PoetryIndia.com

Time 2020-11-19 21:05:40

Web Name: PoetryIndia.com

WebSite: http://www.poetryindia.com

ID:121145

Keywords:

PoetryIndia,com,

Description:

Flamingos in Early Summer- Ashwani KumarSunken Ship- Mustansir DalviTHREE COORG POEMS- K Satchidanandan*I*- Vinod JoshiIn Memoriam- Prabodh ParikhThe Macaulayite Cuts Such a Ridiculous Figure- Gabriel RosenstockBeloved dreams- Nalapati Balamani Amma* Home- Arundhathi SubramaniamOn the Brink- Stanley BarkanObstinate- Pratishtha PandyaIbn Batuta, World traveler- Udayan ThakkerLoss- Kavita Ezekiel MendoncaHow Daddy wrote his Poetry- Kavita Ezekiel MendoncaGhalib’s Haveli in Ballimaran Road- A J ThomasSarmad Shaheed- A J ThomasAlang- Adil JussawallaWomen Going to Buy Bags of Milk- Indu JoshiShoorpanakha- A J ThomasTHE TROUBLES- Matthew GedenIMMORTALITY?- Stanley BarkanLove song of my own- Pratishtha PandyaAS YET UNBORN- Stanley BarkanSibyls- Manisha JoshiComing Down The Mountain- Mark Roper Day & Night- John Menaghan Words- John MenaghanThe Visitors- John Menaghan The Air Is Still- John MenaghanAs If You Knew- John Menaghan Dust- John MenaghanThe Traveler’s Song- John Menaghan Autumn- John Menaghan NAMING THE BIRDS- Stanley BarkanRimbaud- Richard BerengartenSwinging Boats- Angela Patten A While- Glenn Shea Meaning-making- Shelly Bhoil Home sickness- Shelly Bhoil Blood-soaked - Shelly BhoilLET US BUILD A BRIDGE- Yogesh Joshi CloseFlamingos in Early SummerAshwani KumarNobody thought In the terrible days of solitude,Herds of jobless migrants with clay brick masks wouldSuddenly arrive in the deserted city.With them, the Armenian flamingosAlso descended; flock after flockIn the maggoty shadow of early summer.From their sweaty pink wings,Dry mustard leaves kept fallingIn the freshly made shelter homes.Flapping their empty stomachs,Slowly, they filled the skyWith their hungry nasal cries for food and water.Infuriated with the smell of infectious bloodAffluent city dwellers turned against themselves-Speaking with strange voices of stonesIn their moments of self-survival.ઉનાળાના આરંભે ફ્લેમિંગોકોઈને કલ્પના નહોતી કેએકલતાના આ ભયાનક દિવસોમાંમોં પર માટોડિયા રંગની મોં-પતી પહેરેલાંબેરોજગાર પ્રવાસીઓનાં ધાડાંઅચાનક જ આ ઉજ્જડ નગરીમાં આવી ચડશે.એમની સાથે જ આર્મેનિયન ફ્લેમિંગોનાં ઝુંડ પર ઝુંડઆ ઉનાળાના આરંભે ખદબદતા પડછાયાઓ વચ્ચેઊતરી આવ્યાં,એમની પરસેવે રેબઝેબ ગુલાબી પાંખો પરથીશરણાર્થીઓ માટે હાલ જ બનેલાં રહેઠાણો પરસરસવનાં પાંદડાં ખરતાં રહ્યાં.પોતાનાં ખાલી પેટ ફફડાવીને,દાણો-પાણી માટેની ભૂખી કિકિયારીઓથીએમણે ધીમે ધીમે આખું આકાશ ભરી દીધું.ચેપી લોહીની વાસથી ક્રોધે ભભૂકેલા સમૃદ્ધ રહેવાસીઓપોતાની જાતને ઉગારી લેવાની કપરી ક્ષણોમાંપથ્થરોની વિચિત્ર ભાષા બોલી રહ્યા.(અનુવાદ કમલ)Translated by CloseCloseSunken ShipMustansir DalviShe straddles me, eyelashes stroke my chin.Against my chest, her breath susurrates,each exhale falls, latein the night, almost day,so long to put her several to rest.She sinks into me, I feel her weightand am pressed deeper into the chair.She melds into mysafe and limited place,legs wrapped around me.palms bunched into little fists.Tonight, I am a womb.I allow fluid senses to swirlfull fathom five, so she can travel deepwhere there is no poetry, only the sunken ship.Translated by CloseCloseTHREE COORG POEMSK Satchidanandan1. NIGHT AND THE ELEPHANTIn Coorg it is hard to knowthe elephant from the night.You think it is night; butdo not find the moon.You think it is the tusker; butdo not find its tusks. Is it that the night and the elephantgave up both as they could not tellthe moon's curve from the tusk’s? But this intense fragrance, mixed,of sugarcane, wild berries andthe Queen of the Night blossomingin moonlight: is it the night's scentor the elephant's? 2. KAVERYWe crossed Kavery several times.At one place it was just atiny stream among the rocks,in another a stagnant pool andIn yet another a full river. But the images falling on the waterwas the same: bamboos, trees,clouds, us, an unbuilt bridgeand an unborn rainbowin an angel' s golden dream. Like the images of earthfalling on every soul.3. FORESTSSeveral forests passed through us,several birds flew, several beasts ran.We just stood still, hoping, with every breeze,to turn into trees, put forth leavesand wait for flowers to blossomand fruits to ripen. Kavery flowed past us,watering our long-forgotten roots.ત્રણ કૂર્ગ કાવ્યો ૧. રાત અને ગજરાજકૂર્ગમાં હો તો મુશ્કેલ છે કહેવુંકે આ રાત છે કે ગજરાજ છેતમને લાગે કે રાત છે પણ ચંદ્ર જડે નહિ શોધ્યોતમને લાગે કે ગજરાજ છેપણ દંતશૂળ ન મળેશું એવું શક્ય છે કેએ અર્ધચંદ્રાકાર ચમકચંદ્રની છે કે ગજરજના દંતશૂળ ની એ કહેવું શક્ય ન લાગતાં રાત ને ગજરાજ બંને એ વહેતું મૂક્યું હોય.પણ તો પછી આ માદક સુવાસશેરડીમાં ભળી જંગલી બોરડી ને એમાં વળી પૂરબહારમાં ખીલી રાતરાણીઆ સુવાસ રાતની છે કે ગજરાજની? ૨. કાવેરી અમે કંઈ કેટલી વાર કાવેરીને પાર કરીક્યાંક હતી એ સાવ નાનકડુંપથ્થર વચ્ચે ખળખળતું ઝરણતો ક્યાંક સ્થિર તલાવડીને વળી બીજે છલકાઈ આખી નદીપણ એના પાણી પરનાં ચિત્રો બધેય એક સરખા: વાંસ, વૃક્ષો, વાદળ, અમે, એક નહિ બાંધેલો પૂલઅને નહિ ખીલેલું મેઘધનુષઝીલાતાં કોઈ દેવદૂતના સોનેરી શમણેજાણે હર એક હૈયે ઉભરીપૃથ્વીની છબીઓ ૩. જંગલો અમારી અંદર થઈ ચાલ્યાં ગયાં કેટકેટલાં જંગલોઉડયાં કંઇ કેટલાં પંખી, દોડ્યાં કેટકેટલાં પ્રાણી.અમે બસ ઊભા રહ્યાં સ્થિર, પવનની એકેક લહેરખીએ ઉઠતી આશા લઈને,કે થઈ જાશું લીલા જંગલના ઝાડફૂટશે એમને યે પાન, ને પછી મહોરશે ફૂલો,ને ધરીશું આમેય ફળ મીઠાં.અમારી આરપાર થઈકાવેરી વહ્યા કરીઅમારા ભૂલાયેલા મૂળિયાં પખાળતી-- સચ્ચિદાનંદન કે.અનુવાદ પ્રતિષ્ઠા પંડ્યાTranslated by the Poet from MalayalamCloseClose*I*Vinod JoshiI held the mountainsby their peaksand flung them into the seathen in one gulpswallowed all the salt waters of this earthI folded the sky many times overand slipped it into my eyesbefore shutting my eyes tightI breathed the windand made it stand steadyin my navel.I grabbed in my fistthe sun, the moon,the stars, the planets,and all the constellations...So, now that there is nothing outsidewhere am I?The earth has disappeardI search for my propin one momentall of a suddenI am unmovablein another I roarturn into limitless expansespreading all aroundI hiss wildlyI spin round and round.Then I open my eyesand see the same world out thereI close my eyesand now I seethe same world insideso closewithin my reachso, where am I, now?હું..ચપટીમાં પકડીને એક પછી એક ફેંકી દીધા પર્વતો સમુદ્રમાં.પછી એક જ ઘૂંટડે પી ગયો સૃષ્ટિ પરનું બધું ખારું જળ.આકાશને બેવડચોવડ સંકેલી મૂકી દીધું આંખોમાં.પછી પોપચાં કરી દીધાં સજ્જડ બંધ.પવનને ઉતારી દીધો ઘ્રાણમાં.કરી દીધો નાભિમાં સ્થિર.સૂર્ય, ચંદ્ર,તારા,ગ્રહો, નક્ષત્રો...