Monday, October 24th, 2011
To arrange words
In some order
Is not the same thing
As the inner poise
That's poetry.
The truth of poetry
Is the truth
Of being.
It's an experience
Of truth.
No ornaments
Survive
A crucible.
Fire reveals
Only molten
Gold.
Says Tuka
We are here
To reveal.
We do not waste
Words.
Sant Tukaram's poem translated by Dilip Chitre
Wednesday, October 5th, 2011
Stork! Stork! Red-legged stork!
Red-legged stork with the coral beak that tapers
Like the cleft root of the fruitful palmyrah tree!
When you and your wife have bathed at the southern cape,
If you should return to the North,
Stop at the home of Sattimurram at our village,
And tell my wife, who must be intently watching
The clicking lizard on the rain-wet wall,
That in the city of our king Maran,
without a garment, and shivering from the cold,
Covering my body with my hands,
Embracing my bosom with my legs,
And sighing like a snake within a case,
Me, you have seen here.
Source: A history of Tamil literature, section 10, The people's poets, page 229. Translation by authors C Jesudasan and Hephzibah Jesudasan. About this poem and poet, the authors write:
For the Tamils cherish the memory, not of these (sittar poets), as much as of those isolated wandering bards, who with simplicity and sincerity have touched on some of the tenderest chords of life. Many of these poets could not have even been recognized by the Sanskrit standards and several were downright beggars. Avvai had said 'When hunger comes, everything else takes wing'. Hunger had come to the people, yet poetry had not abandoned them.
A humble poet, called Sattimurra-p-pulavar, has left a very beautiful poem supposed to be addressed by a wandering bard to a stork. It not only shows the sorrows of the Tamil bard at the time, but it is exquisite poetry, with the delicate aroma of Sangam literature on it, and as a sheer picture of poverty excelled only by Perumcittirnar's words to Kumanan. Though we cannot translate the diction, we shall render into English the idea of this poem, which is found today in most anthologies of miscellaneous Tamil verses.
Friday, September 2nd, 2011
For having skinned the five spirits
by driving a nail into the sky
another into the patala
and soaking the hide in the seven seas you
deserve those sun and moon gods
as sandals for your feet!
In hunger
or in humiliation
head bowed
you stitch
your skin into shoes
Grandfather!
I dream
that this world
should turn into a strap
and kiss
your big toe.
My translation of Dr. Yendluri Sudhakar's kotta kala from 'kaitunakala danDem', a collection of Madiga poetry.
Friday, August 19th, 2011
It's not just milk
but crores of sins are white too
only, adulterated by a few tears
Glass-eyed swans
tell me about the color of tears, not the portion of water
you're the angels
who slipped off a tipsy heaven
reveling in the waters, you must have slurped the oceans
tell me about the taste of tears
in god's deep embrace
you must have perspired a little
tell me about the scent of tears
I, like the dark cloud
could rain down a flood
on how tears feel
It's not just jasmines
hand-gloves are white too
only, stained by a little blood
Having washed your hands, emperors
before you crown me with thorns
show me a thimbleful of dark blood
you are the serpent kings of the primeval jungle
you must have bitten the dust, where man got hurt
tell me about the taste of the blood that spilled
when you caressed the warrior's back as a whip
the sandalwood trees must have swooned
tell me about the scent of blood
Having ascended the cross
like a throne, I, on the other hand
when asked about the blood
will guide your fingers through the holes in my palms
Not just the seven colors
the four varnas mixed are white too
only, darkened by a little fifthness
Raised by the crumbs of angarajya to a finer varna, O arch sudras
tell me about the color of power
from God's feet to his shoulders
you've climbed, oppressors
manu's dharma in your moneypurses
hoarded, of course,
tell me about the taste of power
In the scum-laden lake
what springs forth doesn't reflect your face
tell me about the scent of power
I, who you have never considered human
if asked about the feel of power
shall unpeel its skin, to illustrate.
My translation of Satish Chandar's Telugu poem 'Lost Angels'
Tuesday, August 9th, 2011
Let us put aside the arms and convene a round table conference.
We have no nation, no identity,
We have no land to till, no house to live in.
You did not leave even a blade of grass for us since times of Aryavart.
OK, we would forget that.
Are you ready to break the walls that you constructed in the village?
We are ready to dissolve like sugar in milk.
Will you tolerate if your Draupadi selects our son Galiya as her husband?
And will your Arjun accept our daughter Raili if she comes as new Chitrangada?
Let us pull the dead cattle turn by turn, do you agree?
We are ready to eat your leftover food,
Will you eat leftover food at our marriage ceremony?
Let us remove provisions for reservation from our constitution.
Our Magan and Chhagan will compete on open merit basis,
But will you give admission to them in your convent schools?
Let us put aside arms,
and till the fertile land of our country together.
But will you give us half the share of the harvest?
G K Vankar's translation of Pravin Gadhavi's Gujarati poem Farewell to arms from his poetry collection The Bayonet (1985).
