Poetry is another facet of Gerson da Cunha's life. One might be forgiven for imagining that they are merely an effete and very private indulgence, the sort of poems that ought to be suppressed swiftly. And Dom Moraes has written, in his brief foreword to this collection, describes his surprise when he read these poems for the first time: "I knew that Gerson had led a full and busy life, mostly concerned with action.
The poems were the record of what he had thought and
felt during this life of action." And Moraes judges
them with his inimitable crispness: "probably better
than the work of many people who are ranked today as
leading Indian poets in English."
We travel with him through Uganda and Tanzania, Brazil and Argentina; and then, suddenly, to London: at the Olivier,
"People gentled by Anouilh
hold doors open for each other
lusts and terrors
masked for an
evening.
"
In Bombay Wallahs, at an exhibition of photographs by Ketaki Sheth, he remarks,
"Nowhere is ever home
but this may be the town
of least effort for me."
But there are also visits to Goa:
"I went to Goa for the silver of my ghosts
and you for answers of Heidi on the sands."
The poems are intelligent and gentle, whether about an
afternoon at Lake Victoria or Thanksgiving in New
York. And they are surely enriched by the
experiences, outer and inner, of a man who has travelled a great
deal. I especially liked the little observations of
the natural world: the eagle on the lawn, the
neighbour's spaniel limping across the road for a
cookie, the snowfall on the tenement. A pleasant
experience.