બધું લઈ લીધું મુઠ્ઠીમાં.હવે તો બહાર કશું રહ્યું જ નહીં.તો હું.. હવે ક્યાં?પૃથ્વી તો હવે છે નહીં.હું શોધવા લાગું છું મારો આધાર.થોડીવારમાં અચાનક જહું બની જાઉં છું અચલ.બીજી જ પળે લાગું છું ઘૂઘવવા.હદ બહાર વિસ્તરી જાઉં છું ચોતરફ.સૂસવું છું અમર્યાદ.ચક્કર ચક્કર ફરવા લાગું છું.પછી આંખો ઉઘાડું છું તો બહાર એનું એ વિશ્વ.હું આંખો બંધ કરી દઉં છું.તો, હવે મારી અંદર પણ મને દેખાય છે;એ જ બધું,હાજરાહજૂર.તો હવે.. હું ક્યાં?Translated by Pratishtha Pandya from GujaratiCloseCloseIn MemoriamPrabodh ParikhDo we rememberYou and I, the troglodyte,The children of forest under azure sky, In Nairobi or Sangali, outside Brabourne Stadium,Like asterisms playing Seven Claps in the ring of fire,We’d started a game?Of clinging to the warm breast of earth, Eyes closed, as our hearts throbbed,Painting frescos, crossing thresholds, Blowing through plainsFlowing rivers in our tiny hands?Do you remember,All of us together,Flapping our wings between the known and unknown, the ephemeral and eternal,Clutching the fingers of doors and windows post-haste,Had set out on foot with captain Nemo, our sleeves flashing the submarine badge,To take a plunge from mountain tops in the lap of the bottomless sea?Remember that sport?Of flipping through the pages of books, home to our forefathers,And attending summer camps with them?Think of that game we enjoyed so muchOf pinning the lengthening shadows of eventideOf pinching the peals in the womb of our cavernous faces in mirrors Of patting the backs of our new bonds, surging with sap,At a time when all forms of life, Keen on being born, their stories still forlornHovered over the nursing homes, on full alert.Does it still haunt you, that warm touch?Its thrill coursing through every single vein in frenzied wavesThe nightlong chats, words that kept you awake The countless stars under whose gaze I’d put my friendly arm around your shoulders.In the company of chillies that set tongues on fireAnd glasses, bitter and bland, from which we spilt overTo join the rushing traveller down the slippery slopeAnd flying on the roter wings of RamlilaOr sneaking into the backpacks of wandering trampsHow we’d gorged after lasting games of satiyo and tri-cards?Choosing to take birth, we’d observed fasts and abstinences,All the way from St. Pauls’ to Jama mosque,Held nightlong vigils in the Narayan temple.Mounting the shoulders of father, the lap of motherOn the swings of neighbours or that bench outside museumWe’d taken a joyride to this universe.Holed up in the bookracks of libraries, we’d found blood relationsIn the prisoners of conscience dumped in Siberia.You remember, don’t you? But I don’t hear any rustle, not even a slight throb in head.That which comes and sits close byShakes you, mocks you, tires you outStops you, wakes you up with a sweet caressPacks you a gush of anguish and verdant meadows, Wafting on surging heart, As you get ready to embarkOn your pet voyage.Recall that we were born?You and I,All of us.No? You don’t? The doors and windows,Flight of stairs and the cradle,A for Adil, B for Beckett, K for kite and P for poetry?All I remember isThe unfinished game of coming here, and there Where fresh sheets were spread on beds Where the utter green flag of autumn flutteredWhere the squirrel scurried in semi-final of sun and shadeWhere the dawn flew away as I blew mouthful of skyWhere the roads set out with personal chairs for evening strollsI remember registering my name, Waving flags from the backseat of bicyclesLoving the disquiet, making that corner its home,Handful of rules sealing that half-played gameBunch of shlokas and rhymes falling in placeAnd other ten blokes who were not others.Do we rememberYou and I, that we took birth?યાદ છે, તમને, કે આપણને, કે મનેકે ગુફાવાસીઓને, કે વનવાસીઓનેખુલ્લા અવકાશ નીચે, નાયરોબીમાં કે સાંગલીમાંબ્રેબોન સ્ટેડિયમ બહાર, અગ્નિનાં કુંડાળામાં સાતતાળી રમતા નક્ષત્રોમાં ફેરાફેરીએક રમત માંડી હતી?શ્વાસનાં ધબકારે. પૃથ્વીની હુંફાળી છાતીમાં આંખો ઢાળી દઈ,ભીંતચિત્રો કરી, ઊંબરા ઓળંગી, નદીઓને હથેળીમાં ઝીલીમેદાનોની આરપાર નીકળી જવાની!યાદ છે, તમને, કે આપણને, કે મને, સૌને,જાણ્યા, અજાણ્યા, ક્ષર-અક્ષર વચ્ચે પાંખો ફફડાવતા,બારી-બારણાની આંગળી પકડીપહાડની ટોચથી છલાંગ મારીઅતલ સમુદ્રના ખોળે બેસવાપગપાળા નીકળી પડ્યા હતાકેપ્ટન નેમો સાથે,સબમરીનનો બિલ્લો પહેરી!માંડી હતી એક રમત!ફેરવ્યા હતા પુસ્તકોનાં પાના,અને,એ પાનાંની વચ્ચોવચ વસેલા પૂર્વજો સાથે , યાદ છે,ઊનાળાની રજામાં શિબિરો ભરી હતી?નર્સિંગ હોમમાં જન્મ લેવા ઉત્સુકજીવ, અજીવ, સજીવ અવતારો, જે કાન માંડીનેપોતપોતાની કથા કહેવા કરી રહ્યા હતા દોડાદોડએ સમયના રસભીના નવા સંબંધોને થપ્પો મારીઅરીસામાં પ્રગટ થતા ચહેરાનીએ ગુફામાં,ગુફાનાં ગર્ભદ્વારમાં રણકતા નાદને,સમી સાંજના પડછાયાઓને પકડવાની રમતતમે, મેં, આપણે, માંડી હતી તે!યાદ છે, એ સ્પર્શ,નસેનસમાં વહી જતા એ સ્પર્શનાં સ્પંદનોની વણઝારવાતે વારે જાગતા રહેવાની એ રાતઅને, અગણિત તારાઓ જોઈતરવરી ઉઠેલા ઉન્માદની ભાઈબંધી માટે લંબાયેલો હાથ!તીખા, તમતમતા ગોંડલનાં મરચા સાથેતુરાં, કડવા, પારદર્શક ગ્લાસમાંથી છલકાઈજરાકમાં સરકી જતા વટેમાર્ગુઓને સંગેઅનેરામલીલાની પવનપાવડી પર બેસીકે રખડુટોળીએ ખભે ભરવેલા સરસામાનમાંસંતાઈ જઈ રમ્યા હતા સતિયોઅને ત્રણ પત્તીની બાજી, પછી કરી હતી ઊજાણી!જનમ લીધો હતો, બાધા રાખી હતી,સેઈંટ પોલથી જુમા મસ્જિદ સુધી,નરનારાયણનાં મંદીરમાં જઈ કર્યાં હતાં જાગરણ,ફરી વાળ્યા હતા, બ્રહ્માંડમાં, માના ખોળે, પિતાના ભખે,પડોશીના હિંચકા પર, મ્યુઝિયમોનાં બાંકડે,લાયબ્રેરીનાં કબાટોમાં સંતાઈને સાયબિરિયાની કાળી કોટડીમાં વસતા મનુષ્યોને એકરૂપ કરી દીધા હતા સ્વજનોનાં સરઘસમાં!છેકે નથી યાદ?ના સળવળાટ સંભળાતો નથી, કે નથી કંપી રહ્યા મગજના સ્નાયુઓએવું કશું, જે આજે આવીને બેસે, લગોલગ,ઢંઢોળે, ખીજવે, હંફાવે, અટકાવે, પીઠે હાથ ફેરવીજગાડેએક સાથે વહી આવતી,ઝાડપાનને સાથે લઈ આવતી વેદનાને સંવેદનાને-નિરાંતે, બાંધી આપે ભાથુ મુસાફરી માટે!યાદ છે જનમ લીધાનું!તમને કે મનેકે આપણને,ના, નથી યાદ, બારી કે બારણાદાદરા કે પારણાઆદિલનો અ, કે બેકેટનો બ, કે પતંગનો પ, કે કવિતાનો ક.યાદ છે, એક અધુરી રમત અહીં આવ્યાનીત્યાં, જ્યાં ચાદર પથરાતી, પાનખરનો ઝંડો, લહેરાતોખિસકોલી સરકતીતડકા-છાંયડાની સેમી ફાઈનલ રમાતીફૂંક મારતા, ઉડી જતી સવારઅને ખુરશીઓ લઈ ફરવા નીકળી પડતા રસ્તાઓ, ત્યાંયાદ છેનામ નોંધાવ્યાનું, સાયકલ પર બેસી વાવટા ફરકાવવાનુંયાદ છે, અધુરી રમતનાં બે ચાર વ્યાકરણોપાંચ સાત શ્લોક, ટપકી પડતાં જોડકણાં,અને એક દશ બાર બીજા જણ, જે બીજા ન હોય!