(in the wake of Ambedkar)
The sound that I make
ears do not hear –
it breaks out
like hidden music.
Knocking, it doesn't strike
chords on the heart –
like a volcano
it streams flame,
kindling forest fires.
The sound that I make
does not ferment
like milk
and become butter –
as if smashing rocks
it beats,
cracked walls
tumble down harshly.
The sound that I make
does not deceive politely
or bury itself in the mouth –
it's a dazzling sword
brandished and
swung at earth.
The sound that I make
doesn't cool the eyes like sheet lightning –
like thunderbolts
it flashes
striking
all inhuman
systems
and conditions.
By Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy, translated by Prof Rowena Hill.
He says:
I had my own grammar, but experience was the main ingredient. That was why my poetry evaded imitation
Tags: Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy