hear the robin,
Rotkehlchen,
With its clear, loud, pearly tone,
As it greets the day.
Just before sunrise the black bird,
Amsel,
Which flies high on the tree tops,
Delivers its early arias.
The great titmouse stretches its wings
And starts to sing.

The brown sparrows turn up
With their repertoire,
Rap in the garden,
Twitter and chirp aloud.
All this noise makes the bullfinch alert,
For it also wants to be heard.
It starts its high pitched melody
With gusto in the early hours.

The starling clears its throat:
What comes is whistles,
Mingled with smacking sounds.
The woodpecker,
Specht,
Isn’t an early bird,
Starts its day late.
Pecks with its beak,
At a hurried tempo.

If that doesn’t get you out of your bed,
I’m sure you’re on holiday,
Or thank God it’s Sunday.
Other feathered friends
Who frequent our Black Forest house,
Are the green finch, the jay,
Goldfinch which we call ‘Stieglitz,’
Larks, thrush and the oriole,
The Bird of the Year,
On rare occasions.

Glossary:
English, German, Latin names
Robin (Rotkehlchen): Erithacus rubecula
Black bird (Amsel): Turdus merula
Titmouse (Kohlmeise): Parus major
Bullfinch (Rotfinke):
Greenfinch (jay): Chloris chloris
Starling: Sturnus vulgaris
Woodpecker (Specht):
Stieglitz: Carduelis carduelis
Oriole: Oriolus oriolus

* * *

SUMMER DELIGHTS IN THE SCHWARZWALD (Satis Shroff)

I sat in the garden
With Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure
On my lap,
And saw a small butterfly
With dark spots on its frail wings,
Violet patterns on its tail.
It was Aglais utricae
Flattering lightly
Between the marigolds
And chrysanthemums.

The Potentilla nepalensis
Was growing well
Under the shade of the rhododendrons.
The great pumpkin was spreading
Its leafy tentacles everywhere.
The tomatoes were fighting for light
Hiding beneath its gigantic green leaves.

A Papilio machaon with its swallow-tail
Came from nowehere.
The laughter of the children,
As they swung in the garden’s two swings
Were a delight to one’s soul.

Little Florentin’s fear of the bees,
Natasha’s morbid fear of spiders,
Elena’s garden gymnastics
And Julian’s delight in discovering
New insects, snails and snakes.

Holding hands
We strolled in our garden.
You watered the flowers and trees,
I removed long, brown snails,
A hobby-gardener of Nepalese descent,
In a lovely white house
With character in Freiburg-Kappel,
An Allemanic stronghold.

Once the subject of dispute
Between Austria and France,
Now a sleepy residential area
Of Freiburg im Breisgau.

* * *

EAST BLOC KID GOES WEST (Satis Shroff)

A pair of heavy scissors fly
In a dark Hauptschule classroom,
Thrown by an Aussiedler school-kid,
Near Freiburg’s Japanese Garden.

The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
You can be maimed for life,
Like Scarface,
If the sharp ends
Bury in your eyes,
Or mine.

Let there be light.
Vitaly, a boy from the former east Bloc
Comes to the West,
In search of ancestors and heritage.
What he gets is rejection but freedom.
Freedom to do as he pleases,
With pleasant negative sanctions.
‘Even in jail they have TV,’
He says with a laugh.

He grows up in a ghetto,
And his anger burns.
Anger at his ageing parents,
Who forced him to come to the West,
But who are themselves
Lost in this new world
Of democratic, liberal values,
Luxurious and electronic consumer delights,
Where everyone cares for himself
Or herself,
Where the old structures of the society
They clung to in the East Bloc days
Don’t exist anymore.

A brave new world,
A Schlaraffenland,
Where economy and commerce flourishes,
Where the individual’s view is important,
To himself,
To herself
And to others.

The East Bloc boy learns
To assert himself in the West,
Not with solid arguments and rhetoric
But with his two fists.
He fancies cars and their contents,
Breaks open the windows,
Takes all he wants.
Brushes with the police
At an early age.

English, Latin and French at school,
Irritate him,
He prefers to play the clown:
To dance on the table,
Make suggestive moves with his groin,
High on designer drugs,
High all the time.
Opens the classroom door,
Sees a girl from the seventh grade,
And yells at her:
‘Screw you after school.’

His behaviour brings laughter
But he turns off the girls he admires.
He grins and insults his peers.
Rejected by youngsters,
Admonished by grown-ups.
He watches the society.

Chic clothes, streamlined cars, plastic money,
But he forgets that there’s personal performance
Behind these worldly riches.
‘The rich German drives his BMW
With his head in the air.
What does he care?
What does he care?’
Thinks Vitaly.

