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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

You write

Friday, March 11th, 2011

For the first time, you write the twang of existence
For the first time, you write the struggle in words.

It should not become an occasion of commotion
Write in words the interaction of silence.

The pains of the era would arrive in the words
You write the screams coming from all directions.

Some moment will catch its meanings
Write the shapes emerging on the walls.

The caravans will move towards the sun
You write such a thought piercing the night.

Our sufferings have remained unwritten
Write, do write all the incidents in detail.

The eye that discriminates between man and man
Write the scorn of the whole human race. 

 

G K Vankar's translation of A K Dodiya's Gujarati poem "You write"  from the poetry collection "Suryonmukha".

We refuse

Tuesday, March 8th, 2011

Now
We refuse
To cool the fire within us
In the sea of pain
And we grow
In our sad eyes
The raging volcanoes.

Now
We refuse
To give palpitating embrace
To hateful inequality
And in the terrified palms
We draw lines of fate afresh.

Now
We refuse
To preserve the worn out walls of
A narrow world
And beyond horizons
We soar
The new sky.

 

 

G K Vankar's translation of the Gujarati poem "We refuse' written by the poet B N Vankar

The valley

Friday, March 4th, 2011

In the distance
in the horizon,
yes, I can perceive a shape like a deep valley.
A bird is passing and lo,
It disappears all of a sudden!
Do my eyes play a trick on me?
I rub my eyes, open them wide,
Try to lighten the load on the eyelids
And the shapes change –
Someone’s head separates from the body swims in the air,
Some feet crushed from knees gallop
As if from a balloon a red color drips, the red tears flow from
The cut breasts crushed by venomous fingers.
On the fourth floor the wild bears clench their teeth
And slaughter meek men,
Below –
The blood rushes:
Man-thirsty blood.
An invisible bird
Settles on the unseen land of mind,
Searches for its wings!
The shapes disperse,
The silence weighing in the sky
Is embraced in the anxious arms of the earth
S l o w l y. 

 

G K Vankar's translation of Harish Mangalam's poem 'The valley' from his poetry collection Prakamp.

Harish Mangalam, born 15 February, 1952, is a Govt. officer (Gujarat Administrative Service). He is editor of 'Hayati', published by Gujarat Dalit Sahitya Academy, Gandhinagar. He also served as the editor of Pratinidhi dalit varta (1997). He has to his credit one collection of poems, 'Prakamp' (1991), and two novels, 'Tirad' (1992) and 'Choki' ( 2002). His short story 'Talap' was published in Katha stories (2001). He is recipient of St.Kabir Dalit Sahitya Award. 

Brainwash

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011

Give me some water from Ganges,
and add waters of seven sacred rivers.
I want to wash thoroughly the brain hanging from
the broken skull of this Chittapavan Brahmin.

Give me a Tata detergent cake
I want to wash each and every cell of his brain.
I want to scrub and scrub to remove the rust on his
thinking since centuries.

This is the Brahmin’s center of hearing,
Along with hymns of Vedas,
Anustupa Meter of Valmiki,
Verses of Upanishadas,
The stanzas of Manusmriti are also taped here.
O’ Brahmin, you are free to chant Upanishads on
the bank of the Ganges at dawn,
But there is no need of the venomous curses of Manusmriti.

This is the center of vision which has given me
black identity since centuries.
O’ Brahmin,
See the blue sky of winter, see the green of forests,.
see the seven colors of rainbow, too
But why do you see the black color of my skin?

This is the Brahmin’s center of smell.
It is stimulated by the stink of my perspiration,
my breath, my karma, my existence.
O Brahmin, there are flowers of jasmine on the earth to smell.
And if there is stink
It comes from corruption, hoarding and lies.
Why my odor is a stink to you?

This is the Brahmin’s center of touch.
This center turns green at the slightest touch of Mahasweta’s breath.
Even with touch of my shadow, it turns bright red hot.

O’ Brahmin, if we had fought together against intruders
We would have not become slaves in history.
In this cell, there is anger against reservation,
Here there is disgust, here hate, here rage of Durvasa,
This false sense of being superior.

Please bring one more detergent cake.
I want to wash each and every cell of your brain thoroughly.
O’ Brahmin, even curd is spoiled if it remains unattended for long.
Your brain is as it is since Vedic times.
See, how disordered, how rotten, how dirty has it become.
Please bring more water from the Ganges and waters from seven sacred rivers. 