Pravin Gadhavi, born 13 May 1951, is an IAS Officer in the Government of Gujarat. A prolific writer, his collections of poetry are The Bayonet (1985), Padchhayo (1996) and Tunir (2002). His short story collections are Pratiksha (1995), Antarvyatha (1995) and Surajpankhi. The last publication was given Govt. of Gujarat Award.
Wednesday, July 20th, 2011
Oh learned men!
You surely know
that impurities of touch
completely dissolve
when a high caste man
takes a dip in water
and changes his clothes
But look at the untouchable hordes!
Howsoever much
they rub themselves
with soap and water
and splash and dip
and scrub and polish,
they cannot shake off ‘untouchability’,
which clings to their bodies.
That is how and why
they have remained untouchables
over the millennia.
No-one has been able to decide
if untouchability
is a colour or a touch,
a feeling or an ideal;
whether it resides
in the one who touches,
or the one who is touched.
A learned high caste man
could start a coaching center
and make good money
if he could simply teach untouchables
how to shake off untouchability
with a single dip in water
and a change of clothes.
Basudev Sunani is an Oriya poet; his poems have been translated by Rabindra K Swain and J P Das. His poetry collections include Asprushya (Untouchable), Karadi Haata (Bamboo Shoots Market) and Chhi (Sneer), and several critical essays and short stories. He is a veterinarian by training, and blogs here.
Courtesy: The Poem Hunter
Friday, July 15th, 2011
When life comes to its end
You, please transport
My lifeless body
Place it on the soil of Father Koubru
To reduce my dead body
To cinders amidst the flames
Chopping it with axe and spade
Fills my mind with revulsion
The outer cover is sure to dry out
Let it rot under the ground
Let it be of some use to future generations
Let it transform into ore in the mine
I'll spread the fragrance of peace
From Kanglei, my birthplace
In the ages to come
It will spread all over the world.
Sharmila began her protest after the Malom massacre where 10 civilians were gunned down by the Armed Forces on 2 November 2000. AFSPA provides special powers to arrest, detain and even kill civilians on suspicion. The power to search and destroy properties on mere suspicion is granted to the Armed Forces of the Union in the 'disturbed areas' of the North East (and subsequently in Kashmir). Where ever AFSPA is in operation, enforced 'disappearances', extra-judicial killings, torture, rape and arbitrary detention have been routinely reported. In 1958 when the Union Home Minster introduced the law in the Parliament, he assured that the Act will be in operation for only 6 months. But it has dragged on for more than 52 years now! Read More
Saturday, July 9th, 2011
My land's not mine, they said,
I became a revolutionary
My body's not mine, they said,
I became a feminist
My village is not mine, they said,
I became a Dalitist
My nation is not mine, they said,
I became a minorityist
My region is not mine, they said,
I became a separatist
Finally,
I am not even human, they said,
Step away
I've become a human bomb.
My attempt to translate Satish Chandar's Telugu poem 'yuga spruha' (''yuga spRha'). It can be found in his collection of poetry, 'aadiparvam', published in 2008. You can also read the original Telugu poem at Satish Chandar's blog here.
Tuesday, June 28th, 2011
48
Why, honey is the bee's saliva;
the beetle's saliva is on the flower,
the cow's milk itself is mixed with the saliva of the calf!
why should there be so much fuss over it?
36
Milk does not return to the udder, nor butter to the butter-milk;
Nor the life within the sea-shell, if it breaks, to its body;
The blown flower, the fallen fruit, do not return to the tree;
The dead are not born, never, never, never, never!
Sivavakkaiyar, known to laugh at those who bathe for cleanliness' sake and yet are unclean at heart, comments on pollution associated with human saliva. It is considered terribly unclean and forms a core ritual avoidance in brahmanism. Sivavakkiyar refuses to consider saliva unclean in itself in the above excerpt (48) from one of his padal (songs). In the next padal (36), Sivavakkiyar refutes another central tenet of brahmanism, the theory of transmigration.
Source: A history of Tamil literature. C Jesudasan and Hephzibah Jesudasan.
—
Read Sivavakkiyar's anti-caste poem here.
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 of 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.
Tuesday, June 21st, 2011
It is just as well
that I got to know
your blindness
from the very start.
Simply because my feet
touched the ground
you are seeking to purify it,
sprinkling holy cowdung water.
Had I requested
your house on rent
you would have been enraged
and driven me out
like a pariah dog.
Perhaps you do not know
that the land your house stands on
is surrounded by air
suffused with my dirty breath.
The bricks of your house
have been made from clay
from the river bed
where my humble hut stands,
moulded by the supple hands
of men whom you have discarded,
calling them untouchable.
Now you have moved
into your beautiful house
you preach that untouchables
are not human beings,
that they are worse than animals,
to be despised.
Dear sir,
if you have the moral courage,
strip open the walls
and look at the rubble
and see,
how each atom of brick and sand
bears the sweet smell
of untouchability.
Basudev Sunani is an Oriya poet, his poems have been translated by Rabindra K Swain and J P Das. His poetry collections include Asprushya (Untouchable), Karadi Haata (Bamboo Shoots Market) and Chhi (Sneer), and several critical essays and short stories. He is a veterinarian by training, his blogposts can be found here.
Courtesy: The Poem Hunter