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Avarnam

July 16th, 2010 by naren bedide

On the banks of the Godavari

where my mother hung me

from a tamarind tree

and went to lift soil,

the calls of the crows

that gathered around my wail

are my music gurus

 

The hills

around Nagarjuna Sagar,

where my father died

while building the dam,

which consoled me

are the gurus who taught me courage.

 

The blood that spilled,

when my mother

who went into the forest

to collect firwood

was caught in thorns,

is the colour

in my eyes.

The angry sorrow

that flowed from our eyes,

when my mother and I

who had gone for harvest jobs

to East Godavari

left our bags

and my brother in the station

and returned

and saw

his decapitated body

on the tracks,

is my lesson in aesthetics.

 

My mother's shout,

which lifted me up

barefooted

when I stepped

on the hot tar

being poured

on the trunk road,

is my heart's voice.

The scene

that I saw,

on the shore of Bhimli

when I went

searching

after I heard

that my brother

who'd gone fishing

in the sea

was caught

in a storm,

is the form

in my eyes.

 

Black crow

Black hill

Black tar

Black ocean

are my signs

Black reign

is my destination.

 

My translation of Katti Padma Rao's Telugu poem 'avarNam' ( from the collection of Dalit poetry 'padunekkina pAta').

O My Birsa!

July 12th, 2010 by anuradha

Bhujang Meshram

Birsa Munda 1

Birsa, you have to arrive from anywhere

Either on a sickle that cuts grass

Or an axe that cuts wood

From here or from there

From East-West or from North-South

Turning into the breeze of the farm

Come from anywhere

O My Birsa! People wait for you

~

Bhujang Mesharam, a Gondi and Marathi poet.

Source: 'Tribal contemporary issues: appraisal and intervention', by Ramnika Gupta, Anup Beniwal.

Mehmaan

July 7th, 2010 by admin

I said welcome to the guest
He said– I am a refugee
from a certain hunting party.
the dove that's escaped!
regarded him as only a mehmaan
I didn't understand- what do I serve him
didn't understand- what do I serve him
I asked him what he liked
'Eating with my family' he said.
Like a dried well
what did he hide inside?
Is this food?
With frightened eyes that had lost trust,
hesitant..
The smoke's still coming out from somewhere he said!
Pecking at a few fistfuls,
remembering his family with every morsel..
It didn't seem like he was eating- drawing
sorrow from the seas inside
he seemed he's here
but wandering elsewhere..
The brother lost..the sister taken away…
the families destroyed
The estranged watan…remembering in delirium
his lane razed
friends killed
villages disfigured
nation scattered
Because two eyes weren't enough
he seemed to grieve with his whole body!
Finally without making a sound
departing like he came, he said-
'Bloodthirst is a dangerous disease'.

– Naren Bedide's translation of the Telugu poem Mehmaan by Shahjahana (first published in Andhra Jyoti in December 2007). The Gujarat carnage in 2002 forms the backdrop of this poem.

Shahjahana is a young muslim poet who writes in Telugu, her first poetry book, Nakab addresses gender discrimination, culture and communal disharmony. 

