‘What is each poem in the world but a speck of land lost upon the ocean of language itself? We must then navigate ourselves through poets like Ranjit Hoskote and books like Jonahwhale. As ever before, through his imagistic, complex, dazzling poems, Hoskote’s grand grounded intelligence, and the width of his learning, comes concentrated into brilliant meditations on what poetry can do when reflecting upon an essential theme of human culture. For, reading Jonahwhale, it is clear to any reader the poet’s name is Ocean, and these poems are both the water and the sea creatures, with this book as our raft.’—S.J. Fowler, poetry editor, 3:AM Magazine; lecturer in creative writing at Kingston University; curator, ‘The Enemies Project’

‘Epic in scale, yet written with curatorial precision, Jonahwhale is Ranjit Hoskote’s magnum opus. Here is a poet with extraordinary sensory awareness – especially hearing and sight/vision – who applies a poetics/poethics of listening, one that is consistently generous and open to the world, therefore truly of the world. Linguistically innovative, but always social and ethical, these poems are, above all, sensitive to the precariousness of human knowledge and existence. The whale evades capture as we stand “on this narrow island of what we know” (or presume we know). Ranjit is one of the great connoisseurs of English language poetry, someone who holds up each word before him with the care of a jeweller. His mastery of form and lineation is constantly impressive (read the long-form poems like “Cargo and Ballast” and “Poona Traffic Shots” amid several short lyric poems, many dedicated to others). Poems like these reappropriate the love poem in an age often lacking friendship and compassion. Jonahwhale is an essential and humbling reaction to the world we live in and it should be read widely.’—James Byrne, editor, Wolf; author of Everything Broken Up Dances

Dedication

In memory of Chandra Hoskote (1934–2015), my mother, my first reader

the great fish glides through the river

touching the near bank

and the far

the self swims the currents

of dream

and waking

—Brihadaranyaka Upanishad (4.3.18)

I

MEMOIRS OF THE JONAHWHALE

The Churchgate Gazette

I.

Last word on the subject, I promise.

I walked into the train station and it was terrifying.

Like nerve gas had laid the architecture out flat,

the tall glass columns bloodshot and the booking clerks

slumped over, all dead at the till.

A plaster Gandhi with sulphur-rimmed eyes

stopped me (what a substitute for kohl and why?).

You missed the last train, it said, he said,

you missed the last and only train that was safe

for a man who’s left half his life behind.

II.

A straggler from a late-night movie had more advice.

You could so easily gag on a wine-red, tasselled silk scarf

stuffed in your mouth, he said, you could so easily gag

on sour saliva or a shard of bay leaf

or a letter swallowed just after the bell has rung

and before the door opens.

III.