Latest Poems:
UtensilsOm Nagar
Home utensils —
signs of ancestors
but since grandfather
has departed
these have been relegated
to the backyard —
the bronze glass
that could contain
three quarter litres
of milk
utensils
bronze plates
brass pitchers
without these
the tradition of bride giving
was incomplete
but today from oven to parandy
everywhere I see steel
my grandmother
used to knead dough
for twenty persons in one go
in big brass platter
but now
as the walls go up
in the courtyard
sizes of home utensils
are getting smaller.
Parandy
: A place in house where
pitchers or other utensils filled with water are kept Translated by Abhay K. from Rajasthani-Hindi A Girl had fled from the village for the first timA Girl had fled from the village for the first timOm Nagar
A girl had fled from the village
with someneighbour´s boy for the
first time
many faces in the street
had started gossiping
in ears of women looking through veils
eyes had sprouted, a father's
dreams
had been swept away by time's flood
a pair of slippers lied on the
quiet wall
the sound of her feet was ringing
loud
for the first time a girl had fled
wearing her mother's old slippers
she had crossed the limits of
honour
on the door, she had left no marks
of her rough palms covered in
turmeric
for many days in the village
smoke of tobacco, bidi
rising in the squares
made the girl's bright face dark
her yellow scarf was shredded
in their stories
for months in her mother's dreams
she knocked at the door
for the first time a girl had fled
a father had been saved
from drowning in debt
the daughter's ears were far
removed
from her mother's curses
a girl had fled with
someneighbour's boy
for the first time.
Translated by Abhay K. from Rajasthani-Hindi UtensilsA troubled mom and childShelly Bhoil
I have been observing this mom-child duo for a while
and I can’t quite understand what precedes what—
the tantrums of the child or the temper of his mother
But I see the relationship between the two is that of intense
disobedience, hopefully momentarily
He throws away his cuddly bear, she picks it up with a frown,
he pulls her hair, she grabs his arm, he begins to scream and cry,
she tries to shush him up, he bangs his head— and this goes on
until she shoves a blue silicon nipple in his mouth, swaying him
up and down in her arms
I am not sure if this is a troubled mom and child or if there exists no
troubled mom and child. But I most certainly see them in the pattern
of my
life, which when hits me hard is my tired mother rocking me
besides her primordial
child to sleep, and that whatever is keeping
me grounded at the moment is but a
pacifier in my mouth
Translated by LinesGlenn Shea What I remember best of our short time is not the strange mad dance of sex itself but in the tunnel of night and morning dark how our bodies would shift to seek each other out, like pups asleep but nuzzling their dam. That unthinking, half-awaking movement (before our lives would wrestle us apart) across the mirrored distance, my narrow bed, was answer to that hope I'd hardly dared: what I had sought was also seeking me. Translated by Poem no. 97 of VRUDDHASHATAK Kamal Vora He did not know whether he was growing lonely or