 

G K Vankar's translation of Pravin Gadhavi's poem Brainwash from his poetry collection The Bayonet (1985). 

America

Saturday, February 26th, 2011

Dr.Yendluri Sudhakar, poet, professor and researcher (and also a translator:: some of his translations, of Urdu poetry into Telugu, can be read here), travelled to the United States of America in 2002, on the invitation of a Telugu association (ATA). The collection of poems 'ATA janikAnche', a journal of sorts in verse, carries his impressions from the trip. The short but eloquent poems have no titles, only numbers signifying their place in the collection.  Here are my efforts to translate a few of them:

 

108

 

Who

cleaned cotton in

this sky?

Who

wove

this sky-sari?

Who

placed

those cloud-pots there?

Who

washed

this moonlight-scarf so white?

Who

made those two ear-rings,

one for each ear,

for the sky-maiden?

 

109

 

Listen,

if you think I'm not being sarcastic:

There are among us too

those who nurse prejudices about colour

They gather like ants

around white gur

But as soon as they see blacks

they run away

like bugs in the sun..

What is the difference

between the wadas here

and the ghettoes there..

 

106

 

When I walk in Chicago

Martin Luther King's

word flames' roar

rings constantly in my ears

like a slogan

Moses!

If he split the Red Sea

Martin Luther King

created a black ocean

out of scaterred waves

He still reverberates

in race supremacists' hearts

as a blacker slogan

 

74

 

In Pittsburgh

Venkanna* appeared

Without a visa

Babas

Babis

Have their own lobbies

In every home

Spiritual hobbies

However hard I searched

Wherever I looked

I couldn't see my Yellamma+

I didn't meet my Maisamma

 

* Venkanna: refers to the deity Venkateshwara, or Balaji, of Tirupati.

+Yellamma, Maisamma: popular Dalitbahujan deities, village goddesses.

White gold

Friday, February 25th, 2011

The man

who sulked with land

stuck his head

into the sky

 

The pesticide that couldn't kill

the pest

swallowed the man

 

A lifeless

form

is putting the furrow

to sleep

 

The hut

with the broken supporting pole

Mother, children

like palmyra leaves in a storm

 

Like hunger

has many

causes

Deaths

have many, many

needs

 

Those (aatma)hatyas

touch thirty

tens

The hand that fed

is searching for the morsel

 

The sweat

that flowed in the field

is drying on the grave

 

A headless body

attached to its neck

a tree that had shed

its leaves

 

The overflowing tears

became questions

that walked

 

The kind-hearted

leaders say

it is

the cotton farmer's

fault

 

Unable

to offer a gulp of water

they offer advice:

wet your throat

with pesticide

or

liquor.

 

My translation of G.V.Ratnakar's Telugu poem 'tella bangAram' (from his collection of poetry 'maTTi palaka'). Written in 1998, the poet was responding to the suicides of cotton farmers.

For a fistful of self-respect

Wednesday, February 23rd, 2011

I don't know when I was born but

I was killed on this very land thousands of years ago

punarapi jananam punarapi maranam

I don't know the karma theory but

I am taking birth, again and again, in the same place where I had died

My body dissolved in this land

And became the Ganga Sindh plain

When my eyeballs melted as tears

Perennial rivers flowed across this country

When my veins spurted minerals

This land became green and showered wealth

I was Shambhuka in the Treta Yuga

Twenty two years ago, my name was Kanchikacherla Kotesu

My place of birth is Kilvenmani, Karamchedu, Neerukonda

Now Chunduru is the name that cold-blooded feudal brutality

Has tattooed on my heart with ploughshares

From now on, Chunduru is not a noun but a pronoun

Now every heart is a Chunduru, a burning tumour

I am the wound of multitudes, the multitude of wounds

For generations, an unfree individual in a free country

Having been the target

Of humiliations, atrocities, rapes and torture

I am someone raising his head for a fistful of self-respect

In this nation of casteist bigots blinded by wealth

I am someone who lives to register life itself as a protest

I am someone who dies repeatedly to live

Don't call me a victim

I am an immortal, I am an immortal, I am an immortal

I am the poison throated one

Who swallowed the famine so that the world may have wealth

I am the sunrise standing on its head

It was I who kicked the Sun on the head

To make him stand erect

I am the one stoking slogans in my flaming heart's furnace

I don't need words of sympathy or tears of pity

I'm not a victim, I'm an immortal

I am the fluttering flag of defiance

Don't shed tears for me

If you can

Bury me in the middle of the city

I'll bloom as the bamboo grove that sings the melody of life

Print my corpse as this nation's cover

I'll spread as a beautiful future into the pages of history

Invite me into your hearts

I'll become a tussle of conflagrations

And rise again and again in this land.