યાદ છે? તમને, મને, આપણનેજનમ લીધાનું?Translated by Hemang Desai from GujaratiCloseCloseThe Macaulayite Cuts Such a Ridiculous FigureGabriel RosenstockThere was much laughter, she saidAnd 'laughter' - elongated - was the last word to escape her lips.Some kind of lockjaw? her husband opined.Doctors were sent for and examined the gaping mouth,Ayurvedic specialists,Sages: she could not breathe.A shaman from TibetBlew smoke through the orificeAnd recited a couplet from the Sixth Dalai Lama:       nang gi stag mo ras 'joms      'dris nas mthur du lang songWhich did nothing but swell her tongue.At last, Gabriel Rosenstock arrived from IrelandAnd pronounced his diagnosis, gravely but assuredly:Postcolonial linguistic self-strangulation, he mutteredWe have seen many such cases in my land.Translated by CloseCloseBeloved dreamsNalapati Balamani AmmaDance, dance every dayOn my mind’s floorAmidst harsh realityUnder a frying pan skyAnd caught in a dust stormAt middayA cool, green and flowery shadeYou dreams for me prepared….પ્યારાં સ્વપ્ન !!નૃત્ય કરો નિશદિનમન ઉપવનના આંગણમાં..કઠોર વાસ્તવ ચારેકોરધર્યું ઉપર ધગતું આકાશધૂળભર્યા ઘેરા વંટોળેઅટવાયાં પળના પ્રવાસએવે સમયે મારે કાજતમે જ મારાં સ્વપ્નલઇ આવ્યાં એક હૂંફાળોશીળો, ફૂલ સમો ઉજાસ....Translated by Lata Hirani from Malayalam to EnglishCloseClose* HomeArundhathi SubramaniamGive me a home that isn't mine, where I can slip in and out of rooms without a trace, never worrying about the plumbing, the colour of the curtains, the cacophony of books by the bedside. A home that I can wear lightly, where the rooms aren't clogged with yesterday's conversations, where the self doesn't bloat to fill in the crevices. A home, like this body, so alien when I try to belong, so hospitable when I decide I'm just visiting.Translated by CloseCloseOn the BrinkStanley BarkanOn the brink of fall,the leaves decide their deciduous fate.Autumn comes like a red-haired witchriding the winds on a thick-strawed broomstick.The forests stun the eyes, visioning postcard vistas:layers of gold and orange, reds and purples.Soon all the trees will shake off their colored complements,and the black bony fingers will thrust themselves starkagainst the whiteness of the brink of winter.Translated by IMMORTALITY?CloseCloseObstinatePratishtha PandyaYears passedMonths passedEven rough days passedThe last episodes ofyour favourite television soapgot over.The fledglings from the nestatop the Neem treeflew awaymade nests of their own, I guessThe laburnum outside the windowfrom green to yellow to greenthree timesYour saree that I started wearing at homegot worn outand was turned intobig square pieces for the dhobito tie ironing clothes inand then into small square piecesof dishcloths for the kitchen and finally ripped into thin stripsused to tie the Madhumalatiin the garden with.and yet time did not passIt refused to move onIt stood with its feet firmly planted.Sometimes in the old housewith its standing kitchenwhere you and I drank tea togetherI tasted it on my tonguelike a broken, soggy glucose biscuitthat ruins the taste of the tea.Sometimes leaving the chores asidewhen you succumbedto Papa’s demandstaking his head in your lapwith a grumble firstwith a laugh nextI saw it basking in the sunshine of your wrinkled face.It stayed onin places and momentsthat no longer belonged to him.sometimes like an air bubblestuck inside the IV lineon her puffed handsor inside the deserted lanesof her eyes that she openedonly when I ruthlessly twisted her skinalmost separated from her musclesSometimes like the silenceThat grew widerbetween hersinking heartbeatsWho says time just flies!It falls and crashes in every corner of the housegets scraped by a familiar touchgets bruised by an unknown feelingWounded and bleedingit sits in the same old place this obstinate timethat refuses to budgesince Ma died.*અડીયલ* વરસ વહ્યાંમહિના વહ્યાવહ્યા દિવસો ય આકરા તને ગમતી ટેલીવીઝન સિરિયલનાછેલ્લા હપ્તાય પૂરા થયાલીમડાના ઝાડ પરના માળાનાચકલીના બચ્ચાં ઊડી ઊડી પોતાના માળામાં ગયાંબારી બહારના ગરમાળા ત્રણ વાર લીલા માંથી પીળા ને પીળા માંથી લીલા થયાઘરમાં પહેરવા કાઢેલી તારી સાડી ઘસાઈ એમાંથીપહેલાં ધોબીના કપડાં બાંધવાના ટુકડાંપછી રસોડામાં હાથ લૂછવાના મસોતાંને છેવટે ચિરાઈને બગીચાની મધુમાલતી નેબાંધવાના ચિંદરડા થયાંપણ સમય તો યે ના વહ્યો તસુભરજરાય વધ્યો નહિ આગળપગ ખૂપીને ત્યાં ના ત્યાં રહ્યોપોળના જૂના ઘરનાઊભા રસોડાના પ્લેટફોર્મ પર બેસીતારી સાથે પીધી ચા માં મેં એને ચાખ્યોડુબાડતાં, તૂટી તળિયે બેસી ગયેલા ચનો સ્વાદ બગાડી મૂકતાગ્લુકો બિસ્કિટની જેવો.સવારમાં ઘરનું કામ રેઢું મૂકીપપ્પાની જીદને વશ થઈ જ્યારેએમનું માથું ખોળામાં લઇ ઘડી છણકીઘડી હસી તું બેઠેલી ત્યારે મેં જોયેલો એનેતારી કરચલીયા ચહેરાના અજવાળામાં ન્હાતોએ પડ્યો પાથર્યો રહ્યોએ બધીય જગ્યાઓમાં તમામ ક્ષણોમાં જે હવે એની પોતાની નહોતીએ ખટકતો રહ્યોએના ફૂલી ગયેલા હાથમાંખોસેલી નળીની અંદર ફસાયેલાહવાનો પરપોટો થઈને ક્યારેક એની માંસપેશીઓ થી છૂટી પડેલી ચામડીને હું સાવ આમળી નાખું ત્યારેખુલતી એ આંખોની મૌન ગલીઓમાંએ ભટકતો રહ્યો દિશા વિહીનક્યારક એના ધીમા પડતા ધબકાર વચ્ચેના વધતા જતા શૂન્યાવકાશમાંવિસ્તરતો ગયોકોણ કહે છે જુઓને સમય કેવો વહી ગયો?ઘરના ખૂણે ખૂણે અથડાતોકોઈ રઝળતી યાદે પછાડતોકોઈ જાણીતા સ્પર્શે ઉઝરડાતોકોઈ અજાણી લાગણીએ ખરડાતોઘવાતો, લોહી દૂઝતો ને છતાં ય એની એજ જગ્યાઓએઅટકેલો રહ્યોઆ અડિયલ સમયમા ના મર્યા પછી. Translated by the Poet from GujaratiLove song of my ownCloseCloseIbn Batuta, World travelerUdayan ThakkerSir, Ibn Batuta is my name, I come from a village in Morocco,tucked away in a corner ofthe fourteenth century.Huzoor, one morning I got up and saw:I was too big for my boots.I wandered out of my village,tried on many a pair of shoes.Some were small and the resttoo small.With folded feet I sat in a madrasa,and learnt- let the rosary be in hand,but the beads must be on the move.My feet had a will of their own.They took me to Russia and Kabul,to Istanbul,to Mecca-Medina where I became a Haji,to Delhi where I became a Kazi.Sultan of Delhi said, 'O Batuta! Take gifts to China. Let the Chinese Emperorknow who Taghlakh is!' I departedcarrying embroidered silks and emerald studded jewelry,mounted a wild, headstrong, beastof a ship.Typhoon struck at Calicut.All was lost.Ya Allah! Better drown at sea,than go to China empty handed.I turned my back to Delhi and sawa vast ocean...I had nothing left but a sheet of clothon which to pray, that I turnedInto a sail,landed at the Maldives which uses sea shellsfor money, dipped my feetin languor. I climbed atop Adam's hill in Ceylon and sawanother hill and then another and yet another.I saw Alexandria,that sits on the edgeof a continent, like a veiled mermaid.I saw dunes of sand retreat,I saw yogis levitate,I saw Chinese snake-eaters,Negro fire-eaters.Every time I bought a ship, I made sure,it had seven sails andno rudder.Ibn Juyazi, the scholar of our village,asked me to narrate my tale.He asked and he asked.'Note down, O Juyazi, in the year thirteen hundred and forty,the ship sank and I lost my treasure...'I then corrected myself,'No Juyazi, note down thus:The ship sank and I found my treasure!'