English
Thangjam Ibopishak (b. 1948)
Poem
Now in this land
One cannot speak aloud
One cannot think openly
So poem,
Like a flower I sport with you.
Before my eyes, incident upon incident,
Awesome, trembling
Walking yet sleeping
Eyes open but dreaming
Standing yet seeing nightmares
in dreams in reality
Only fearsome shivering instances
So around me closing eyes
Palms on ears
Moulding the heart to a mere thing of clay
I write poems about flowers.
Now in this land
One should only think of flowers
Dream of flowers
For my small baby, my wife
For my job
To protect myself from harm.
Translated from the Manipuri by Robin Ngangom
Mangalesh Dabral (b. 1948)
Outside
I closed the door
and sat down to write a poem
There was a light breeze blowing
and a little light
A bicycle stood in the rain
A child was returning home
I wrote a poem
which had no breeze no light
no bicycle no child
and no
door
Translated from the Hindi by the poet
From Jayavallabha’s Vajjalagam (c. 8 CE)
On Poetry
The meaning
of a poem
tho’ rich in appeal
delights but a few;
indeed, not all trees blossom
at the touch
of a pretty woman’s foot.
May Sanskrit poetry
and with it all those poets
who composed it
be burnt down!
The fire crackles
when a house of bamboo burns.
Whoever queries
in Sanskrit,
when a poetic recitation
in Prakrit is on,
is hurling a rock
on a bed of flowers.
Both love and Prakrit poems,
when pressed hard,
perish,
for they’re soft and gentle,
and suffer greatly
under love-bites.
Translated from the Prakrit by H.V Nagaraja Rao and T.R.S. Sharma
Buddhadeva Bose (1908-74)
For My Forty-Eighth Winter: 2
Draw the curtain in that window. In that field there’s absolutely
nothing to see.
They only want to seduce you—grass, earth, pond, sky.
Throw away those dolls, flowers, pet birds, pots of precious
cacti.
Sink into ennui that’s without pique, ever in the same beat, and
doesn’t cheat.
There’s nothing in that yard. Become deaf if you can.
Who can teach you what’s not yours already—what wise man?
Rather, take up on your shoulders Grandad Sindbad’s pack,
go search all day for a rime or two, like an ass, like a hack.
Winter drops its anchor. Who needs anything else?
The blank wall wakes up, shows shores, islets, seas.
They all blend—hours, times of the day, change itself.
Casting into darkness its fancy particoloured shawl,
patched with sunlight and moonlight, the earth recedes,
knowing that on the shore of its motion you will re-create all.
Translated from the Bangla by Ketaki Kushari Dyson
B.C. Ramchandra Sharma (1925-2005)
An Old Tale from China
Exquisite, the Emperor exclaimed.
The artist did not raise his head.
Brush dipped in Nature’s essence,
he had worked for seven years on the wall.
Forest river and peaks covered in snow—
Nature seems to have yielded her all.
The moon had sewn a lace of gold
to the pure black saree of the clouds.
That is no moon. I want that ball
Whimpered the queen’s little child.
Marvellous, cooed the populace.
There was no smile on the artist’s face.
The stars giggle watching themselves
in the clear water of the pond.
Trees plunged to wash their fruits
as people stood with outstretched hands.
You could hear lovers whisper
as they made love on the beach.
The girl opened her eyes. Seeing the silent
witnesses, a rose bloomed on her cheeks.
Pure magic, the Emperor cried.
Still the artist did not say a word.
And there was a hill and at its foot
a half-shut wooden door.
From beyond the reach of perfect art
a Mystery called, promising much more.
What is there beyond, asked the Emperor.
The artist turned to look at the door.
When the Emperor signalled with his eyes,
he opened the door and vanished in the mist.
As the ruler took the first step to follow,
the door banged shut as if in a gust.
Translated from the Kannada by the poet
Kedarnath Singh (b. 1934)
On Reading a Love Poem
When I’d read that long love poem
I closed the book and asked—
Where are the ducks?
I was surprised that they were nowhere
even far into the distance.
It was in the third line of the poem
or perhaps the fifth
that I first felt
there might be ducks here somewhere.
I’d heard the flap flap of their wings
but that may have been my illusion.
I don’t know for how long
that woman
had been standing in the twelfth line
waiting for a bus.
The poem was completely silent
about where she wanted to go.
Only a little sunshine
sifted from the seventeenth floor
was falling on her shoulders.
