Satis Shroff: Literature Commentator
About
the Author:
 |
| (c) Art by satisshroff, freiburg |
Literature
is translating emotions and facts from truth to fiction. It’s like
a borderline syndrome; between sanity and insanity there’s fine
dividing line. Similarly, non-fiction can be transformed into
fiction. Virginia Woolf said, ‘There must be great freedom from
reality.’ For Goethe, art was art because it was not nature. That’s
what I like about fiction, this ability of transforming mundane
things in life to jewels through the use of words. Rilke mentioned
one ought to describe beauty with inner, quiet, humble righteousness.
Approach nature
and show what you see and experienced, loved and lost.(Satis Shroff)
Satis
Shroff is a prolific writer and teaches Creative Writing at the
Freiburger University of Education (PH). He is a lecturer, poet and
writer and the published author of five 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), and two language books on
the Nepalese language for DSE (Deutsche Stiftung für
Entwicklungsdienst) & Horlemannverlag. He has written three
feature articles in the Munich-based Nelles Verlag’s ‘Nepal’ on
the Himalayan Kingdom’s Gurkhas, sacred mountains and Nepalese
symbols and on Hinduism in ‘Nepal: Myths & Realities (Book
Faith India) and his poem ‘Mental Molotovs’ was published in
epd-Entwicklungsdienst (Frankfurt). 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 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 Academy for Medical Professions
(University Klinikum Freiburg), VHS-Freiburg, VHS-Dreisamtal. He has
also worked at the Center for Key Qualifications University of
Freiburg, as a Lehrbeauftragter
for Creative Writing
and Scientific English.
Satis Shroff was awarded the German
Academic Exchange Prize. He was also awarded the Social Engagement
Prize by Green City Freiburg and was nominated by Stadt Freiburg for
the German Social Engagement Prize 2011, Berlin.
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).
'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.
'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.'
'Your muscles flex, the nerves flatter, the heart gallops,
As you feel how puny you are,
Among all those incessant and powerful waves.'
Copyright
© 2013, Satis Shroff. You may republish this article online provided
you keep the byline, the author's note, and the active hyperlinks.
Zeitgeistlyrik:
THE DANCE OF THE BIRCH TREES (Satis
Shroff)
The naked white birch trees
Stand close to each other,
Waiting for the music
Of the Dreisam Valey wind
To begin.
A gust comes,
Followed by another,
Making the trees sway,
Like a wise white woman's long tresses,
The thin, supple twigs
That almost reach half the size of the
trees,
Have a faster rhythm of their own.
The hurricane-like wind
Gathers its energy for the finale.
Ah, the upper branches
With capillary-like twigs,
As they anastomose,
Developing into a canopy,
Become intensive
In their movements to and fro.
In the background you see
The blue Black Forest hills,
With homesteads like dots
On the snow-covered hillsides,
That are lit now.
The blueish-grey clouds which were on
the move,
Have taken a prussian blue hue.
A weak yellowish light,
Manages to break through,
Above the snowy-clad peaks.
A semblance of a sunset
In the Schwarzwald.
* * *
A TRAIN JOURNEY (Satis Shroff)
A TRAIN JOURNEY (Satis Shroff)A screaming train,
Billowing smoke and sparks,
As it reaches Ghoom hill,
Descends to Darjeeling
Looping its way to lessen its speed.
What unfurls is a memorable Bergblick:
The majestic panorama of the snown peaks,
The Kanchenjunga in all its splendour.
The summits like a jeweled crown,
Bathed in golden, yellow and orange light.
A moment of revelation in life,
Shared on a particular evening,
As the sun goes down slowly,
The mountain range is glowing,
A Himalayan glow.
A feast for the eyes of the beholder,
The play of lights
Evoked by the dying sun,
Upon the massif.
* * *
MY MOM'S GARDEN (Satis Shroff)
THERE'S a microcosmos
In my Mom's garden.
I hear her calling my name.
No, it isn't the 'sh' of Sanskrit,
Nor the 'sch' of the Alemannic tongue.