ઈબ્ન બતુતા, વિશ્વપ્રવાસી જી,મારું ઈબ્ન બતુતા છે નામ,મોરોક્કો મુકામ,નાનું અમસ્તું અમારું ગામ હતું.ઈસુનો ચૌદમો સૈકો શરૂ થતો જ હતો.હજૂર,એક સવારે ઊઠી મેં જોયું તો,પગરખાં કરતાંય પગ, થઈ ગયા હતા મોટા.હું મારું માપ લઈ મારે ગામથી નીકળ્યો.અલક મલકનાં પગરખાં પહેરી જોયાં મેં,કોઈક નાનાં તો કોઈક સાવ નાનાં પડ્યાં.હું પગને વાળીને,બેસી રહ્યો મદરસામાં,અને શીખ્યો કે ભલે તસ્બી હાથમાં જ રહે,પરંતુ ફરતી રહે. હાથમાં રહ્યા ન્હોતાઆ મારા પગ, જે મને ઊડઝૂડ લઈ ચાલ્યા,કદીક રૂસ ને કાબુલ, કદીક ઇસ્તંબુલ,કદીક મક્કા-મદીના જઈને હાજી થયો,પછી તો દિલ્લી પહોંચ્યો,ને ત્યાંનો કાજી થયો!મને હુકમ કર્યો સુલતાને: ભેટસોગાદો લઈને જાઓ તમે ચીન,ચીનનો રાજા જરાક જાણે કે તઘલખ છે કોણ! હું નીકળ્યો,લઈને જરકશી જામા ને જરઝવેરાતો.ઊછળતી-કૂદતી માથાફરેલી મનવારોપલાણી. ત્રાટક્યો વંટોળિયો કલીકટમાં ને બારે વ્હાણ ડૂબ્યાં.ખુદાયા! ચીન જઈ ખાલી ખાલી કરવું શું?તો ઢાંકણીમાં લઈ પાણી, ડૂબી મરવું શું?ફરાવી પીઠ મેં દિલ્લીથી, તો નજર સામેઅફાટ જોયો સમંદર...સિલક કશીય નહોતી, સિવાય કે ચાદરનમાઝની, કર્યો મેં ફરફરાટ સઢ એનો.જ્યાં છીપલાંનું ચલણ છે, નિહાળ્યું એ માલ્દીવ,ખળક ખળક થતી નવરાશમાં ચરણ બોળ્યા,ચડીને ટેકરી આદમની ઊંચી, લંકામાંનિહાળી દૂર બીજી, ત્રીજી, ચોથી ટેકરીઓ,કોઈક જળપરી પર્દો કરીને બેઠી હોકિનારે, એવી નિહાળી અલેકઝાંડ્રીયા.મેં જોયા રેતના પર્વતને કરતાં પીછેહઠ,મેં જોયા ભૂમિથી અધ્ધર થનાર યોગીઓ,રમતમાં સાપને ચાવી જનાર ચીનાઓ,ગમતમાં આગ પચાવી જનાર હબસીઓ.વહાણ લેતાં મેં રાખી જરા તકેદારી,કે સઢ હો સાત, અને ના સુકાન એકે હો.અમારા ગામના વિદ્વાન ઇબ્ન જુયાઝી,મને કહે કે લખાવો પ્રવાસની વાતો.એ પૂછતાં જ ગયા ને હું બોલતો જ ગયો:લખો જુયાઝી લખો, તેરસો ને ચાળીસમાં,વહાણ ડૂબતાંવેંત જ ગયા ખજાનાઓ.પછી સુધારી કહ્યું: ના, જુયાઝી, એમ લખો:વહાણ ડૂબતાંવેંત જ મળ્યા ખજાનાઓ.Translated by the Poet from GujaratiCloseCloseLossKavita Ezekiel MendoncaTandem Poem to accompany Poster poem 1 by Nissim Ezekiel(My father talked too loudly…. but just before he died)Dedicated to my father who sadly passed away from Alzheimer’s in 2004My father could not talk to meBefore he diedCould not reach me in a distant landTwinned in spirit, separated by geography,I heard he remembered meSaid he could never forget meMemory without a memoryNot able to rememberNot able to forgetTrapped in a maze of loss.Two lossesThe greater loss is mineThankfully,He could not rememberWhat he had lost.*********The poem, Loss, by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca is based on the late poet Nissim Ezekiel’s poem. Poster Poems1My father talked too loudlyand too much.but just before he diedhis voice became soft and sadas though whispering secretshe had learnt too late.He drew me close to himand spoke his truths to me.I felt the breath of his lovebut could not hear a word.Translated by How Daddy wrote his PoetryCloseCloseHow Daddy wrote his PoetryKavita Ezekiel MendoncaThe smoke curl from the Menthol Cool cigaretteIn the glass ashtrayTouched the ceilingCreating patterned shadowsOn the paint- peeled walls.He only took one puff!He had no fear of fire,The knowledge thatThe cigarette would eventuallyExtinguish itselfWas something he trustedInherently.As he lay on the dusty bedTriangle-fold handkerchiefOver his eyesCarefully removing theDelicately-crafted glassesI always thought would breakWith even the slightest tap.Then,moving to the crowded deskHastily wrote a few inspired linesOn pieces of paper, blank or linedWhatever could be found.Then again with set rhythmBack to the bedPlacing the same crumpled handkerchiefCarefullyOver the eyesWaited patiently for the remainingLines to come.He breathed deeply.Or ‘deep breathely’,As he was fond of saying,Perhaps invoking the museFor the rest of the poemTo take shape.Then he paced up and downThe sparse roomReading the words aloudAnd invited me inTo be bothaudience and critic.Daddy typed with two fingersOn the old clickety typewriterAnd the manuscript was readyTo be delivered to willing eyes.Daddy wrote oftenInto the early hours of the morningAnd I had to creep into the roomMouse-likeCockroach quiet,Remove the handkerchiefTurn off the lightAnd tell himHe must sleep.It’s late, Daddy!I stood outside his roomUntil I heard the familiar clickOf the old wooden latchAnd I knew he’d get a few hoursOf fulfilled slumber.EpilogueDaddy’s recipe for the good lifeWas to write a poemIn every circumstanceJoyful or adverse.On a crowded Indian trainOr lurching bus.Ignore the staresOf curious fellow travelersPull out the pen and paperAnd get to work.And for a mundane exampleTo brew the perfect cup of ‘chai’One must immerse the tea leavesInto the boiling waterAnd let them brew.Walk away into another roomWrite a poemWhich will then be the brewed thoughtsOf a pensive mind.And the perfect cup of ‘chai’Is born!Do not wait for the muse,Persist, to defy the block.Follow the simple recipeOf a beloved beverage.In my husband’s home nowFar from my father’s home,When ‘Chai’ is madeWith combinations of gingerCinnamon and cardamomSugar, milk and whatnot,Father’s poetry wafts inOn waves of spiceAnd earthy freshness.Memories are made of thisAnd poetry too!Post-EpilogueGrandfather was a ‘science’ man.When father won A poetry prize in school,Came home rejoicing to share the news,Grandfather said,‘Poetry, what’s that?’The child bought a bar of chocolateFor four ‘annas’,An ancient, humble Indian coinBut a princely sum to the boyWho ate his treatin solitary silenceAnd tears of wept HurtMingled withHope Andsecret DeterminationTo pursue the Poetic journey.Translated by LossCloseCloseGhalib’s Haveli in Ballimaran RoadA J ThomasIn spite of being in Delhi for the last 22 years, I was visiting Ghalib’s Haveli on Ballimaran Road, off Chandni Chowk, for the first time.The timeless poet shares his home nowWith a shop—never mind, faring better than manyOf Delhi’s beloved bards who upheldThe Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb, And yet have left no earthly trace.One can only gaze around at the relics of his lifeWith a lump rising to one’s throat.Such exalted conceits, word-craft, humour;Unbending sense of honour bruised by History’s nasty turns. Perpetually in debtYet never perturbed in his angelic self.Homeless, ever roaming in spirit, he’d have little value For a majestic dwelling place like this.He’d even forgive the garish facelift givenTo his long-lived-in, one-time quarters.He knows these, and the