Monika Verma is at least prolific, if these two books, published within a year of each other and averaging over twenty-five poems are any indication. Some of the other poets considered here are even more so. That this is of no great importance should be evident, although this continuous outflow of words suggests the contrary. If of these books hers are the most· interesting, it is only because of the unabashed paucity of serious writing that seems to characterize most published poetry. Nor is it then surprising that the quality of the writing has to be glossed over by beautiful hand-bound editions, flexi-backs and what not. All these books now with me would look very well upon a shelf. Reading them, however, is a tiresome task.
What probably makes some of Monika Varma’s readable is her familiarity with her subject, be it herself. It is pleasant coming across simplicity in any of its forms, even if it be naive. Nature, in her poems, is a visible presence (a biographical note informs us that she lives on a large farm), sought after and stood against, ‘How minute is man’ while