They may burn
They can burn
Each other……
A single ignition sufficient
Here to make blasts
Every where
Illiterate becomes learned
By putting theories in his favour only.
By Madhao Dahale, Translated by Rajendra Ankushe. Source: Dalit Poetry Today.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
Son! Yesoba!
Thursday, April 29th, 2010
What can I say Sir!
My son Yesobu
died in the war
my son who could conquer Neerukonda*
lies sacrificed on a slab of ice.
He left with a smile
and has returned as a corpse
smiling, he calls 'nAnna'*
he went on foot and has returned a bridegroom
a flowering plant has returned as a fallen banyan
he has returned.
What can I say? and how?
people turn up here as at a fair
in throngs and throngs,
addressing them, speaking of
my son's 'sacrifices, patriotism'
you, Sarpanch babu! Sir!
When he stopped
people washing their animals
in the tank
didn't you, with a whip
lash my son's chest
mark him with stains?
In the cinema outside our village
for buying a big ticket*
and sitting alongside you
didn't you scheme
to cut his hands legs?
Was it your daughter who looked at him
or he who looked at her
I do not know but-
to kill lionlike Yesobu
you wove the noose,
how can we forget this history!
We know all this
does the rain wash away the wounds, Sir!
On the untouchable's eyelids
these truths stand erect
like crowbars driven into our hearts.
Mothers! Sirs!
My son's death:
this isn't the first,
many times in our village
he died and lived
to live he joined the army
as a corpse, he has returned alive.
Ayyo!
my mind's not in my mind
my mind's not in my mind
Sir! In my eyes
the pyre dances
son! Yesoba! Yesoba!
Yesoba! My father!
For you
I'll weep like Karamchedu*
for you
I'll weep like Chunduru*
for you
I'll weep like Vempenta*
I'll weep like yesterday's Gosayipalem*!
Father! As a teardrop big as the sky
I'll pour like a storm for you!
Elders! Lords!
Salutations!
I wish to curse you
a basketful of curses
I wish to drive a basketful of wild ants
to bite you all over,
to see my son's corpse, arriving
like armies of ants
and disappearing like swarms of locusts,
you patriots!
Wait a second
if you're made of pus and blood, shame and honour
if your liver hasn't melted yet
answer this untouchable's questions:
not my son
you've come to visit his corpse
do you agree?!
My son dead is a veera jawan
alive he's a Mala* jawan
What do you say?
Answer me!
Swear on your Manu
as a pigeon and a snake
can't be linked
your upper caste pride
can't go with patriotism.
Elders! Lords!
Listen! Listen to the untouchable word:
between the village and the wada*
there's a Kargil,
from grandfathers' forefathers' age,
burning between us
this Kargil war
hasn't stopped, it goes on.
Son! Yesoba!
On the third day
if you can't return
find the time
to return some day
and wipe my tears! Father!
-My translation of K.G.Satyamurthy's ('Sivasagar') Telugu poem kodukA! yEsobA!, written in 1999 (from his collection of poetry: 'Sivasagar Kavitvam').
*neerukonDa, kAramcheDu, chunDuuru, vEmpenTa, gOsaayipaalem are all villages where incidents of organized violence against Dalits occurred. The word 'konDa' (in Neerukonda) means 'hill'.
*nAnna: father.
*Mala: a large Dalit sub-caste in South India, mainly found in Andhra Pradesh.
*big ticket: refers to a class of seating in village cinemas where patrons sit in chairs, unlike the other major class where everyone sits on the floor.
*wADa: short for Dalitawada, or Dalit hamlet/quarter in a village.
Melt with the heart inside
Tuesday, April 27th, 2010
In the Four Eternal Vedas,
In the study and reading of scripts,
In sacred ashes and in Holy Writs
And muttering of prayers
You will not find the Lord!
Melt with the Heart Inside
and proclaim the Truth.
Then you will join the Light-
Life without servitude.
By Sivavakkiyar
Sivavakkiyar the Siddha poet, belonged to the cult of Tamil Siddhas which dates back to the 8th century. The Siddha teachings are often excluded and made obscure as heresy. These poet saints were radicals.
Because Siddhas scoff at the Vedic sacrifices and rituals and all forms of worship of icons they were considered to be iconoclasts. They are constantly at war with the upholders of the caste system and violently oppose the practice of untouchability. A tamil Siddha scoffs at untouchability by raising a pertinent question whether the bones, flesh and skin of an upper caste woman (brahman) and a lower caste woman (paraiya) are distinguishable on the basis of caste. He asks: are they numbered on the basis of caste?
The above reference is attributed to Sivavakkiyar. His heretical approach to opposing any kind of orthodoxy particularly that of the brahmanical order, caste system and idol worship, ensured the exclusion of his work from the Saiva canonical literature. Some of his poems though have survived.
Source: a) Hindu Spirituality: Postclassical and modern. K.R. Sundarajan, Bithika Mukerji. b) The poets of the powers. Kamil Zvelebil.
Greetings
Monday, April 26th, 2010
A century will end
a new year will arrive
if what's happening now is war
why shouldn't what's arriving be war?