countless tomes churned out about him,Are well-meaning attempts to keep his memory alive. He’d even forgiveThis, my lame verse in his name.Translated by Sarmad ShaheedShoorpanakhaCloseCloseSarmad ShaheedA J Thomas(Recently I revisited the Juma Masjid area and Ballimaran, which inspired two poems. The first one is on the Martyr Sarmad who was executed by the Emperor Aurangazeb)The king is naked, cried the innocent child. Power is naked, the unsheathed sword. Truth is naked too. Innocence can see it.The two often clash in battle, sparks flying.Sticking to nudity is the ultimate truth-speaking.That’s what Sarmad did--the absolute unconformity, Outside the frames of the established.If Mansur Al Hallāj declared ‘I am the Truth’ chanting Ana’l Haqq,Sarmad did something similar, saying only the La Ilāha part of the kalimahLeaving out illā-llāh, perhaps implying ‘There’s no God outside, but within oneself.’Dazed by the unravelling, Aurangzeb had him beheadedOutside the Eastern Gate of the Juma MasjidWhere the headless Sarmad danced on the stepsCarrying his head in his hands, before giving up the ghost,As the legend goes. Standing on the very steps, I frame a picture of his Red Dargah belowWith the Quila-e Mualla, -- or, the Exalted Fortress which was eventually reduced toThe simple Lal Quila to suit the latter-day reality of total decrepitude--Looming in the skyline behind.Translated by Ghalib’s Haveli in Ballimaran RoadShoorpanakhaCloseCloseAlangAdil JussawallaPerennial scrapyard, magnet for the remaindered,burning ground for ships that outlive their terms of service.thought its working conditions are savage deplored,I don’t want to go there now, other things matter.On night and day are showers of lightfrom instruments cutting through once-buoyant life.the sound of crushers, claws, the smell of metalbecoming liquid – all we imagined to be in another countrynow blinking their warning lights in rooms close at handor in hospitals near or distant,where those marked to be proceed may spendthe five years it takes or more to make a great shipvanish, as mother spent hers, open to probes and instruments,and may make others I dare not mention spend.Let it be merciful I pray, with us still alive(however faintly) to the blessings of sight and sound.the passing of ships with all their lights on, the music at seaothers are joyously dancing to, glimpsethe sudden bight arc of a lighthouse even as it’s happeninghere grappling irons hit our decks and slack cable sing as they tauten Translated by CloseCloseWomen Going to Buy Bags of MilkIndu JoshiWearing night gownsAt around five thirty in the morning women going to buy bags of milkin a half-sleep and half-awake stateput their bags of milk – if they have morethan one-into plastic bags from saree sales or cloth bagsand return homeSome return homeholding their plastic bag of milk betweentheir thumb and index finger,moving the arm back and forthas if holding a kitten from its neck.If she is from my compound, she greets mewith a ‘Jai Shri Krishna,’ and before I pass herasks, “So how are you today?”Then satisfied that she could ask the questionshe moves onnot listening for an answer.Wintry December has begunand it is dark at five thirty in the morning.In the bright neon lights you can see the shapesof women wearing nightgowns from afar.When they near, they try to recognize each other.If one is wearing a sweater or a scarfothers squint and peer and are satisfiedonly when an identification has been madeOh! That is the no. 2 from the society next to ours.(Watch it –that only means the woman from house no. 2!)In the dim light of the cabin of the dudhwalithey first identify each otherthen ask for their bags of milk.In the west – the moon before sunriseis not in the least pale.It is a full moon, the yellowish full moon of poonam.A scattering of stars can been around it.When I reach the milk cabina dog lying nearby looks at mewith sleep-filled eyesand I remember that woman’s question“So how are you today?”Carrying my bags of milk, wearing a night gownI also return home.દૂધની કોથળીઓ લેવા જતી સ્ત્રીઓઇંદુ જોશીનાઈટ ગાઉન પહેરેલી નેસવારના લગભગ સાડા પાંચ થી છના અરસામાંદૂધની કોથળીઓ લેવા જતી સ્ત્રીઓ,અર્ધ ઊંઘમાં ને અર્ધજાગૃત અવસ્થામાં,જો કોથળીઓ એક કરતાં વધુ હોય તો,સાડીના સેલની પ્લાસ્ટિક બેગ કે કપડાની થેલીમાંમૂકી ઘેર પાછી ફરે છે.કોઈક તો વળી પેલી બિલાડીબચ્ચાને મોંથી ઝાલી જતી હોયએમ એક કોથળી તર્જની ને અંગુઠાથી પકડી,હાથ હલાવતી પાછી ફરતી હોય.મારા ફળિયાની હોય તો‘જે શ્રીકૃષ્ણ’ કહેશે, પછી હું પસાર થઈ જાઉંએ પહેલા તરત પૂછશે,‘આજે કેમ તમે ?’અને જવાબ સાંભળવાની રાહ જોયા વિનાપ્રશ્ન પૂછી શકાયો એવા સંતોષથીચાલી જશે.હમણાંથી હવે ડિસેમ્બરનો શિયાળોશરૂ થઈ ગયો છે નેસવારે સાડા પાંચથી છ માંઅંધારું જ હોય.નિયોન લાઈટ્સના અજવાળેદૂરથી ગાઉન પહેરેલી સ્ત્રીઓના ઓળા દેખાય.પાસે આવે ત્યારે એકબીજીનેઓળખવાનો પ્રયત્ન કરે.તેમાંય કોઈકે સ્વેટર શાલ કે સ્કાર્ફ ઓઢ્યા હોયતો આંખો વધુ સતેજ કરેઅનેઓળખાણ મેળવીને જ જંપે કેઆ તો બાજુની સોસાયટીની બે નંબરી.(જો જો હોં ! એટલે કે બે નંબરના ઘરની એમ સમજવું)દૂધવાળીના ગલ્લા પાસે આછા ઉજાસમાંપહેલા એકબીજીને જુએ ને પછીદૂધની કોથળીઓ માંગે.પશ્ચિમ દિશામાં – સૂર્ય ઉગતા પહેલાંનો ચંદ્રઆજે જરાય ઝાંખો નથી,પૂર્ણ છે, થોડો પીળાશ પડતો પૂનમનો.તારાય થોડાઘણા છે તેની આજુબાજુ.હું દૂધના ગલ્લે પહોંચું છું ત્યારેપાસે સૂતેલું એક કૂતરું ઊંઘરેટી આંખેમારી સામે થોડું જોઈ લે છે નેમને પેલી સ્ત્રીનો પ્રશ્ન યાદ આવે છે,‘આજે કેમ તમે ?’દૂધની કોથળીઓ લઈ,નાઈટ ગાઉન પહેરેલી હુંયપાછી ફરું છું.Translated by Gopika Jadeja from GujaratiCloseCloseShoorpanakhaA J ThomasMy enticing smile, alas,Reveals only my fangsMy enamoured fondling of your Winsome shoulderAre but scratches with my talonsMy love-burnt eyes turn Into two blazing embersMy bosom aquiver with passion for youReveal only my hirsute teats!How am I to love you RamaWith all these Treacherous exteriors?My love for youIs the yearning for the eternal YouBut this is how I am definedAnd, you, of all peopleSpurn me!You are all-seeing, aren’t you?How come you can’t see my Heart burning in PanchagniYearning for union with you?Your petite wife whom you call half your body and soulWill soon turn fickle, and jump outOf the circle your slave-brother has confined her inOn your behalf. You can’t spurn femininityAnd get away with it. I am ShoorpanakhaThe sole sisterOf the conqueror of heaven and earth,Yet I fail in front of you, Rama.The molten lava of my tearsWill engulf your epicIn flames of devastation.Translated by Ghalib’s Haveli in Ballimaran RoadSarmad ShaheedCloseCloseTHE