Which Indian Language Poetry will you like to read ?

World Poetry

Mustard Flowers

Ajmer Rode

If you see an old man sitting alone
at the bus stop and wonder who he is
I can tell you.
He is my father.
He is not waiting for a bus or a friend
nor is he taking a brief rest before
resuming his walk.
He doesn't intend to shop in the
nearby stores either
he is just sitting there on the bench.

Occasionally he smiles and talks.
No one listens.
No body is interested.
And he doesn't seem to care
if someone listens or not.

A stream of cars, buses, and people
flows on the road.
A river of images, metaphors and
similes flows through his head.
When everything stops
at the traffic lights it is midnight
back in his village. Morning starts
when lights turn green.
When someone honks his neighbor's
dog barks.

When a yellow car passes by
a thousand mustard flowers
bloom in his head.

Translated by

Break, Break, Break

Alfred Tennyson

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

Translated by

Be still, my soul, be still

Alfred Edward Housman

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.
Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little,
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn;
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry:
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason,
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season:
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation;
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain:
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation--
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

Translated by

Immortality

Amanda Bell

To make durable Writing on Paper,
dissolve gum-arabic in water,
and add thereto ivory black
– extremely well ground –
and write therewith.

Acids cannot discharge this writing;
and if you wish to secure it
against the steams of hot water,
the writing may be covered
with white of egg, clarified.

To revive old Writings
which are almost defaced,
boil gall nuts in wine;
then steep a sponge into the liquor,
and pass it on the lines of the old writing:
by this method the letters
– which were almost undecipherable –
will appear as fresh as if newly done.

Neamhbhásmhaireacht

Chun Scríbhneoireacht ar Pháipéar a dhéanamh marthanach,
leáigh guma arabach in uisce
agus cuir leis sin eabhardhubh –
an-mheilte go deo –
agus bí ag scríobh leat.

Ní ghlanfadh aigéid an scríbhneoireacht seo:
dá mba mhaith leat í a chosaint
ar ghal ó uisce te,
is féidir an scríbhneoireacht a chlúdach
le gealacán uibhe, léirghlanta.

Chun sean-Scríbhinnní atá beagnach millte
a athnuachan,
beirigh cnó-ghál i bhfíon,
cuir spúinse ar maos sa leacht ansin,
is cuimil ar línte na seanscríbhinne é:
ar an mbealach sin beidh na litreacha
- a bhí doléite geall leis –
chomh húr is dá mbeidís nuascríofa.

Translated by Gabriel Rosenstock into Irish from English

Solitude

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Translated by

"Hope" is the thing with feathers

Emily Dickinson

"Hope" is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

And sweetest in the Gale is heard
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

I've heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me.


આશા એક પીંછેદાર વસ્તુ છે
જે ઝૂલે છે આત્માની ડાળે
ગાય છે નિશબ્દ ગીતો
વણથંભ

વંટોળિયે સંભળાય છે તેનું મીઠુંમધ ગાણું
એવું વાવાઝોડું તો વિરલ જ
જે આ પંખીડાને
પાડે ભોંઠું

મેં સાંભળ્યું છે એને,ટાઢે ઠૂઠવતી ભોમકાઓમાં
અગોચર અખાતોમાં
ગમે તેવા કપરા સંજોગોમાં એણે
મારી પાસેથી દાણો પણ નથી માગ્યો

Translated by Udayan Thakker from English

Picture me

Folina Chongthu

1. Picture me in a pictur eless book half-written
With no ending and no tears to chance upon as you leave yourself baffled
A script where the persona's fortune can be well transmuted.
Picture me in a road less taken
Where the street nourishes sand that has not been stepped on for forever
The wind carries crystals to the horizon in a duly demeanour
No one knows neither the book nor the road and where they will lead to.

2. Picture me in a chaotic modern art
Colours splash on every nook and cranny of the canvas
Imagine black, inexplicable artistry, residing in it.
Picture me in a lunar eclipse half-swallowed
A face that plays two aspects of emotions
And the implacable sadness that overshadows the light
Here is a root of the root that falsifies.