Man, You Should Explode

July 6th, 2010 by naren bedide

Man, you should explode
Yourself to bits to start with
Jive to a savage drum beat
Smoke hash, smoke ganja
Chew opium, bite lalpari
Guzzle country booze—if too broke,
Down a pint of the cheapest dalda
Stay tipsy day and night, stay tight round the clock
Cuss at one and all; swear by his mom’s twat, his sister’s cunt
Abuse him, slap him in the cheek, and pummel him…
Man, you should keep handy a Rampuri knife
A dagger, an axe, a sword, an iron rod, a hockey stick, a bamboo
You should carry acid bulbs and such things on you
You should be ready to carve out anybody’s innards without batting an eyelid
Commit murders and kill the sleeping ones
Turn humans into slaves; whip their arses with a lash
Cook your beans on their bleeding backsides
Rob your next-door neighbours, bust banks
Fuck the mothers of moneylenders and the stinking rich
Cut the throat of your own kith and kin by conning them; poison them, jinx them
You should hump anyone’s mother or sister anywhere you can
Engage your dick with every missy you can find, call nobody too old to be screwed
Call nobody too young, nobody too green to shag, lay them one and all
Perform gang rapes on stage in the public
Make whorehouses grow: live on a pimp’s cut: cut the women’s noses, tits
Make them ride naked on a donkey through the streets to shame them
Man, one should dig up roads, yank off bridges
One should topple down streetlights
Smash up police stations and railway stations
One should hurl grenades; one should drop hydrogen bombs to raze
Literary societies, schools, colleges, hospitals, airports
One should open the manholes of sewers and throw into them
Plato, Einstein, Archimedes, Socrates,
Marx, Ashoka, Hitler, Camus, Sartre, Kafka,
Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Ezra Pound, Hopkins, Goethe,
Dostoevsky, Mayakovsky, Maxim Gorky,
Edison, Madison, Kalidasa, Tukaram, Vyasa, Shakespeare, Jnaneshvar,
And keep them rotting there with all their words
One should hang to death the descendents of Jesus, the Paighamber, the Buddha, and Vishnu
One should crumble up temples, churches, mosques, sculptures, museums
One should blow with cannonballs all priests
And inscribe epigraphs with cloth soaked in their blood
Man, one should tear off all the pages of all the sacred books in the world
And give them to people for wiping shit off their arses when done
Remove sticks from anybody’s fence and go in there to shit and piss, and muck it up
Menstruate there, cough out phlegm, sneeze out goo
Choose what offends one’s sense of odour to wind up the show
Raise hell all over the place from up to down and in between
Man, you should drink human blood, eat spit roast human flesh, melt human fat and drink it
Smash the bones of your critics’ shanks on hard stone blocks to get their marrow
Wage class wars, caste wars, communal wars, party wars, crusades, world wars
One should become totally savage, ferocious, and primitive
One should become devil-may-care and create anarchy
Launch a campaign for not growing food, kill people all and sundry by starving them to death
Kill oneself too, let disease thrive, make all trees leafless
Take care that no bird ever sings, man, one should plan to die groaning and screaming in pain
Let all this grow into a tumour to fill the universe, balloon up
And burst at a nameless time to shrink
After this all those who survive should stop robbing anyone or making others their slaves
After this they should stop calling one another names white or black, Brahmin, Kshatriya, Vaishya, or Shudra;
Stop creating political parties, stop building property, stop committing
The crime of not recognising one’s kin, not recognising one’s mother or sister
One should regard the sky as one’s grandpa, the earth as one’s grandma
And coddled by them everybody should bask in mutual love
Man, one should act so bright as to make the Sun and the Moon seem pale
One should share each morsel of food with everyone else, one should compose a hymn
To humanity itself, man, man should sing only the song of man.
 

Found that Marathi poem by Namdeo Dhasal (from Golpitha, 1972), translated by Dilip Chitre, at the Almost Island site.

Aadu Pambe

June 23rd, 2010 by anuradha

 

We'll set fire to the divisions of caste,

we'll debate philosophical questions in the market place,

we'll have dealings with despised households.

We'll go around in different paths –

Aadu pambe! aadu!

 

This verse is from a six hundred-line long Siddha poem, by Pambatti Cittar. 

The Tamil Siddha poems are a “grand remonstrance against almost everything that was held sacred” in their time. The Siddhas were “implacable opponents of the caste system and the gradations of orthodoxy and respectability it gave rise to.” The period of Siddha poetry stretches from 6th century onwards, with the major contribution peaking between 14 and 18th century. Pambatti Cittar's poetry has a characteristic refrain aadu pambe! aadu! (dance, snake! dance!) the snake as a metaphor for the soul seeking liberation.

 

Source: K, Kailaspathy in The Writings of the Tamil Siddhars. An essay in the book, The Saints, and from Dance, snake! dance!, a translation with comments of the song of Pampatti-Cittar by David C. Buck.

Poetry Reading

June 21st, 2010 by naren bedide

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience.

As I continued to read…
There came a moment – who knows why –
when a couple of them wrinkled their noses
And astonished, I said to the poet in me
"What's the reason for this?"
And he answered me,
"It was to be expected…
All that's happened is
the settled sludge has been stirred
and the water's grown cloudy."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience

As I continued to read…
There came a moment when
a couple got up and left
But the eyelids of the others
seemed ready to shed rain
And, distressed, I said to the poet in me,
"Why is this happening?"
And he answered me,
"It's only natural
All that's happened is
the moisture pent up till today
is looking to break out."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I wa reading the faces of the audience

As I continued to read…
There came a moment when
I saw embers flaring in the pupils of their eyes
And, frightened, I said to the poet in me,
"What's this that's happening?"
And he answered me,
"It was this I was waiting for
All that's happening is
the dynamite fuses, nearly burnt out,
are trying to falre up again."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience

As I continued to read…
There came a moment when
I saw a dazzling brilliance in their eyes
And, curious, I said to the poet in me,
"Why is this happening?"
And he answered me,
"It's inevitable.
All tha's happening is
they're marching in battle
on this fearful darkness."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience

Found that interesting Marathi poem by Damodar More (translated by Priya Adarkar) at Dr. Navras Jaat Aafreedi's Social Activism blog. Thanks Rahul Gautam Vardhan, for the tip.