You know the candles you're lighting
are dying
the earthen lamps in your streets
are signs of your darkness
why do you
light up all the festive pandals
while leaving the lamp in your heart unlit?
Yes, until yesterday your hut used to burn to ashes
today, used as firewood in the winter fires lit in your gudem*
you've turned into soot.
It was in Vempenta** that they were burnt alive
you can go on celebrating the festival
until those flames touch us.
With the sharpened knives those babus gave you
cut your bodies into two
to inspire the fistfuls of blood
to flow as canals in your gudems
this new year, take a manusmriti as greeting
from those babus.
To commemorate your happiness
feast
on your children's future cut, like bread, into pieces
as a reflection of the blood
and in place of the body of
Christ.
This is a happy occasion
we shouldn't think about anything
even if the ground under our feet is cutting us
like the teeth of a saw we'll shout in joy
and chase away all the street dogs
to rule the streets tonight.
Students!
Let's sweep
all our university rooms clean
Come, let's heap all those glass shards
on pages torn from our books,
Ambedkar will be born again anyway
to light lamps in our dark rooms
and burn our black lips
with hot coals
to purify them,
love us and leave.
Brothers!
You who ate the first fruits
are you handing over new begging bowls
to the next generation?
Yes this is a new year
so only those who died
are singing the song of war
only that song can guide us.
Men
become lovers of war
not to walk with history
but to run history.
Tried to translate Katti Padma Rao's Telugu poem, 'Greeting' (from his collection of poetry, 'mulla kiriiTam').
*guuDem: Dalit quarter in a village.
** VEmpenTa refers to this incident.
Nishedhanama
Saturday, April 24th, 2010
Your produced regions of deception
With sharp beaks take my bites, in the surrounding intense wailing,
And beautiful crudeness you call literature
Dazzled by ornate words you call Mahakavi
You worship dirt covered with flowers
To infinite poverty you narrate story of king and queen
You write literature, write shashtras and philosophy of convenience
But here is the dominance of some people
I will go saying it by showing, wailing
While going I won't remain dumb I will go cursing this clutter
…….
Let the earth be shattered
The sounds of bells in ancient temples
rung to extinguish me be razed
……
The clothes of the assassins will torrentially tear
All tents of sins I will without hesitation burn
While going I won't remain dumb I will go cursing this clutter
I have given answers on coming while going I will carry questions.
Excerpts from Yashwant Manohar's collection of poems: Uttangumpha. Source: Dalit Literature: Nature and role.
And now
Friday, April 23rd, 2010
At noon
I'm looking at my corpse
blocking the sluice of the tank
Moving hither thither
from the wind's blows
my corpse has bloated
after slipping into the sluice
Perhaps now
I'll look
at the corpse breaking up the sluice.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'ika ippuDu' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pATa') by Jugash Vili.
Village
Thursday, April 22nd, 2010
There is a village
which sits on my shoulders like a vulture …
despite this O my village
I uninvited relate with you
as you fly
within and outside of me
like a vulture
Excerpt from "Bayan-Bahar" the autobiographical poem of Sukhveer Singh, a Hindi Dalit Poet. Dalit Nirvachit Kavitayen (Selected Dalit Poems) from here.
Open the doors wide…
Wednesday, April 21st, 2010
The rivers are solidifying
the mountains are flowing
open the doors wide…
This is not the time of the rising sun
this is the hour of the blazing sun
it's difficult to keep the eyes closed
There are only whilrwinds and storms here
and no breezes or drizzles
You won't hear the tinkle of the anklets now
or the sitar music of gentle breezes
There's only an endless roll of drums
for now, they might be diverse voices
so what? They're all defiant voices!
Friend!
Now, here
the waves are crossing the shore
open the doors wide…
they'll flow into you
or they'll cross you too.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'talupulu bArlA teru…' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pATa') by Jugash Vili.
This is enough
Monday, April 19th, 2010
You've the Brahmastra,
good for you.
You've the Paashupatastra,
good for you.
You've the Vishnu Chakra,
good for you.
You've Arjuna's Gandeeva,
Bhima's mace, Drona's tuft
good for you.
You've Rama's bow,
Anjaneya's tail,
Parasurama's sword,
good for you.
You've power, you've glory,
good for you
You've that..this..
good for you
that..this..you can keep.
We've only Ekalavya's
left thumb
still left with us,
this is enough for us
to fight with you…
My translation of the Telugu poem 'ennunTEnEm?' (from the 1996 collection of Dalit poetry, 'padunekkina pATa') by Suryavamshi.
Stove (cul)
Saturday, April 17th, 2010
Last night’s cooking fire
Whelped on your doorstep
Your core burned
Ceaseless in her womb
Your bed sucked
Her dry of
Upside-down fortune
Now you must burn
Illuminating dusk
Keep your nest
For her chicks
And of course you must
Bloody your hands
Seek a knife
To cut the cord
Cover yourself my girl
And don’t weep
For the cooking fire
Of yesterday birthed
On your doorstep.
Poem By Dalit poet Prathiba Pore translated by Gauri Deshpande. Source: Images of women in Maharashtrian Literature and religion.