TROUBLESMatthew GedenThere is a woman at the sinkrinsing dishes, sunlight washesher hair, she can hear the snipsnip of his shears trimming the borderhedge, a chocolate egg dripsin the afternoon heat, ice cubesare melting into her gin and tonic.She waits for the end of an era;and it comes with a strange silence,a stillness between this world and the next,an ambulance breaks the spell, draws near,pulses and wails as she drops a dinner plate.Translated by CloseCloseIMMORTALITY?Stanley Barkan(a “footnote” after Donald Lev)I jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. Twice. But I failed. I didn't die. The Guinness Book of World Records called me up, said I should try again: If I lived, I'd set a record. So I jumped a third time and succeeded. At last I've achieved . . . Immortality? અમરત્વ? (ડોનાલ્ડ લેવ વિશે પાદટીપ) હું કૂદી પડ્યો બ્રૂકલિનના પુલ ઉપરથી બબ્બે વાર પણ નિષ્ફળ ગયો મર્યો નહિ ગીનીસ બુક ઓફ વર્લ્ડ રેકર્ડ્સ -માંથી ફોન આવ્યો મને બોલ્યા: પુન: પ્રયત્ન કરી જુઓ, જો હું જીવી જાઉં તો વિશ્વવિક્રમ થશે. એટલે હું ત્રીજી વાર કૂદ્યો અને સફળ થયો. મને મળ્યું આખરે... અમરત્વ?Translated by On the BrinkCloseCloseLove song of my ownPratishtha PandyaI lay etherized like that eveninginside one dark hotel roommade of concrete, wood, and glasswith no doors leading outwardsno windows looking inwardswhere you visit melike the occasional fogon a winter eveningpretty much like a catjumping from rooftop to rooftoprefusing to be tamed.I rest my head for a whileon the cold but soft furon your chestseeking warmth in vainthen search for the sunlightin the yellow eyes of an electric bulbchase my dying breath for windOutside on the glassy street _women come and gotalking of Michelangelo_ You walk with all of themGo for a coffeewith a few favourite onesat the café across the roadnext to the rainbow flower shopAll the time toying with a questionthat I know you will dare not askOn this side of the glassI waitnot knowingfor whattill whenI am not sure if there will be timeTime to look into your eyesAfter the fog has liftedTime to hold your handsAfter the women have leftTime to walk on the open streetsAfter the walls are brokenTime to make senseAfter questions have lost meaningsI am not sure if there will be timeTo waitTo dreamTo liveTo make loveTime has frozen in the darkInside this hotel roomWithout doors and windowswithout a pastwithout a dreamThis room lies etherizedon my chest in the darkas I write this love songfor you.Translated by the Poet from GujaratiObstinateCloseCloseAS YET UNBORNStanley BarkanOh to be Adam againwith all his ribsyearning for a womanas yet unborn,mouth freeof the taste of apples,ears withoutthe hiss of snakes,mindless ofnakedness and shamein the gardenof gentle creatureswaiting for a name.Translated by NAMING THE BIRDSCloseCloseSibylsManisha JoshiHuddled in a group, the sibyls sit;in slightly soft, and slightly loud tonesthey speak, of things. Their fists are filled with grainwhich they fling high up, for birds. To fill their beaks with grainscattered far and further the birds run!The sibyls are at a game of the blind-man's-buffand the birdspay a visit to their homesto gorge on all the dinner ready and covered. Exhausted, when the sibyls return,they shriek at the chaos of upturned bowls. It is the birds for sure! These all-knowing sibyls, they know not how to curse.By paddy-filled granaries they sit sobbing, When they stroll along the Greek roads, before them walks the cacophony of birds and people cannot hear a word. Unheard, these sibyls will perish just so. The birds stomachs will then explode,and O! their wailing chicks that never took wing. People will repent this for sure. New hands in sibyl-homes, will sprout each day, anxiety like new moles on the body will consume them. The sibyls will then have avenged. ****The sibyls are ancient Greek women gifted at foretelling.સિબિલ સિબિલીઓ ટોળે વળી બેઠી છે.થોડુંક ધીમેથી, થોડુંક ઊંચા અવાજેકંઈક બોલી રહી છે.એમની મુઠ્ઠીમાં દાણા છે.ખૂબ ઊંચે ઉછાળી પંખીઓ પાસે ફેકે છે.પંખીઓ દૂર દૂર વેરાયેલા દાણાઓચાંચમાં ભરી લેવા દોડે છે.સિબિલીઓ હવે આંધળોપાટો રમી રહી છે.અને પંખીઓ જઈ પહોંચ્યાં છે, એમનાં ઘરોમાં,ઢાંકેલી રસોઈ ખાવા.થાકેલી સિબિલીઓ ઘેર પાછી ફરે છે.અધખુલ્લાં વાસણો જોઈ બોલી ઊઠે છે,નક્કી આ પક્ષીઓ!બધું જ જાણી લેતી આ સિબિલીઓનેશાપ આપતાં નથી આવડતું.ધાન ભરેલી કોઠીઓ પાસે બેસી એ ડૂસકાં ભરે છે.ગ્રીસના રસ્તાઓ પર નીકળે છે તો એમની આગળપક્ષીઓનો કલબલાટ હોય છે.લોકોને એમના શબ્દો કંઈ જ સંભળાતા નથી.આ સિબિલીઓ આમ ને આમ મરી જશે.પક્ષીઓનું પણ પેટ ફાટશે.બચ્ચાંઓ ઊડ્યા વગરનાં રોશેલોકો તો ખૂબ પસ્તાશે.સિબિલીઓનાં ઘરમાં રોજ નવા નવા હાથ ઊગશે.દરેકને પોતાના શરીર પરના નવા તલની જેમએની ચિંતા થશે.અને આમ, સિબિલીઓ વેર વાળશે.*સિબિલ : પ્રાચીન ગ્રીસની ભવિષ્યવેત્તા સ્ત્રીઓ.Translated by Neeti Singh from GujaratiCloseCloseComing Down The MountainMark RoperYou have been where you have beensomeone else, a place of peat, pool and sky,stripped by wind and swept by light.You have walked yourselfinvisible, rock your bone and motionand you would liketo walk foreverbut you have to go down.You try to takesomething with you:a sliver of quartzor a ram’s horn,a special feather,a piece of eye bright.They soon fade, as a pebble picked from a lake will fade.What’s found up therelives only up there, in that high air.All you can takeis the way, each time,you’re simplified –the gift of long hoursspent alone with stream and stone.Where a raven’s calltook all your attention.Where news of the worlddidn’t rate a mention.Translated by Poet from Irish to EnglishCloseClose Day & NightJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreHas the time come I may go in at last?All day I’ve been outdoors in summer air.It seemed a sin to turn my back on splendor.As if the rising sun had laid before mea gift from which no sane man turns away.But now the dark, and weariness, descend.To lie in blackness seems a kind of solacethat brilliance cannot bring, try as it might.All day the sun embraced me like a lover,then left me—with a craving for the night.Translated by WordsThe Visitors The Air Is StillAs If You Knew DustThe Traveler’s Song AutumnCloseClose WordsJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreWords have wooed yet failed to win her.Deeds done for her performed in vain.What could he say to bring her closer?What could he do to make her care?Asked to abandon all he lovedhe would have left it far behind.Had he known how to sell his soulhe’d happily have made the trade.None of that mattered, not