3. Picture me in a rising fire or high water
In a touch-me-not or a lost boat sailing under the drizzling rain.
In a random chat between two homeless people.
Picture me in a state of reverie inside a hollow bus or an unused station
Where lies the bitter truth revealed after the city sleeps.
I am but a frail moment of things empty and aimless
Like a gypsy wandering off to god knows where.

4. Picture me in a clock ticking back and forth
Everything exists on the verge of eternal timelessness
The ticking hand is merely a hand to tell a day's time.
Picture me in a woman loving a woman
The rough world throwing stones and casting them off
We are but ridicules of lost souls anxious to encounter righteousness
And time is merely time to remind us of our short, mortal lives.

Translated by

Leviathan

Gabriel Rosenstock

Arrows do not make him flee, sling stones are like chaff to him. Tanakh

A whale came into the shallows of Machaire Rabhartaigh
all attempts at resuscitation failed
. . . trembling purple orchids among the dunes


They buried it fifteen feet below
but full of gas
it rose again

Holding their noses
they cut it into three
and re-interred it in the sand
. . .trembling purple orchids among the dunes


What had brought it in?
The Royal Navy:
“We were not in that area.
Furthermore, our sonar signals are not considered to be –”
. . . trembling purple orchids among the dunes


Music in the pubs was muted that night
a fiddle played a slow air
the moon came out, briefly,
Enbarr, the sea-god’s horse, was heard
thundering along the strand
his long white mane billowing
… trembling purple orchids among the dunes

Translated by

From four saints in three acts

Gertrude Stein

Pigeons on the grass alas.
Pigeons on the grass alas.
Short longer grass short longer longer shorter yellow grass. Pigeons
large pigeons on the shorter longer yellow grass alas pigeons on the
grass.
If they were not pigeons what were they.
If they were not pigeons on the grass alas what were they. He had
heard of a third and he asked about if it was a magpie in the sky.
If a magpie in the sky on the sky can not cry if the pigeon on the
grass alas can alas and to pass the pigeon on the grass alas and the
magpie in the sky on the sky and to try and to try alas on the
grass alas the pigeon on the grass the pigeon on the grass and alas.
They might be very well they might be very well very well they might
be.
Let Lucy Lily Lily Lucy Lucy let Lucy Lucy Lily Lily Lily Lily
Lily let Lily Lucy Lucy let Lily. Let Lucy Lily.

Translated by

The Twilight turns

James Joyce

The twilight turns from amethyst
To deep and deeper blue,
The lamp fills with a pale green glow
The trees of the avenue.

The old piano plays an air,
Sedate and slow and gay;
She bends upon the yellow keys,
Her head inclines this way.

Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands
That wander as they list -- -
The twilight turns to darker blue
With lights of amethyst.

Translated by

No Man Is an Island

John Donne

No man is an island, entire of itself;
every man is a piece of the continent,
a part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less,as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friend’s
or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind;
and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee.


કોઈ મનુષ્ય ટાપુ નથી
એકલોઅટૂલો
પ્રત્યેક મનુષ્ય હિસ્સો છે
મહાખંડનો,
અંશ છે સમગ્રનો

એક ઢેફું તણાઈ જાય સમુદ્રમાં
તો યુરોપને ઘસારો પહોંચે છે
ભૂશિર તણાઈ જાય તો પણ:
તમારી કે તમારા મિત્રની
હવેલી તણાઈ જાય તો પણ

કોઈ પણ મનુષ્યના મૃત્યુથી મારામાં ઘટાડો થાય છે
કારણ કે હું મનુષ્યજાતિ સાથે સંકળાયેલો છું
પુછાવશો નહિ કે ઘંટારવ કોને માટે થાય છે
એ તમારે માટે જ થાય છે

જ્હોન ડન
(અંગ્રેજીમાંથી અનુ. ઉદયન)

Translated by

How Daddy wrote his Poetry

Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca

The smoke curl from the Menthol Cool cigarette
In the glass ashtray
Touched the ceiling
Creating patterned shadows
On the paint- peeled walls.
He only took one puff!