A pair of scissors fly
In a dark classroom.
His pent-up emotions,
Let loose in a German Hauptschool,
Near the Japanese Garden.

His classmate from Croatia
Throws chairs at the another.
‘Aus Spass’ he says.
Just for fun.
He shouts at the Putzfrau,
Who cleans the classrooms:
‘Sie Geistesgestörte!’
You mad woman.
‚My French-cap is XXX’ he sings
And jerks his pelvis at her.

Is the school-system to blame?
Are western culture, tradition
Social, liberal values and norms to blame?
Are his parents
Who speak a conserved Deutsch to blame?
Is his Russian mother-tongue
And his great Russian soul to blame?

Nobody answers his questions,
Nobody cares,
Out in the West.
“Verdammt, I want to be heard!”
Screams Vitaly.
The people shake their heads,
Mutters, ‘Ein Spinner!’
And walk away.

A pair of sharp, long scissors
Fly in a dark classroom.
The scissors can slash your face,
Or mine.
----------------------------------------------

THE SEA SWELLS (Satis Shroff)

The sea shells on the sea shore
Suddenly the sea swells.
Ring the church and temple bells.
All is not well.
The sea has gone back.

Brown-burnt Tarzans and Janes
From different continents,
Wonder what’s going on.
A man from Sweden
Is immersed in his thriller under the palms.
A mother and daughter from Germany
Frolic on the white sunny beach.

Even the sea-gulls stop and listen
To the foreboding silence.

The sea swells,
Comes back
And brings an apocalyptic destruction:
Sweeping humans, huts and hotels,
Boats, billboards and debris.
Cries for help are stifled by the roaring waves.

The sea goes back.
Leaving behind lost souls,
Caught in suspended animation.
I close my eyes.
Everything dies.

Tsunami. Tsunami.
Om Shanti. Om shanti.
-----------------

DELETING LIVES IN THE CYBERWORLD (Satis Shroff)

The young man and his double-clicks
In a cyberworld
Of bits and bytes,
Full of elves, tough turtles, dementors,
Warriors, monsters, evil beings,
Who destroy hamlets, towns,
Civilisations,
At the command of a few clicks.

An unreal world
Where the fantasy stories
Are pre-programmed.
The elimination of farmers, slaves,
Knaves and enemy warriors,
But a click away.

You are the creator,
The maker and destroyer,
You are Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma.
Thumbs up or down,
Death to you,
Delete.
Yawn!
You’re short of amphetamines.
It’s a long way
To the apothecary.
More clicks,
More tiredness,
You’re falling asleep.
Drowsy bits and bytes,
You haven’t taken a bite.
Your inner man is growling,
But you have no time,
For bodily needs.
You’re hooked
To your bits and bytes.
Oh, it bites.
--------------------------------------
Groggy in the Afternoon (Satis Shroff)

Groggy from the Cyberworld at home,
Fritz goes to school.
He’s tired of school,
And is restless.
Retalin doesn’t seem to work today.
The lessons are irrelevant,
He sees not the classmates.
He sees the goblins, ghouls,
Zombies, Power Rangers,
Sword-fighting Ninjas ,
Scores of other figures
With terrifying grimaces.
Fritz also makes a grimace.
He is now a monster in his thoughts,
Has to strike the others
With his laser-sword.

The enemy surrounds him,
Laser-blades flash like lightning.
A gash and Fritz falls on the floor.
He’s wounded,
But rotates his prostrate torso
With his fast working legs,
Lashes out with his sword.
He’s almost killed them all.
He’s a hero who never gives up.

Suddenly he hears his teacher
Frau Hess’s voice:
’Fritz, steh auf!’
He becomes calm,
Gets up.
Gone are the warriors, Power Rangers,
And super heroes and mighty enemies.
Fritz recognises his classmates,
Hans, Joachim, Cassandra, Brunhild,
As they shake their heads.

Was it a dream?
Oh je! Frau Hess will certainly call Mom.
And tell it all.
‘Scheiss ADS!’ mutters Kevin.

Glossary:
ADS: Allgemeine Deficiency Syndrome


The Japanese Garden (Satis Shroff)

Nine Hauptschule kids in their teens,
Sit on benches in the Japanese Garden,
Near the placid, turquoise lake.

The homework is done sloppily.
Who cares?
The boys are bursting with hormones,
As they tease the only blonde from Siberia.

A fat guy named Heino likes the blonde,
But she doesn’t fancy him.
Annäherung, Vermeidung:
A conflict develops.