at all.Nothing he did--or might have done.He watches her, from far away,move through the life she chose instead.She made her choice, took his away.What choice had he but to endureand wonder now, observing her,if she regretted it at all?Endure? Regret? Words, words. What good are words to him when what he’d cravedwas to be at her side right now,to live with her through all his days?Translated by Day & NightThe Visitors The Air Is StillAs If You Knew DustThe Traveler’s Song AutumnCloseCloseThe VisitorsJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreThey took their seat in a corner,and they sat so quiet and meek.I asked them why they’d come,but still they spoke not a word.I offered them food and drink,but smiling they looked away.What else can I offer? I asked.And again: Why are you here?They turned to look back at meand sorrow flowed into their eyes.They rose then and bowed solemnlyand backed away toward the door.Where will you go? I cried.Tell me before you depart.Their sad eyes rose to the sky,then dropped down to the floor.Is there nothing you can say?I need you to speak to me.They passed beyond the door with a smile and a wave and were gone.I found myself all alone,just as I’d been beforebut not quite as I had beenfor the room looked emptierand something had gone with themto wherever they’d disappeared.I sank to the ground and weptmourning whatever I’d losttill a voice inside me cried:Let the time not pass in vain!I ceased weeping then and roseand left that place far behindseeking I hardly knew whatbut the road and its solitudemeaning to travel untilI could hear my soul exclaimand my body sigh under the strainand the air fill with shouts and screams and the harp of the road break outin the sweet music of painthen take myself home and sitin the corner so quiet and meekas sorrow flowed into my eyesand ask myself why I had comeand who I supposed I might beand offer myself no reply.Translated by Day & Night Words The Air Is StillAs If You Knew DustThe Traveler’s Song AutumnCloseClose The Air Is StillJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreThe air is stilland silent about you.It has no taleto tell to anyone.The secrets lockedinside your sleeping skullcannot escape,cannot betray you.No breeze, no windcarries away your storyto ears that mightreceive it gracelessly,perhaps distort it past all recognitionto do you harm,to tell a vicious tale.Sleep on. You’re safenow as you’ll ever be.Not safe at all,of course, for no man canevade his end,approaching silently.Translated by Day & Night WordsThe VisitorsAs If You Knew DustThe Traveler’s Song AutumnCloseCloseAs If You KnewJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreThink it your good fortuneto sit perfectly stillwhere you are placed.Think of the frantic timesspent wandering aboutand settling nowhere.If the time has now cometo remain where you areit is not for nothing.Everything that everhappened has led to thismoment, here and now.Out in the great beyonda terrible chaos rushes through the void.But you are in this placeresplendent with silenceif only for a time.Surrender yourself tostillness as if you knew what it meant to live.As if you understood death, though patient, lies in wait out there . . . somewhere.Translated by Day & Night WordsThe Visitors The Air Is Still DustThe Traveler’s Song AutumnCloseClose DustJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreStained with dusthe keeps himselffrom the worldand is afraideven to move.Movement couldwell imply a hope that he might be so much more than simple dust.He feels no need to ask how he might move this world were he to lose his fear.Or does he fear moving he’ll findthe world itself mere dust and nothing more?Translated by Day & Night WordsThe Visitors The Air Is StillAs If You KnewThe Traveler’s Song AutumnCloseCloseThe Traveler’s SongJohn MenaghanFrom THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreThe traveler has to knockat every alien doorto come to his own.At the wayside whereshadow chases lightand the rain comesin the wake of summer,I sit here before my doorand I sing all alone.Fires and shadows minglewith the gloom of dust.I have done all I could.Translated by Day & Night WordsThe Visitors The Air Is StillAs If You Knew Dust AutumnCloseClose AutumnJohn MenaghanFrom  THE TAGORE VARIATIONS: A Series of Poems Inspired by lines from Rabindranath TagoreThe horizon is fiercely naked,still and keen and cruel.I am like a remnant of clouduselessly roaming the sky.Let the cloud of grace bend low,take this emptiness of mine.Float it on the wanton windand vanish away in the dark.Translated by Day & Night WordsThe Visitors The Air Is StillAs If You Knew DustThe Traveler’s SongCloseClose NAMING THE BIRDSStanley Barkan Tired of naming cattle & fish, Adam turned to the birds. “Raven,” he said; then “dove,” prophetically, these first creatures of the air who’d be symbols in a later time of rain and flood and rainbow. Of the birds who would sing at dawn and dusk he had little interest; so Eve decided to try her onomastic skill. “Nightingale,” she whispered. “Ibis, heron, flamingo, parrot, peacock, tanager,” mystery, grace, magnificence of thought, motion, and design. It took a woman to properly name the birds of Paradise.Translated by AS YET UNBORNCloseCloseRimbaudRichard Berengarten Precocious pupil, teenage layabout, he’s played provincial brat, brash schoolboy slut, barbarian beast, filthy louse-ridden mutt – until piss-artist drink-mates chuck him out; absinthe and argot mingling in his throat, teacher’s best pet, deranged, turns foul-slanged slob, illumination-seeker, cannon-gob, working his passage on a drunken boat . . . And then he’s twenty-two. And poetry stops. And then, as if he’s cleaned up, done the cure, and doesn’t need the hit, crack, high (or crutch?), his previous life, he says, has been rinçures – rinsewater, dishswirl, drainwaste, sloshmurk, slops – yeah, been there, done that, thank you very much.Translated by CloseCloseSwinging BoatsAngela PattenSometimes it seems as if your life is all about trying to balanceon a swinging boat, the painted kindyou used to love at the old time carnival on Dun Laoghairepier.It wasn’t Coney Island but what did you know of foreign parts? The helter-skelter where you slid hell-for-leather on a burlap mat down a winding metal chuteseemed to go on for mileswhat with all the howling