 

My attempt to translate Kalekuri Prasad's Telugu poem 'piDikeDu aatmagauravam kOsam' (from the collection of poetry 'daLita kavitvam- 2' ; originally published in another collection 'manDutunna chunDuuru'). 

War Moon

Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011

Hanging from the neck of the sky's skeleton

The war moon

He has nuclear bombs all over his body

The fangs of butcherliness in his eyes

Sitting as a judge

On the giant skeleton of the Pentagon

He passes the death sentence on some nations

He doesn't know of the full moon.

Amavasya is all that's there!

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'yuddha chandruDu' by Sivasagar (K.G.Satyamurthy), from the collection of poetry 'kavita 2008' published by Sahiti Mitrulu. The poet says he was inspired by Janet Aalfs' 'War Moon'.

Beef

Sunday, February 20th, 2011

Beef beef

The meat I have eaten since my cord was cut

The meat that has risen as bone of my bone

The meat that has raced as part of my blood;

When you drove me far from the village

When you found even my footprints untouchable

When you couldn't even see me as human

What stood by me

And brought me here was beef;

When you bragged, presenting your side,

Your forefathers drank ghee

Undertook many exploits and so on

It was only beef which stayed with me

Stood by my side;

When its udders were squeezed and milked

You didn't feel any pain at all

When it was stitched into a chappal you stamped underfoot and walked

You didn't feel hurt at all

When it rang as a drum at your marriage and your funeral

You didn't suffer any blows

When it sated my hunger, beef became your goddess?

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'goDDu mAmsam' by Digumarthi Suresh Kumar (from the collection of Madiga poetry 'kaitunakala danDem').

Backbones for broken skeletons

Friday, February 18th, 2011

Those who say that one race

is better than another

Or one man has more merit than another

are history's surviving nazis

 

Good for the world

that from this junkyard of caste skeletons,

from this merit-ridden chaos

Hitler didn't borrow a single page

 

God

puts more wrinkles into some brains perhaps,

because from a book's cover

or a person's appearance

or from someone's colour

they can judge their worth…

They can sniff

and without sowing a seed

tell you that nothing will grow…

If we turn

the wheel of time back

we'll see who poured lead

into the senses meant to absorb learning

and exploded them like landmines!

From whose head did that wisdom grow!

We can decide everyone's worth…

Whenever we say, reservations

should become a social pact

that acknowledges past crimes,

those who smile on the outside

but in their hearts

want to shoot us down with automatic guns,

chop the country into pieces of merit–

aren't they very meritorious!

Aren't they the doctors

who cut open OBC stomachs for free!?

In their utopian melodrama

aren't even the rats in their homes white!!

 

They keep singing of merit

but award contracts to the highest bidders

and seats in medical colleges to big money!

Every car owner who gorges on subsidised petrol

showers the choicest abuse

on those who buy rationed kerosene

calling them a burden on the nation…

 

Like some whites in America

who recommend killing blacks in their wombs

to reduce crime

the IIMs, building obstructive walls of marks,

produce only

expensive coolies

who leave behind a nation milked dry.

 

Ours is an unequal society

that allows only those who own horses to play polo..

Half-broken skeletons

should be fitted with backbones here!

 

Between you and me..

When lives are marked by caste

wouldn't there be caste based reservations!!

If you stuff the only available jobs into your pockets

on the grounds of marks,

Shouldn't all the land

be given to those who till it..!!

 

It is silly..

To think that any race in history that has never worked

ever possessed any merit!

Do they have any history of working as serfs..

Do they have any history of cleaning streets..

Do they have any history of being trampled

under the wheels of discrimination..

 

Now all asses

think of themselves

as being very smart..

 

My translation of the Telugu poem 'virigina asthipamjaraalaku vennemukalu' by Thullimalli Wilson Sudhakar (from his collection of poetry 'daLita vyAkaraNam').

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