whether he was growing old because he was lonely He did not understand how long he would keep growing old growing lonely He did not know whether he was more old or more lonely He could not figure out whether old age was better or loneliness He did not understand whether it was age that made him swing between being and not being or was it loneliness Like the seed in the tree or the tree in the seed He did not understand He had not been able to understand He was not going to understand But he did know he was growing old and he was lonely વૃદ્ધશતક કાવ્ય ક્રમાંક : ૯૭ -- કમલ વોરા એને ખબર પડતી નહોતી એ ઘરડો થઈ ગયો હતો એટલે એકલો પડી ગયો હતો કે એકલો પડી રહ્યો હતો એટલે ઘરડો થઈ રહ્યો હતો એને ખબર પડતી નહોતી આમ ને આમ ક્યાં સુધી એ ઘરડો થશે આમ ને આમ એકલો એને ખબર પડતી નહોતી એ ઘરડો વધારે હતો કે વધારે એકલો એને ખબર પડતી નહોતી ઘડપણ સારું કે એકલતા એને ખબર પડતી નહોતી એને હતો-ન હતો ઘડપણે કરી દીધો હતો કે એકલતાએ બીજમાં વૃક્ષ કે વૃક્ષમાં બીજની જેમ એને ખબર પડતી નહોતી એને ખબર પડી નહોતી એને ખબર પડવાની નહોતી પણ એને ખબર પડતી હતી એ ઘરડો થઈ ગયો હતો અને એ એકલો પડી ગયો હતો Translated by by Gopika Jadeja from GujaratiLiesKamal Vora In reality there are just three types of lies: red, yellow, and blue someone would say: three headed someone would say: three-tailed some would even spot three eyes! If red was about to get caught Yellow would come forward If yellow was to be captured it would hide behind the blue So no one could actually say what the colours of the lies were. Be as that might be, but the ploy of the trio, oh, Trahimam, Trahimam! Triple torture ruled. When they screamed from the rooftops the deep red streaks flying in the air made your cupped palms bloody. The hands of those who would catch had their faces turned scarlet, a colour of flames, of raging red fires. But then the game would change They would hover overhead blinding the eyes. Yellow, a solid yellow would enter your body, your lungs, and even the depths of your veins and fill them up with intense irritation, as if someone was peeling the skin of a scorching desert in the middle of a hot afternoon. Yellow lies made one see lies all around. But then everything cools down. Lies like a darkening eve matured, cold-blooded, snatch whatever little light is left from the greying soot, blowing about until now. You may get confused and wonder if all three of them have switched off the lights and gone to bed or what. But that is the time when weaving and in twining with one another, shuffling and reshuffling things, eager to pounce desperate they jump their giant leap mapping the distance between the earth and the sky. JA-NEE-VA-LI-PI-NA-RA, V-I-B-G-Y-O-R, wows the viewers. When people are lost in the shouts of aafareen..aafareen.. JA-NEE-VA-LI-PI-NA-RA, they play the final move. Merging and melting with one another, becoming one, dissolving their differences, craftily they hide their true selves in white. And then in a loud voice they yell: There are no lies. Nowhere. Destroyed, annihilated, thrown away onto some other planet, far away from this earth. What are you saying? Where could they be? Come on, show us at least one. When stunned folks are all ears Then, exactly then one after the other in a continuous flow, in