The teacher tells him in no uncertain terms:
“Lass Sie bitte in Ruhe!”
But Heino with the MP3 doesn’t care
And carries on:
Grasping her breasts,
Caressing her groin.
She puts up a fight to no avail.

Heino is stronger, impertinent,
And full of street rhetoric.
Meanwhile, the other teenies
Are climbing, kicking the Japanese pavilion,
Spitting, cursing shouting
At all and sundry in German.

The grey-haired gardener-in-charge comes,
Tells the boys to behave
And goes.
Boredom in the afternoon.
The boys don’t want to play soccer,
Handball or basketball.
Sitting around, criticising, irritating each other,
Is cool.

Creative workshops: music, songs,
Essays, own movies?
Nothing interests them.
Killing time together,
Cursing at each other,
Getting a kick provoking passersby,
This is the Hauptschule
In Germany today.

The clever kids go to the Gymnasium,
After the fourth class.
The trouble-makers,
Aggressive alpha-wolves
And clowns remain in the Hauptschule.
An ironical name for a school,
For Haupt means the ‘main’
Comprising the lower class of the society:
Kids of foreigners, ethnic Germans from the East Bloc,
Who hope to make it somehow,
As apprentices for hair salons, car repair garages,
Kebab shops, Italian restaurants, Balkan kitchens,
Roofers and masons.

The Japanese Garden, a present from Matsuyama
To the people of Freiburg,
With truncated shrubs and rounded trees.
A waterfall and quiet niches,
A place for contemplation and solitude.

For the Hauptschule kids,
A place to get together,
Be loud, grunt, fight with fists, shove, scratch,
Slap, spit, kick everywhere,
And play the gangsta.
“At night they throw empty alcohol bottles
Where ever they like,” says an elderly lady
From the neighbourhood.
Wonder how the kids are in Matsuyama?

* * *

WENN EIN KIND.../WHEN A CHILD... (Anon)

Wenn ein Kind kritisiert wird,
lernt es zu verurteilen.

Wenn ein Kind angefeindet wird,
lernt es zu kämpfen.

Wenn ein Kind verspottet wird,
lernt es schüchtern zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind beschämt wird,
lernt es sich schuldig zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind verstanden und toleriert wird,
lernt es geduldig zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind ermutigt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu vertrauen.

Wenn ein Kind gelobt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu schätzen.

Wenn ein Kind gerecht behandelt wird,
lernt es sich gerecht zu sein.

Wenn ein Kind geborgen lebt,
lernt es zu vertrauen.

Wenn ein Kind anerkannt wird,
lernt es sich selbst zu mögen.

Wenn ein Kind in Freundschaft angenommen wird,
lernt es in der Welt Liebe zu finden.

(Text über dem Eingang einer tibetischen Schule)
On Her Majesty’s Lyrical Service:

Poet Laureate (Satis Shroff)

Wanted:
A person who writes in lyrical form,
Composes verses for occasions,
Good stanzas in favour of kings and queens,
Princes and Princesses,
For the price of 5000 Sterling pounds
And, of course, 650 bottles
Of Sherry,
To inspire the poet.
And the title of Poet Laureate.

A court poet is a smith of verses,
Not a bass-guitarist
Of the royal band
Based in Buckingham.
Beginners need not apply.
Candidates should be
A professor of English Literature.

The last Poet Laureate penned
Verses in praise of Edward
And his beautiful Sophie,
A hundred years of the Queen Mother
And the latter’s sad demise.
The Queen’s diamond wedding anniversary,
A rap-rhyme for rosy-cheeked Prince William,
When he turned twenty-one.
Yeah! ‘Better stand back
Here’s a age attack.’
He even congratulated Charles and Camilla
On their belated marriage.
The Prince was overwhelmed
When he heard Motion’s
‘Spring Wedding.’
But all verses weren’t,
As we say in Germany:
Friede, Freude, Eierkuchen.
Motion’s ‘Cost of Life’ on Paddington,
‘Causa belli’ emphasised
Elections, money, empire,
Oil and Dad.
Themes and lyrics that bother us,
Day in and day out.
The rulers and battles won are expected
To be praised to Heaven,
Like Master Henry,
Ben Jonson et al have done

In 1668 John Dryden was sacked
Not for his bad verses,
But for changing his confession.
Sir Walter Raleigh and William Morris
Didn’t relinquish their freedom
And said politely: No thank you, Ma’am.
And with it a keg of wine
From the Canary Isles,
That could have been theirs.

Free literary productivity and court-poetry
Are strange bedfellows indeed.
In these times of gender-studies,l
Women’s quotes and emancipation,
It wouldn’t be far-fetched
If Carol Ann Duffy,
A Scottish poetess,
Became the next Poetess Laureate.
What a lass!
She’s openly gay,
Didn’t you say?
Has fire anyway.

