Mother Muse Quintet
- Author: Naveen Kishore
- Publisher: Speaking Tiger
- ISBN: 9789354474965
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Rs. 399.00
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Mother Muse Quintet is a memorial work of the imagination. Memory, like a
veil that is translucent and yet shaped by an ever-present fog that lifts and
settles, travels the path of multiple generations who appear as storytellers,
as companions, as mysterious versions of the self and, poignantly, as Mother
Muse—both birth mother and mother tongue.
Mother Muse, a vanishing presence, shapes the imagination of her son, like
the heart beating or the wind dashing or the wave cresting. Mother Muse
becomes the breath, gentle or fierce, of the poet’s own voice. He dreams and
in dreaming, he writes and in writing, he finds a language so mysterious that,
like the fog shawling the spectral presences throughout this text, it lifts and
settles and lifts again in cadences of flux and fragility.
This is a haunting and hypnotic collection in which we feel silence and
stillness seep into the crevices of language.The words—which seem to
emerge from our own memories, dreams and secret vaults of imagination, as
from the author’s—swirl, like time itself, in a slow, timeless vortex of loss and
longing, death and life.
veil that is translucent and yet shaped by an ever-present fog that lifts and
settles, travels the path of multiple generations who appear as storytellers,
as companions, as mysterious versions of the self and, poignantly, as Mother
Muse—both birth mother and mother tongue.
Mother Muse, a vanishing presence, shapes the imagination of her son, like
the heart beating or the wind dashing or the wave cresting. Mother Muse
becomes the breath, gentle or fierce, of the poet’s own voice. He dreams and
in dreaming, he writes and in writing, he finds a language so mysterious that,
like the fog shawling the spectral presences throughout this text, it lifts and
settles and lifts again in cadences of flux and fragility.
This is a haunting and hypnotic collection in which we feel silence and
stillness seep into the crevices of language.The words—which seem to
emerge from our own memories, dreams and secret vaults of imagination, as
from the author’s—swirl, like time itself, in a slow, timeless vortex of loss and
longing, death and life.
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