Booksy

boki by Nitoo Das
ISBN 978-0-9798825-4-8

Publisher: Virtual Artists Collective www.vacpoetry.org/

I’ve been enjoying Nitoo Das’s poetry for some years online in various writing groups, so was delighted when she announced on Facebook that she was bringing out a solo collection. I pre-ordered immediately, and received my copy even before the book’s official release date (and before she received her own copies, somewhat to my embarrassment).

Should you judge a book by its cover? Yes, of course. (I would say that, as a cover artist myself.) If the publisher doesn’t get it right, the casual reader won’t buy. This publisher has got it right, helped by the fact that Nitoo Das is an accomplished artist as well as poet, and has provided a stunning cover and delightful interior illustrations for the book.

The poems themselves are as enticing and exciting as I hoped they would be. I defy anyone to read the very first poem in the book, and not want to read on further, thanks to the kaleidoscope of sensations provided by Toes…

Toes…

Who invented toes?
Ma’am,

they are a
bad idea.

You have to bend and clean them
moisturise and paint them

see that trees don’t
grow between
them. I

believe,

cooked,
they taste like
chicken vindaloo.
Maybe I’d like some too.

Then again,
maybe
they taste better
sucked
raw.

Some of these poems use images of absolute familiarity. Take Silverfish for example:

Silverfish

They have made maps
in my books. Winding yellow roads

that crumble words, create gaps.
They flit and flash
silvery fragile

flaunt their quick scales
and hide within hollow

meanings
until I decide to snap-close
and stain my
pages with death.

Some use less familiar images, but the power of the words takes the unfamiliar and makes it immediate. I remember reading Doiboki years ago. It’s good to reacquaint myself with this superb writing.

Doiboki

She went around
with scowling hair,

her long betel-spitted
lips exploding sex words.

She sat in street-corners
and exposed glistening secrets
like roots with
shifty-eyed knowledge.

Men nudged and giggled.
Women looked away.

We
children
sometimes pretended
fear and ran away.

Sometimes ran after her
and called out her name.

“Doiboki

Doiboki
boki boki
doi
boki.”

She’d turn around
and unbutton
her blouse for our
experienced eyes.

There are poems about art, about portraits. These poems turn into portraits themselves. There are letters to people, all named, that give us glimpses of other lives, other worlds, exotic in some ways yet deeply familiar in others. There are poems of Cousins, Gods and Feet and instructions on how to cut a fish – and I’m not going to quote that one, as it’s the last poem in the book and last poems should never be quoted. (No spoiler alerts here.) Buy the book and read it! Settle down and be transported away in poetry that is always utterly beguiling, easily understood, in turns wicked, affectionate, sly, funny and loving. Learn about the mango bug, the Spinster-aunt, two tombs in Landour and Veerappan’s daughter.

Poetry books aren’t often page turners, but this one is. Buy it. (Yes, I know I’m repeating myself, but you really should.)