kidsand the general hullabaloo. The swinging boat was gaudily daubed in blue and yellow swirls, slung like a cradle between two spars.A man in a lead-colored coatand tweed cap took your money.Then you stepped in one end, your sister in the other,and you pulled on the ropes in tandem to make the boat sway back and forth like a clock less pendulum. It wasn’t Venice but what did you know of gondoliers?Some days,caught up in the endless round of tasks dictated by your To Do list,as if your frantic busyness were a requirement for sainthood or a penance for past iniquities,you might be a carousel pony galloping in everlasting orbit or a girl clad in a secondhand frock going nowhere fast in a swinging boat.Translated by CloseClose A WhileGlenn SheaNear Yangxua, Guangji ProvinceThe light westering, the shadows playing at angles;the abrupt round hills leap up to surround us.Lili leads us from the village onto a footpathinto a grove. The trees are afire with fine ripe oranges,fat wet globes of fruit. We exclaim at them,chewing the juicy skins. All day we’ve been greetedand waved at, known as visitors. A neighbordrove her old blue clunker into townto pick us up. Lili says of the village,when there’s trouble we help each other, and for just some moments whatever isn’t calm and a joy goes away. We linger in it,saying little, the green trees misting over.The dusk comes with the first words of dark behind it,and at last we turn to go back,the oranges bright in our hands as lanterns.Translated by CloseClose Meaning-makingShelly Bhoilit was about then when we didn’t understand what it isand set out into meaning-making exercises                                   i gently stole a strand of hair from my class-                                   mate’s blazer and pulled one mine to juxtapose                                   the two in sunshine. a few more strands got                                   pulled and stolen. then my head scratched to not                                   understand how some hair could be ‘thin’ and                                   some not! my talkative twin chased words that danced on elders’lips and struggled to speak every split second their lipssealed that she should be speaking now because she hasunderstood a ‘conversation’ (at the end of which she wasallowed to speak) means a word.     the father’s face became red while the mother tapped her forehead! we traced the patterns of O and C in the moon, Y the treeswe climbed, V W and M in valleys and mountains we saw,hanging from the trees, upside down. the mountains, a fewwalks away on our last birthday, appeared distant now. thegrandfather explained the phenomenon to our growing tall.                          we settled down to writing when my twin rhymed            flower with shower. I wrote ‘a smiling flower in the                           rain shower.’ we tried to bring in even ‘power.’ Then            we discovered the dictionary and began replacing                          ‘condition’ with ‘predicament’ the rhyming became inexpedient as meanings socialized those un-publishable poems and experiential meanings had a joy lost to us like those years in the years we have grown up to understand what it is                   and that my twin never was nor will beTranslated by Home sickness Blood-soaked CloseClose Home sicknessShelly BhoilThese ballerinas,the migratory birdslift their toesswiftlyunfolding feathersin harmonyto perform the sky danceand exit the horizonleaving behind empty-nes(t)sechoing with joyous, envioussongs of home and returnfor this solitary immigrantwhose path is chartered ona seamless oceanof individual dropsIn the sprawling wavesof loneliness and longingI drift between things banaltv, tea, smokes and carto the corner streetwhere someone's soot-clad feetcomfortably dislodgedfrom a card box homeshatter my ballerina romancefor I realize-home sickness is a luxuryunavailable to the homeless!Translated by Meaning-making Blood-soaked CloseClose Blood-soaked Shelly BhoilThat's right, I carry between my legs a bag with a napkin soaked in blood.Wait, haven't I been carrying in me a fountain of blood since the first mother ever came on earth?Indeed, I am, oh goodness,an enduring river of blood flowing in your veinsfrom my uterus urn!And you! Where do you drain offyour mothers' blood each time you carry your bloodless body to the exclusive shrine of your mind?Translated by Meaning-making Home sicknessCloseCloseLET US BUILD A BRIDGEYogesh JoshiLet’s go thenWe shall erect a bridgeSo what, if there is no river?If we build a bridgeit is possiblethat the river may arrivein our hamlet.Who saidthat a river starts from a mountain?In our villageit may come from the sea.The sky and the seaare equally close like us.It is true,that the birds do not havea affiliation to their nestas is with the sky.By now I can seefish and scallops and conch-shellsin the mirages.What do you think of the mirages?Diving in themfrom their bottomsone can bring pearls also.If one genuinely wantsto drownit can be done within igneous rcok.One can sow something in the wind.Just with a drop of watermany a rock can be splintered.Do you want to come? Speak up.Let’s go thento raise a bridge.Translated by Dileep Jhaveri from GujaratiClose Here you will find English translations of poems written in Gujarati –poems that will compare well with some of the best in the world. Gujarat is a state in India, and its language, Gujarati, is spoken by about 50 million people world-wide. Gujarati has a poetic tradition of seven centuries. The subjects of Medieval Gujarati poetry were largely religion and mysticism. Social reform and national awakening were themes for the nineteenth century. If compassion for the downtrodden was reflected in the early twentieth century, in later years poetry strived for beauty for beauty's sake. The Modern poet was disillusioned with city life if not distraught. Gujarati Poetry is rich in variety - the long narrative poem, the devotional song, the lovey-dovey ghazal, sonnets and haikus, couplets, the prose poem ... Read on. Allow us to amaze you.

TAGS:PoetryIndia com 

<<< Thank you for your visit >>>

poems, poet, poetry, poetries,Suffering,sons,Daughters,Human Nature,Authority,Power,Places,Death,City,Life,Nature,Mother,Reflections,parent,Progeny,Dalit,Downtrodden,Mythology,People,Father,Places or Nature

Hot Websites