What a thankless job:
A royal lyrical whisperer,
Striving for public relations
In poetry prize panels,
In the name of poetry.
A thankless job:
Take it
Or leave it.

* * *

Poet Laureate Shortlist

Carol Ann Duffy
Ian McMillan
Geoffrey Hill
Rowan Williams
Tony Harrison
John Betjeman
Simon Armitage
Michael Rosen
Stephen Frey
Lynne Trusse
Don Paterson

(Ed.: You are free to add some more of your own prospective poet laureate candidates).

The Lure of the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)

Once upon a time,
Near the town of Kashgar,
I, a blue-eyed stranger in local clothes was captured
By the sturdy riders of Vali Khan.
On August 26, 1857
I, Adolph Schlagintweit,
a German traveller, an adventurer,
Was beheaded as a spy without a trial.

I was a German who set out on the footsteps
Of the illustrious Alexander von Humboldt.
With my two brothers Hermann and Robert,
From Southhampton on September 20,1854
To see India, the Himalayas and Higher Asia.
Sans invitation, I must admit.

A Persian traveller, a Muslim with a heart
Found my headless body.
He brought my remains all the way to India,
And handed it to a British colonial officer.

It was a fatal fascination,
But had I the chance,
I’d do it again.

******

What others have said about the author:
'Brilliant, I enjoyed your poems thoroughly. I can hear the underlying German and Nepali thoughts within your English language. The strictness of the German form mixed with the vividness of your Nepalese mother tongue. An interesting mix. Nepal is a jewel on the Earth’s surface, her majesty and charm should be protected, and yet exposed with dignity through words. You do your country justice and I find your bicultural understanding so unique and a marvel to read.' Reviewed by Heide Poudel in WritersDen.com 6/4/2007.
Satis Shroff writes with intelligence, wit and grace. (Bruce Dobler, Associate Professor in Creative Writing MFA, University of Iowa).
‘Satis Shroff writes political poetry, about the war in Nepal, the sad fate of the Nepalese people, the emergence of neo-fascism in Germany. His bicultural perspective makes his poems rich, full of awe and at the same time heartbreakingly sad. I writing ‘home,’ he not only returns to his country of origin time and again, he also carries the fate of his people to readers in the West, and his task of writing thus is also a very important one in political terms. His true gift is to invent Nepalese metaphors and make them accessible to the West through his poetry.’ (Sandra Sigel, Writer, Germany).
'The manner in which Satis Shroff writes takes the reader right along with him. Extremely vivid and just enough and the irony of the music. Beautiful prosaic thought and astounding writing.

'Your muscles flex, the nerves flatter, the heart gallops,
As you feel how puny you are,
Among all those incessant and powerful waves.'

“Satis Shroff's writing is refined – pure undistilled.” (Susan Marie, www.Gather.com)


“I was extremely delighted with Satis Shroff’s work. Many people write poetry for years and never obtain the level of artistry that is present in his work. He is an elite poet with an undying passion for poetry.” Nigel Hillary, Publisher, Poetry Division - Noble House U.K.

Author Bio:

Satis Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the Albert Ludwig University of Freiburg. He is a lecturer, poet and writer and the published author of three books: Im Schatten des Himalaya (book of poems in German), Through Nepalese Eyes (travelogue), Katmandu, Katmandu (poetry and prose anthology by Nepalese authors, edited by Satis Shroff). His lyrical works have been published in literary poetry sites: Slow Trains, International Zeitschrift, World Poetry Society (WPS), New Writing North, Muses Review, The Megaphone, Pen Himalaya, Interpoetry. He is a member of “Writers of Peace,” poets, essayists, novelists (PEN), World Poetry Society (WPS) and The Asian Writer.

Satis Shroff is based in Freiburg (poems, fiction, non-fiction) and also writes on ecological, ethno-medical, culture-ethnological themes. He has studied Zoology and Botany in Nepal, Medicine and Social Sciences in Germany and Creative Writing in Freiburg and the United Kingdom. He describes himself as a mediator between western and eastern cultures and sees his future as a writer and poet. Since literature is one of the most important means of cross-cultural learning, he is dedicated to promoting and creating awareness for Creative Writing and transcultural togetherness in his writings, and in preserving an attitude of Miteinander in this world. He lectures in Basle (Switzerland) and in Germany at the Akademie für medizinische Berufe (University Klinikum Freiburg) and the Zentrum für Schlüsselqualifikationen (University of Freiburg where he is a Lehrbeauftragter for Creative Writing). Satis Shroff was awarded the German Academic Exchange Prize.