God’s caste

June 16th, 2010 by anuradha

 

What is the caste of God Narayana?

And Siva?

What is the caste of Atman?

And of Jiva?

Why talk of kula 

When God has blessed you.

 

By the Saint-Poet Kanakadasa. Eleanor Zelliot and Rohini Mokashi-Punekar in the book Untouchable Saints: An Indian Phenomenon write:

The sixteenth-century Kanakadasa of Karnataka was low caste although not untouchable. He was not allowed to enter the temple at Udipi and so, according to legend similar to that told of Chokamela, he went behind the temple to pray and the image of Krishna turned to face him, remaining in this position even to this day [….] Not surprisingly, Kanaka had strong words about caste and lineage (kula).

To Dear Aana

June 14th, 2010 by anuradha

The sunset does not bury our sorrows,

nor does sunrise bring new hopes.

Everything continues, relentlessly.

Society, bound by her rituals of ages,

chews up chunks of human flesh

in blind fury:

the horse she rides

bleeds and foams at the mouth;

she holds the reins

of an ancient system;

her predator's ears

listen to the twittering of birds;

in the orthodoxy of her world

passion and intensity are ridiculed.

Therefore, dear Aana,

you ought not to have cherished expectations 

of a lingering kiss in the long night. 

 

By Suresh Kadam, translated by Vilas Sarang. Source: Poisoned Bread: Marathi Dalit Literature.

Texts

June 9th, 2010 by anuradha

Waking up,
Sitting up with a yawn,
Rolling up the tattered mat,
Tucking up the torn mundu,
Walking along the hedges.
Not for a lark.
The muddy fields grimace,
The cows wag their tails.

Where is that long night –
The one they sang their fervent hymns about,
The one they said spring thunder
Would light up with brilliant flashes
Before the great new dawn arrived?

Hate, anger –
Glinting knives
Still whetted
On racing pulses.

They stood leaning against the good old walls,
The graying firebrands.
Out of the dry, cracked, poetry-less soil they had sprung.
Drained by the waters of compassion
They had grown dreams on their bodies.

They now watch
As texts are served on a platter. 

 

By Raghavan Atholi, translated by K.M Sheriff  who writes "He has forged a unique idiom and unique imagery, distilled from Dalit culture and experience. The fierce expressions and torrid images in Raghavan’s poetry appear destined to be lasting influences in Malayalam poetry. He has certainly been an influence on the rise of his younger contemporaries like S. Joseph and Renu Kumar in Malayalam poetry.”

The novel Chorapparisham by Raghavan Atholi  won the prestigious Vaikkam Muhammed Basheer Memorial Award in 2006.

Life’s like that

June 2nd, 2010 by admin

To the ka ka

sound of cawing

crows

father gets up, says

"mother the white

dawn has come."

 

Picking up his sleeping rag,

he puts it on, thinks

the calf might stray, and runs

to his master's house.

 

My mother his wife

follows behind him,

mucks out the byre,

spreads fresh dung on the floors,

cleans her teeth and cringes

outside,

filling a fold in her sari,

with the house's leftovers.

 

Under the noonday sun

father ploughs and sows

and draws water from the well;

he pours drops of blood

turned to sweat, and all

to fill someone else's corn bin.

 

Milking buffaloes, grazing

cows, fattening sheep,

taking them to water and bathing them,

herself without shelter,

my mother stands –

and not even a cup of milk

for her own child.

The lambs are sold for necklaces

for someone else's throat.

 

In her own house

there's no calf to prance around,

no cows to swing their horns,

no veranda to decorate

with rangoli.

 

But what devotion

to things that don't belong to her!

 

The bodies so battered

by master's bad temper

and mistress's selfishness

cling together and enter their hut.

As they fall asleep

an owl

says "guk".

 

Life's like that is a poem from Mudnakudu Chinnaswamy's selection of poems translated by Prof. Rowena Hill. In 2002, he conceptualized and directed the play 'Bahuroopi' with the Rangayana Repertoire for the National Drama festival held at Mysore. This poetry based drama reflected the theme of social justice in Kannada Poetry from the 10th Century onwards. 

M. Chinnaswamy is a noted public speaker and a vocal advocate for eradicating caste system, the inhuman practice of untouchability and against fundamentalism. He is the founder President, Buddhist Literary and Cultural Association, Gadag and Director, Dalith Sahithya Parishath, State Committee which is instrumental in spreading subaltern culture and literature. 

 

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