I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.
chronicles of entering my body is a collection of astonishingly sublime work that lets the reader into quiet intimacies whilst revelling in a poetic expansion of natural force.
These thirty poems erupt and dance into our consciousness, sequenced within five chapters – each with one of the author's own paintings at its mouth.
The title poem, also represented as a chapter title, comes to us with its remarkable lines and questions such as: 'I’m made of fire now and you’re wind; but still, tell me the chronicles of your entering my body, tell me how your entering is silent as non-entering in all its entirety'. Such profound and philosophical inquiries continue through the collection along with explorations of the body and the natural world. One's journey through the work brings encounters with love, death, tightrope walkers, the vulnerability of flesh, dementia, dialogues with trees, the bonds between mothers and daughters, Beethoven's symphonies, prayers to the earth and more.
Rupam Baoni is a poet of eloquent power, delivering her potency into your hands.
“Rupam Baoni's intimate, startling collection 'chronicles of entering my body' burrows deep beneath the surfaces of longing. Her poems and paintings possess a dreamy, subterranean momentum.”
— ANITA FELICELLI, author of Love Songs for a Lost Continent and Chimerica: A Novel.
“Her new poems are the best things I have seen of hers and I like them very much.”
— DONALD HALL, 2006 Poet Laureate of the US.
“I have never been the poetic one but her poems made me sit up and muse over love, transience, and that inner beauty that exists in all of life. She has the faculty to look below the surface and beyond a usual line of vision.”
— KHUSHWANT SINGH, writer and journalist.
“Rupam Baoni's poems are deceptively simple like they were everyday dialogues and she splays them in a wash of colour as though she were a painter with words.”
— JANE KENYON, poet and translator.