It's a Nepalese accent from the hills.
A French lass prounced it
With an Alsatian lash.
My Mom loved and grew roses.
In Summer the fragrant aroma
Of the pink and red roses,
Worked like aphrodiciacs.
She grew cabbages, salads and lentils,
Took delight in her abundance.
Sparrows flew around busily in summer,
Swallows flew low in winter.
Between June till September,
The torrential monsoon.
A parrot ith red eyes whirrs by,
Brings the day to an end.
The trees, shrubs and flowers are thankful
Towards Indra who has sent rain.
After Dad's tragic demise,
She lives in an apartment in the capital.
No garden, just salbei and a few flowers
On the window sill,
As she prays to the Gods
In the Abode of the Snows.
* * *
* * *
WIN THE DAY (Satis Shroff)
WHEN you withhold yourself
You become weak,
For it is you yourself,
Who does this to yourself.
Give in,
Surrender to yourself
And you have won the day.
* * *
STORM IN THE NIGHT (Satis Shoff)
I walke up and peer from my cosy room.
The trembling waves shatter noisily,
With the ebb and the tide.
The frowning cumuli gather in the vast sky.
It's raining and the waves become choppy,
Trawlers are tossed like logs
By the furious water.
The waves thrash on the cliffs,
Which stand to attention
Like sentinels as the war rages,
The krieg of the elements.
Oblivious of the storm in the night,
I take refuge under my warm blanket,
At the seaside hotel Mon Bijou
In the isle of Sylt.
* * *
MAN'S FOLLEY (Satis Shroff)
Bloody colonial migrations in the West,
Blood feuds between white settlers
Versus the Native Sons of America.
Gred-driven ranchers and gunslingers,
Fighting for land and water rights.
This was how the west was won.
Rights?
The rights of the native Americans?
Or the rights of the invading European grabbers?
The Spirit of the Wild West goes marching on.
America is yet struggling with itself.
The clash of haves and have-nots,
The greed for power of the white mainstream,
The conflict of skin and Social Darwinism
Still spills over in Ferguson,
Mother Earth watches over Man's folley.
* * *
(c) The Swabian Gate, Freiburg
- A letter from Catmandu
Freiburg: the finest spire in Christendom,
Which bombs couldn't destroy
In two Great Wars.
Old men pulled carts with their belongings,
Along the rubbled Kaiser-Joseph-Strasse.
Women were taken to dances,
By African American GIs.
Children received chocolates.
'Hallo Fräulein!' did the rounds,
In poverty-stricken, ramshackled Germany.
The GIs returned years later to admire
The splendour of cities they'd bombed.
The Fräuleins were elderly ladies now,
Who frequented posh cafes, operas and lectures.
Catmandu: the all-seeing-eyes
Of the primordeal Buddha,
Still welcomes visitors
From around the globe.
The hippies have long left
This cannabis paradise of yore.
Its hotels and trekking lodges offer
Western food galore,
And fast-climbs for dudes and nerds
To Everest.
The Gurkhas still die under foreign skies,
For the Queen of England.
The Sherpas and porters carry the sahib's loads,
Suffer from acute-mountain-sickness,
Or still die as unsung heroes,
As Tigers of the Snow.
The children still beg in its strets
Or work in shady backrooms,
Of outsourced fashion firms.
Cat Stevens sings as Yusuf even today.
* * *
THE ADMONITION (Satis Shroff)
The motley moth moth
Warns the young butterfly:
'Beware of the candle's
Flickering flame.'
The frolicking butterfly reples:
'It's so warm and fascinating.'
Golder, flickering flame,
Spending warmth, light and music.
It enjoys the dance,
As the circling wings sway,
And the inaudible music
Reaches its crescendo.
Flying around the burning candle,
In a trance like a Dervish dancer.
In its merry ecstatic rounds
It forgets the words,
And is singed by the flame,
When a boy opens the window.
A frail frivolous butterfly
That didn't heed,
The warning of an elderly moth.
Wasn't the admonition
Of Daedalus the same?