The woman was happy
at least there was nothing in her face to suggest
that by the time she reached the twenty-first line
she’d disappear completely
like every other woman.
There were Sakhu trees
standing where the next line began
the trees were spreading
a strange dread through the poem.
Every line that came next
was a deep disturbing fear and doubt
about every subsequent line.
If only I’d remembered—
it was in the nineteenth line
that the woman was slicing potatoes.
She was slicing
large round brown potatoes
inside the poem
and the poem was becoming
more and more silent,
more solid.
I think it was the smell
of freshly chopped vegetables
that kept the woman alive
for the next several lines.
By the time I got to the twenty-second line
I felt that the poem was changing its location.
like a speeding bullet
the poem had whizzed over the woman’s shoulder
towards the Sakhu trees.
There were no lines after that
there were no more words in the poem
there was only the woman
there were only
her shoulders her back
her voice—
there was only the woman
standin
g whole outside the poem now
and breaking it to pieces.
Translated from the Hindi by Vinay Dharwadker
‘IN YOUR GRACIOUS GARDEN’
From the Rig Veda (c. 17 CE-11 BCE)
Creation Hymn
There was neither non-existence nor existence then; there was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond. What stirred? Where? In whose protection? Was there water, bottomlessly deep?
There was neither death nor immortality then. There was no distinguishing sign of night nor of day. That one breathed, windless, by its own impulse. Other than that there was nothing beyond.
Darkness was hidden by darkness in the beginning; with no distinguishing sign, all this was water. The life force that was covered with emptiness, that one arose through the power of heat.
Desire came upon that one in the beginning; that was the first seed of mind. Poets seeking in their heart with wisdom found the bond of existence in non-existence.
Their cord was extended across. Was there below? Was there above? There were seed-placers; there were powers. There was impulse beneath; there was giving-forth above.
Who really knows? Who will here proclaim it? Whence was it produced? Whence is this creation? The gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe. Who then knows whence it has arisen?
Whence this creation has arisen—perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not—the one who looks down on it, in the highest heaven, only he knows—or perhaps he does not know.
Translated from the Sanskrit by Wendy Doniger
From the oral Kannada epic Halumatha Mahakavya
Creation Myth
Water—water without any form. Earth there was not;
Sky there was not, they say; Earth there was not, they say.
Water—water without any form, wind there was not;
Water—water without any form, waves there were not.
Waves there were none; and then, a bubble arose out of water;
A bubble arose then out of water, and a head out of it.
A head out of it; and then the torso;
To the head were joined three hundred and sixty nerves.
Head first; and then the body, legs and arms were formed.
Hara came into being, Guru came into being;
Sound and music, and then words were created.
Music and word; and then, Hara and Guru came into being.
Eight-colored Jyotirlinga* and the earth were created.
When Jyotirlinga was created, prayers were heard.
Guru makes words then, and Hara watches;
As Hara watches, he hears music.
He hears music, and he listens to the Word.
As speech begins, sacred hymns come into being;
With sacred hymns, fifty-two sounds are created.
Fifty-two sounds become fifty-two letters on their own.
O, Guru! Fifty-two letters are created;
With fifty-two letters speech and chanting begin.
With speech and chants, knowledge and wisdom are seen.
Translated from the Kannada by C.N. Ramachandran and Padma Sharma
Akhtar-ul Iman (1915-96)
Creation
I’m sure I could create a world!
A few hamlets, a heart-broken few.
A sun and a moon, and a few shining stars.
Supports forever wavering, and hopes that are never fulfilled.
Let lights be swallowed up in darkness.
Let life forever cry itself to sleep.
And let this tale unfold through all eternity.
Let helplessness be the way of life,
Let death’s anguish be the light relief,
And let the desert sand run red with blood.
Let plagues come down from heaven,
Let prayers rise up, quiet and sad,
And let me stay merciless forever.
Translated from the Urdu by Kathleen Grant Jaeger and Baidar Bakht
Harihara (c. 12 CE-13 CE)
From Girija Kalyana
The Summer Sun
The summer sun
Dark in the shade of trees
Fiery inside the forests
Stunning on the hill slopes
Severe in the open plains
And total under the sky.