their infinite, ever changing forms colourful lies multiply into an eternal flow of lies, from three to thirty-three, then add a zeros, and anther zero and one more, and… જુઠ્ઠાણાં -- કમલ વોરા (જાનીવાલીપીનારાં) ખરેખર તો ત્રણ જુઠ્ઠાણાં : લાલ, પીળાં ને વાદળી. કોઈ કહેતું : ત્રણ માથાળાં કોઈ : ત્રણ પૂંછડિયાં કોઈને ત્રિનેત્રાળાં દેખાતાં! લાલ પકડાવામાં હોય તો પીળાં આગળ થતાં, પીળાં ઝડપાઈ જવાનાં હોય તો વાદળીની ઓથે છુપાઈ જતાં; આમ જુઠ્ઠાણાંનો સાચો રંગ પરખાતો નહીં. હોય તે હોય, ત્રેખડનો તાયફો ત્રાહિમામ્ ત્રાહિમામ્, ત્રિવિધ તાપ રેલાવતો. છાપરે ચડી પોકારતાં ત્યારે ઊડતા રાતાચોળ ટશિયાથી ખોબા લાલઘૂમ થઈ જતા; ઝીલનારાની હથેળીઓમાં ચહેરા રતુંબડા થઈ જતા. રગોમાં લોહિયાળ અગ્નિના ભડકા ભભૂકતા; પછી પેંતરો બદલાતો. બરોબર માથે ઝળૂંબતાં ત્યારે આંખો અંજાઈ જતી, શરીરમાં, ફેફસાંમાં, રગોમાં ઊંડે સુધી પીળાશ, નકરી પીળાશ ઘેરી, ચચરાટભરી ફરી વળતી રેતીના વિશાળ પટ પર ભર બપોેરે એક છેડેથી બીજો છેડો ઉતરડાઈ ગયો હોય એવી. પીળાં જુઠ્ઠાણાં બધે જ જુઠ્ઠાણાં દેખાડતાં. પણ પછી બધું ઠરીઠામ થતું જાય. ચોમેર ઊડાઊડ કરતી આરપાર રાખોડી થઈ રહેલી રજમાંથી રહ્યુંસહ્યું અજવાળું પણ ખૂંચવી લેતી આથમતી સાંજ જેવાં ઠાવકાં ને ટાઢાંબોળ જુઠ્ઠાણાં. ગફલત થાય કે અંધારપછેડી ઓઢી ત્રણેય ગોટમોટ પોઢી ગયાં કે શું; પણ ખરેખર તો દરમિયાન પરસ્પરમાં લપેટાતાં-ગૂંથાતાં થોડું તળેઉપર, આઘુંપાછું કરી લેતાં તરાપ મારવા તત્પર વલખતાં હોય અને એકાએક કૂદી પડે એક વિરાટ પગલે ધરતીથી આકાશ લગી જાનીવાલીપીનારાં, સોહામણાં. જોનારા તો આફરીન આફરીન-ના પોકારોમાં બે-ધ્યાન, બે-ભાન થઈ રહ્યા હોય ત્યારે જાનીવાલીપીનારાં છેલ્લો, છેક છેવટનો દાવ ખેલી નાખે. એકમેકમાં ભળી જઈ, ઓગળી જઈ એકરૂપ, એક થઈ એક જ ધોળા રંગમાં અસલિયત છુપાવી દે, સિફતથી. પછી ગળાં ફાડી ફાડીને હાકોટા પાડે : જુઠ્ઠાણાં નથી, ક્યાંય નથી – નેસ્તનાબૂદ, નેસ્તનાબૂદ ખદેડી દેવાયાં છે આ પૃથ્વી પરથી આઘે આઘે, કોઈ બીજા ગ્રહે. હોય ક્યાંય હોય ક્યાંક એકાદ જુઠ્ઠાણું તો દેખાડો! સાંભળનારા અવાચક, એક-કાને સાંભળતા હોય ત્યારે બરોબર ત્યારે એક પછી એક પછી એક, એકધારાં, નિત નવાં, નિરંતર રંગબેરંગી જુઠ્ઠાણાં રેલાતાં જાય, રેલાતાં જાય જૂજવે રૂપે અનંત આ અખિલમાં ત્રણનાં તેત્રીસ પર મીંડાં પર મીંડાં ચડતાં જાય... Translated by Pratishtha Pandya from GujaratiGandhi 150Gandhi 150Kamal Vora you’d suddenly test us, Bapu! We’re kind of done with you. Now we exist in a digital world where nothing is real, nothing is unreal either. No triumph of truth, nor downfall of lies. In fact, there’s no truth and no lies. Only a spectacle of violence Non-violence is all junk, Mr. Gandhi! No cleanliness, no godliness, Everything colourful and instant. for a billion countrymen. Hence no need of currency at all. Sorry, no place for you, Mr Gandhi! Surely we are thankful to you but time to quit India, dear Father! with the touch of a finger, Bapu! There is no God other than Truth. To see the universal and all-pervading the meanest of creation as oneself. Identification with everything that lives is impossible without self-purification; without self-purification the observance of non-violence must remain an empty dream. A perfect vision of Truth can only follow a complete realisation of Ahimsa but the path of self-purification is hard and steep.