* * *
THE UNKRAUT (Satis Shroff)
On the fields are the traces
Of harvested maize.
Where the btebnder flowers were,
There are now brown, russet leaves,
Scattered by the wind,
From the Vale of Hell.
The leaves that gave joy
In their autumnal gaiety,
Now strewn upon the earth,
To be thrashed by the rain,
Trodden by feet in trekking boots.
An elderly lady on high heels
Wobbles and breaks her dainty femur,
Over the trecherous unkraut.
The lady is picked up
By an ambulance from the Maltese Cross.
The leaves remain to rot.
No one bothers,
As cars speed to and from
The Black Forest.
* * *
MERRY TAVERNS
(Satis Shroff)
There
are taverns in the hamlet,
Where
the wine and beer
Make
men merry,
And
women in deep decolltes,
Cast
glances;
Moving
their eyelashes.
I
leave them to themselves,
As I
flee and shun them.
My
heart wants Ruhe,
I'm
dying of pain,
Of
longing for you.
* * *
YEARNING (Satis Shroff)
Women
are like flowers:
Jasmine,
tulips,
Rhododendrons
and roses.
But
need you plucks everyone?
How
wonderful to admire them,
Take
delight at watching them,
As
they bloom and wilt.
I see
the Schwarzwald stream,
With
its refreshing cold water,
Therein
I see my countenance,
A
pale man with white sideburns.
Then
I see you,
A
peaceful mind overwhelms me.
My
heart begins to glow
With
yearning for you.
* * *
ENDURING PAIN (Satis
Shroff)
Nights
I wake up
With
terrible pain;
Despite
the potions from the apothecary,
Capsules
from Novartis, tincture opii,
Pancreas
powder with amylase,
Lipase,
protease,
Oxalis
mixture, hyoscyamus,
Valeriana
cocktail,
Depotspritze,
Rounded
up with Lormetazepam.
I'm
in Schmerz.
I
kept a stiff upper lip,
When
the chirurg solemnly said:
'Your
tumor is like an iceberg,
We
only see the top.
Below
it's growing wantonly.
I'm
afraid I can't operate.
If we
begin we'll never end.
Too
many mines in this battlefield.'
I'd
been brooding after the computer tomography.
I
didn't wince.
I was
in shock.
The
realisation of the diagnosis
Sank
slowly in my mind.
I
decided to make the best of it.
No
use reeling under
The
shattering words.
When
will my anaotomical ruin fall?
That
wasn't my problem.
Till
then I had time to live,
Every
day to the full,
With
my senses,
With
my thoughts and words.
To
borrow a line from John Keats:
'The
poetry of earth is ceasing never.'
The
beauty and delight of living
Far
exceeds the pain from a tumor,
As
big as a fist.
* * *
SNOW IN KAPPEL (Satis
Shroff)
At 2
o' clock in the morning,
I
look out of my window:
It's
snowing in Kappel,
In
the Schwarzwald.
I see
the white snowflakes,
Falling
ceaselessly, silently, stealthily,
Made
visible by the dim yellowish treet lamp.
A car
comes crunching down the curve,
Its
red rear-lights glowing.
The
rooftops and house railings are covered,
As
with powder sugar.
The
clouds are veiled,
And
Heaven has become frosty.
Ah, I
sleep and wake up again,
To
find the lovely hamlet
Ringed
with hills and meadows,
Covered
with a thick mantle of snow.
Dazzling
whiteness where you look.
On
such a Sunday morning,
I
take my snowspade,
To
clear the winding stairs:
For
common courtesy demands
That
passersby shouldn't slip and fall,
On
the street before your house.
We
all have to kehr,
Lest
others despair.
The
shepherd from the Molchhofsiedlung
Has
left the once-green meadows,
His
hundred sheep don't bleat anymore,
Below
Maier's Hill.
With
my snow-chores done,
Followed
by a hearty Black Forest breakfast,
I
take a brisk morning walk,
Over
the snow-clad landscape,
Respire
and enjoy the refreshing Bergluft.
* * *
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