Insights into the inner realities of existence

It is seen more often than not that many a younger poet, or, for that matter, an artistic genius goes unnoticed by the general readers before petering out in desolation. The phenomenon is common to emerging writers regardless of their own climes and national or ethnic identities. Keeping this quasi-universal truth in view, Farah Billah is quite blessed as she appears to be all set to make her full poetic debut with a distinctive voice in the realm of the vast expanse of English poetry, no matter how limited the area for a Bangladeshi-American poet writing in English in a distant land is. As I leafed through Farah's maiden collection of poems titled Glasses, and found myself rivetted to a number of the poems, out of fifty-two in total, I realised that she was not born to be passed over by the serious readers and critics. Hers is a tonality and poetic temperament that constitute an ambience that is filled with private and humdrum realities, yet effusing hummings from her subterranean self to create a world that exclusively belongs to her. Her observations on man and the 'things' surrounding her point to a kind of vibrancy coupled with defiance hardly found in the younger poets these days. In fact, the collection Glasses is a testimony to the evocation of truth undertaken by a poet in her late teens. In the case of Farah Billah we cannot remain oblivious of her age. She was born in Portland in the US state of Oregon in 1993, taking not much time to enter the poetic world of mature readers. She could have been a late bloomer, or an amateur poet. But the latent poet within her would not allow her to let her poetic talent go to waste. Eventually, this self-conscious new poet presents herself before us a prodigal offspring of poetry. To serious readers, 'philosophising' in poetry should be anathema. Surprisingly, Farah quite skilfully has been able to transcend herself from the cliche world of 'deep thoughts' discovering philosophy in everything around. Here, we have to keep in mind that she is in a volatile and impressionable age, when young creative minds usually fall victim to the penchant for making their creative pieces impregnated with philosophical jargons. But no, Farah is not a narrative poet either. She is not even a chronicler of happenings. Anything but. But what the poet does is, she lifts herself and her earthly view of things to a level, from where she can observe things dispassionately. Notwithstanding her emotional outpourings in some of the poems, Farah does not take much time to assume the guise of a nonchalant observer too. In order to lend support to this comment, I would like to single out the poems Shoreline, The Rain, Everyday, Drainage, Lingering, Family, Find My Revolution, I Smile a River, Katrina, Ode to Rain, Dance etc. Besides, there are a few short but brilliantly poignant poems such as Everyday, 11 30, The Blue Basket, They Held On, The Forgotten Girl, War, Flight, Descent, to name but a few. As one goes through these short pieces, she or he does not fail to explore the poet's fondness for lyrical sparkles. A rare poetic quality indeed. Like the great American poets of the 1920s including Robert Frost, Farah ultimately reaches a kind of conclusion by compressing her details. It appears to have been prompted by her craving to reach truth, be it coming from a human being, an animal or an inanimate object. Farah Billah has mastered a plain, sparse diction -- not to speak of her use of striking images and allegories. Reading Farah Billah's poetry is a rewarding experience. She is never loaded with ornate images or symbols. Like a seasoned modern poet, she is economical with a love for brevity, but never tight in instilling emotion into her poems whenever it is required. She says, I just want to sleep before 11 30 before I realise that my work is unfinished life that is famine that is tarnished which is not bliss, it's just a bad lisp of a song that's put on repeat as the work goes on past 11 30 (11 30, page-17). It amply shows the amazing sharpness of expression this Bangladeshi-American poet has mastered in this early career of hers. One discovers glimpses of the complicated human life in this short poem. An older poet could not have thought the way Farah has. In fact, youth is gifted with fresh observations and feelings that normally elude many a mature poet. In her quest for bliss, Farah utters dispassionately that a messy life is "just a bad lisp of a song". Her allusion to the modern-age ennui and angst in the poem does not escape the reader. In 'Glasses', we read a quite few such small but evocative lyrics. Side by side with her ties with her surroundings and their interactions with her, Farah Billah, in some other poems, demonstrates a masterly use of words and images. Even in the comparatively longer poems, especially in 'My Brain is a Child with Little Red Shoes', the poet's economy of expression is brilliantly utilised. The piece is a wonderful poem with its absurdity-laced surreal elements. Farah Billah should not be bracketed with the other amateurish budding poets. Because she has profusely demonstrated her passion for poetry, to which she appears to be committed. Her very first collection of poetry has displayed an individuality to such an extent that one feels like looking forward to her poetic evolution with the hope that she will eventually mature into a consummate poet in the vast and rugged poetic landscape of the English-speaking world. With her maiden collection of fifty-two English poems, Bengalee Farah Billah has, undoubtedly, made her presence felt among the poetry lovers in the US and Bangladeshi literary circles. And she has done that with aplomb. The reviewer is a poet and senior journalist. He can be reached at shihabskr@ymail.com