* The paper that I write on The pen that forms the letters The hand that holds the pen The muscles that move the hand the blood coursing through it the heart that pumps it – Even after seven-score and ten years, Bapu, it’s your insistence on purity of tools that keeps me away from you! * From MKG’s autobiography, Tr.Mahadev Desai, the last chapter, ‘Farewell’. a man survives a hundred autumns, you’ve crossed a hundred and fifty, dear Bapu! with thought, speech and deed. of thought, speech and deed; and go gentle into this good night, dear Father! તમે એકાએક પરીક્ષા લેશો, બાપુ! ખોવાઈ ગયેલું એકાદ તણખલું, સૂકું કે કૂણું લોહિયાળ કરી નાખેલ આ હાથે, વી આર કાઇન્ડ ઑફ ડન વિથ યુ નાઉ વી એક્ઝિસ્ટ ઇન અ ડિજિટલ વર્લ્ડ વ્હેર નથિંગ ઇઝ રિયલ નથિંગ અનરિયલ આઇધર ન તો સત્યનો જય ન અસત્યનો પરાજય ઇન ફૅક્ટ નો ટ્રૂથ ઍન્ડ નો લાઇ્ઝ ઑન્લી અ સ્પેક્ટેકલ ઑફ વાયોલન્સ નૉન-વાયોલન્સ ઇઝ ઑલ જન્ક, મિસ્ટર ગેન્ઢી! નો ક્લીનલિનેસ નો ગૉડલિનેસ એવરીથિંગ કલરફુલ એન્ડ ઇન્સ્ટન્ટ ઇન્સ્ટન્ટ ડાયરેક્ટ ટ્રાન્સફર હેન્સ નો નીડ ઑફ કરન્સી ઍટ ઑલ સૉરી, નો પ્લેસ ફૉર યુ મિસ્ટર ગેન્ઢી! શ્યોરલી વી આર થૅંકફુલ ટુ યુ બટ, ટાઇમ ટુ ક્વિટ ઇન્ડિયા, ડિયર ફાધર! ઇન ફૅક્ટ વી ગાઇઝ્ કૅન હેલ્પ વિથ અ ટચ ઑફ ધ ફિંગર, બાપુ! સત્યથી ભિન્ન કોઈ પરમેશ્વર નથી સત્યરૂપી સૂરજનું સંપૂર્ણ દર્શન સંપૂર્ણ અહિંસા વિના શક્ય નથી વ્યાપક સત્યનારાયણનાં પ્રત્યક્ષ દર્શનને સારુ આત્મવત્ પ્રેમની પરમ આવશ્યકતા છે જીવમાત્ર સાથે ઐક્ય ન સાધી શકાય અહિંસાધર્મનું પાલન સર્વથા અસંભવિત છે પણ આ શુદ્ધિનો માર્ગ વિકટ છે.* કાગળ પર અક્ષરો પાડતી કલમ, લોહીને ધકેલતું હૃદય – અશુદ્ધ, ચિત્ત અશુદ્ધ, ચેતના અશુદ્ધ છે. સાધન-શુદ્ધિનો તમારો આગ્રહ, બાપુ! મને તમારાથી છેટો રાખે છે! તમે તો દોઢસોને આંબી ગયા, વહાલા બાપુ! હાંઉં, બહુ થયું, હવે સિધાવો! ત્યારે, થોડી વાર અમે ઘાંઘાં થઈ ફરી અમારાં વિચાર, વાણી, વર્તનમાં ઝેરી વીજળીઓ ફૂંફાડા મારે છે. હિંસાહારી, હિંસાચારી, હિંસાકારીના આ હાથે Translated by Naushil Mehta from GujaratiLiesWhen Krishna Danced in a British Army Barracks Gabriel Rosenstock Dehradun Military Academy
(Motto: Valour & Wisdom).
Papaji takes off his British Army
uniform -
he is acquiring military skills
in order to turf the British out -
and dons the robes of a Krishna
gopi.
He has spent all his salary
on saris and jewellery.
All night long
he dances with Krishna.
Morning.
Papaji is glowing.
His commanding officer asks:
'Has that man been drinking?'
-Gabriel Rosenstock
Nuair a dhamhsaigh Krishna i
mBeairic Bhriotanach
Acadamh Míleata Dehradun
(Manna: Calmacht & Gaois).
Baineann Papaji a éide airm
Bhriotanach de -
scileanna míleata á sealbhú aige
d'fhonn na Briotanaigh a chaitheamh
amach -
agus cuireann uime róbaí gopi
Krishna.
A thuarastal go léir caite aige
ar shárithe is ar sheodra.
É ag damhsa le Krishna
an oíche ar fad.
Maidin.
Luisne ina ghrua.
Arsa an t-oifigeach i gceannas:
'An ag ól a bhí an fear sin?' Translated by The Macaulayite Cuts Such a Ridiculous FigureMustard FlowersAjmer Rode If you see an old man sitting alone at the bus stop and wonder who he is He is not waiting for a bus or a friend nor is he taking a brief rest before He doesn't intend to shop in the he is just sitting there on the bench.
Occasionally he smiles and talks. And he doesn't seem to care if someone listens or not.
A stream of cars, buses, and people A river of images, metaphors and similes flows through his head. at the traffic lights it is midnight back in his village. Morning starts When someone honks his neighbor's When a yellow car passes by a thousand mustard flowers Translated by In English Mustard Flowers |