Translated from the Kannada by K. Narasimha Murthy
Amiya Chakravarty (1901-86)
Calcutta
A warm noontime contentment spreads over the towering
trees
on the other side of the fence—
honeysuckle blossoms clamber up
the lattice gate and sway in the wind—
as I step away and go down the path
I take that simple scene with me—
the idle plinking of a piano
its drowsy tremolo
makes the spring sky ache:
a south Calcutta alley.
If I come back to earth
again, I’ll take this path.
Beside the gate in the soft light I’ll see
red canna lilies—
my eyes will sink into flowerbeds
yellow and fresh blue, a thick coverlet of green grass—
I won’t know who owns that house or who lives there—
the impatient spring ache
the idle plinking of a piano
will be nectar, soothing my wayfaring heart—
towering trees serene,
sweet season:
across the fence the world I love
is contented—knowing that, I can go.
Translated from the Bangla by Carolyn B. Brown and Sarat Kumar Mukhopadhyay
R.V. Pandit (1917-90)
My Goa
As a bride bedecked art thou, my Goa.
On thy vermilion lips I see the red, red earth;
The dazzling white Dudhsagar Fall is the moghra chaplet
in the knot of thy hair;
The domes of the temples are thy diadem,
And all the churches are the cunning pattern of thy bodice.
Those dimples in thy cheek are the Tiswadi islets;
Thou hast bound the Zuari river as a bright silver girdle about
thy waist,
And the Mandovi is a river of gold around thy neck.
As a bride bedecked art thou, my Goa.
Thou wearest a garment of bright green fields,
And golden rice-ears are the gay filigree border thereof;
Thou hast put on a necklace of mango and cashew fruit,
And jackfruits are the golden keystones thereof;
Thy betel palms are as clasps upon thy ear-tips,
And the betel bunches as earrings in thy lobes;
The waving flowers in thy hair are coco palms that form a crest
for thee,
O my Goa thou art like a bride bedecked.
The lakes and ponds cause thy fingers to glow as with jewels,
And the flowering trees that bloom on every side, are the sweet
garlands about thy neck.
And the Agoada Fortress, the grim Fortress—what is that to thee?
The red kumkum on thy brow, that spells thy fate—
‘Tis the blood of heroes who died for Freedom on the shores of
Agoada.
Truly thou art a bride bedecked,
A bride bedecked, my Goa.
Translated from the Konkani by Thomas Gay
Anon, Gujarati Folk Song
Rain of the World
Pour down, O rain of the world,
Thou art the rain of four continents.
The earth, thy beloved is waiting for thee,
The joyous peasants are waiting for thee;
The nostril-bored bullocks are waiting for thee,
Thy beloved people are waiting for thee,
Pour down O rain of the world.
The birds and beasts are waiting for thee;
Rivers and trees are all waiting for thee;
; Pour down O dark clouds pour down;
And fill the ponds and lakes with water,
And bring happiness and joy to the world.
Translated from the Gujarati by Madhubhai Patel
Jyotirmoy Datta (b. 1936)
Crabs on the Beach
I pass the afternoons watching
the activity of firebrigade-red
digger crabs on the beach at Digha
millions of tireless crabs
are engaged on some gigantic
excavation project stretching as far as eyes can see
but they are very unsocial
each digs his own tunnel
will a crab ever invite another
to his private and exclusive cave
they seem very curt and dry
wholly lacking in affection
they advance from their holes
with the jerky motion of spring-activated toys
and then eject a pinch of sand
with a swish of their rustless plastic claws
they are all the time either digging
or widening or cleaning their holes
they seem to lavish their entire affection
on their homecaves.
all of the crab
and not just his claws
is sheathed in nail
I am sure the crab would be cold and unmoved
even if his sweetheart embraced him
we the other children of the sea
have left her and wandered off
but Oedipus crab
sticks to the margin of sea and continent
each crab leads the life of a perpetual embryo
in the womb it has dug for itself in the sand
and the tidal circulation of the sea
fills up every hole with nourishment
every twelve hours.
Translated from the Bangla by the poet
Vikram Seth (b. 1952)
Flash
Bright bird, whose swift blue wings gleam out
As on the stream you dip and rise,
You, as you scan for parr and trout,
Flash past my eyes.
Bright trout, who glints in fin and scale,
Whose whim is grubs, whose dream is flies,
You, with one whisk of your quick tail,
Flick past my eyes.
Bright stream, home to bright fish and birds,
A gold glow as the gold sun dies,
You too, too fast for these poor words,
Flow past my eyes.
These My Words Page 5
