A TRIBUTE TO POET I.H.

RIZVI
--R.K.Singh
I.H. RIZVI, born 1936, in Bareilly, took pride in his creativity both in
English and Urdu. The last he wrote me was about six years ago, saying
many reputed Urdu journals of India and abroad are giving room to my
ghazals. He was a social romanticist, who had composed over 1800
ghazals besides a variety of poems in English. His feet were planted in his
country, but eyes surveyed the world.
Now the world of Poetry would miss his creative presence that shone with
over a dozen collections and anthologies, including Falling Petals (1975),
Unfading Blooms (1984), Thirsty Pebbles (1986), Wandering Fragrance and
Other Poems (1989), Wounded Roses Sing (1993), Snowflakes of Dreams
(1996), Gathering Broken Glasses (1997), Clouds in Cages (1999), Fettered
Birds (2002), Dripping Wounds (2004), Love Never Dies (2004), Haiku and
Other Poems (2005), and The Valley Still Blossoms (2007). The anthologies
he edited includes Contemporary Indian English Poetry (1988) and
Contemporary Indian English Love Poetry (1990).
He died on 3rd April 2015 at his home in Bareilly. I have lost a great friend
in his passing. We have lost a great supporter of Indian English Poetry.
For years he shared with me his concern about not being able to cope with
the piling work and increasing correspondence with poets and writers
from around the world. And, despite failing health, as long as it was
physically possible, he kept Canopy alive as its editor and publisher.
Personally he favoured me by including my poem(s) in almost each issue
of the journal, right form its inception. He was so kind to me, always.
For years we shared our personal hopes and disappointments, and worries
about the health of Indian Poetry in English and particularly our
systematic avoidance by the established, big-wigs of Indian English
Writing, both in the media and academia. Yet, he felt lucky that more than
half-a-dozen persons had obtained PhD on his poetry.
For years we knew each other and admired each other for what we had
written in various journals. In fact I owe to him a great part of my
reputation as a poet, because he not only published my poems and
reviews in his Canopy but also he reviewed my collections such as My
Silence, Above the Earths Green and The River Returns. In fact he was the
bridge between me and the late Sri Prem Shinghal of Prakash Book Depot,
Bareilly that published almost all our major books.
For years we had not met, but when we met at a hotel in Bareilly in 2006,
it became a gracious occasion: I could feel love flowing through his
presence. I had gone there to conduct the viva voce exam of a PhD
candidate at Rohilkhand University. Since then, we stayed in touch by

phone until he became bed-ridden and my calls went unanswered. He had

shunned himself from the outside world.
It couldnt be helped. The degeneration had set in. Now I remember him
with respect for his original play with words. With amalgamation of a
variety of influences romanticism, imagism, surrealism, existentialism,
modernism, and post-modernismhe expressed aspects from the
multiplicity of life that surrounds us, maintaining his own sensibility
within the confines of his craft and conscience. He sounded cosmopolitan,
intellectual and ironical with complex simplicity, exposing the social
reality as well as personal reality.
Poet Rizvi is still relevant and readable. He is one of the most resplendent
of Indian English poets, with his awareness of todays society where
streams of reason have dried up/And do not feed our minds./We trust
around on borrowed plumes/With hollowed brains (Tagores Dream)
and The moss of incest and rape is sprinkled/The fungus of sin is
scattered around (The Haunted Place).
Physicality, intellectuality and spirituality make up his imagination: The
poet creates a modern ritual of exposure of men and women who do ha!
hoo! he! at the drum whose music shows no muscles. Drinks and drugs
may stir them for a moment but theres no flame. The irony is:
All are there to play the game,
And yet afraid of playing it;
Lest each of them should be exposed
To the deep core of hollowness
When the game is over.

(Exposure)

Rizvi understands the dilemma of todays man, who, like a fisherman, has
been spreading his own net/All woven by himself (The Fisherman) but
he also knows he cant help,
Its all the same
Flesh burns, blood flows, life cries;
And we boast of our laurels.
The world in silence looks
And turns away to other things.

(Achievement)

Lets continue with our poetry to outgrow all cares of the earth, as Rizvi
would insist, and re-visit the poets poems as tribute to his tremendous
contribution to Indian English poetry.

--Professor (Dr) R.K.Singh, Dept of Humanities & Social Sciences, Indian

School of Mines, Dhanbad 826004 (Jharkhand)