He had no fear of fire,
The knowledge that
The cigarette would eventually
Extinguish itself
Was something he trusted
Inherently.

As he lay on the dusty bed
Triangle-fold handkerchief
Over his eyes
Carefully removing the
Delicately-crafted glasses
I always thought would break
With even the slightest tap.

Then,moving to the crowded desk
Hastily wrote a few inspired lines
On pieces of paper, blank or lined
Whatever could be found.

Then again with set rhythm
Back to the bed
Placing the same crumpled handkerchief
Carefully
Over the eyes
Waited patiently for the remaining
Lines to come.

He breathed deeply.
Or ‘deep breathely’,
As he was fond of saying,
Perhaps invoking the muse
For the rest of the poem
To take shape.

Then he paced up and down
The sparse room
Reading the words aloud
And invited me in
To be bothaudience and critic.

Daddy typed with two fingers
On the old clickety typewriter
And the manuscript was ready
To be delivered to willing eyes.

Daddy wrote often
Into the early hours of the morning
And I had to creep into the room
Mouse-like
Cockroach quiet,
Remove the handkerchief
Turn off the light
And tell him
He must sleep.
It’s late, Daddy!

I stood outside his room
Until I heard the familiar click
Of the old wooden latch
And I knew he’d get a few hours
Of fulfilled slumber.

Epilogue

Daddy’s recipe for the good life
Was to write a poem
In every circumstance
Joyful or adverse.
On a crowded Indian train
Or lurching bus.
Ignore the stares
Of curious fellow travelers
Pull out the pen and paper
And get to work.

And for a mundane example
To brew the perfect cup of ‘chai’
One must immerse the tea leaves
Into the boiling water
And let them brew.
Walk away into another room
Write a poem
Which will then be the brewed thoughts
Of a pensive mind.
And the perfect cup of ‘chai’
Is born!

Do not wait for the muse,
Persist, to defy the block.
Follow the simple recipe
Of a beloved beverage.

In my husband’s home now
Far from my father’s home,
When ‘Chai’ is made
With combinations of ginger
Cinnamon and cardamom
Sugar, milk and whatnot,
Father’s poetry wafts in
On waves of spice
And earthy freshness.
Memories are made of this
And poetry too!

Post-Epilogue

Grandfather was a ‘science’ man.
When father won
A poetry prize in school,
Came home rejoicing to share the news,
Grandfather said,
‘Poetry, what’s that?’
The child bought a bar of chocolate
For four ‘annas’,
An ancient, humble Indian coin
But a princely sum to the boy
Who ate his treatin solitary silence
And tears of wept Hurt
Mingled withHope
Andsecret Determination
To pursue the
Poetic journey.

Translated by

If

Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Translated by
The Last Lap

The Last Lap

Rudyard Kipling

How do we know, by the bank-high river,
Where the mired and sulky oxen wait,
And it looks as though we might wait for ever,
How do we know that the floods abate?
There is no change in the current's brawling--
Louder and harsher the freshet scolds;
Yet we can feel she is falling, falling
And the more she threatens the less she holds,
Down to the drift, with no word spoken,
The wheel-chained wagons slither and slue....
Achtung! The back of the worst is broken!
And--lash your leaders!--we're through--we're through!

How do we know, when the port-fog holds us
Moored and helpless, a mile from the pier,
And the week-long summer smother enfolds us--
How do we know it is going to clear?
There is no break in the blindfold weather,
But, one and another, about the bay,
The unseen capstans clink together,
Getting ready to up and away.
A pennon whimpers--the breeze has found us--
A headsail jumps through the thinning haze.
The whole hull follows, till--broad around us--
The clean-swept ocean says: "Go your ways!"

How do we know, when the long fight rages,
On the old, stale front that we cannot shake,
And it looks as though we were locked for ages,
How do we know they are going to break?
There is no lull in the level firing,
Nothing has shifted except the sun.
Yet we can feel they are tiring, tiring--
Yet we can tell they are ripe to run.
Something wavers, and, while we wonder,
Their centre-trenches are emptying out,
And, before their useless flanks go under,
Our guns have pounded retreat to rout!

Translated by
If

On the Brink

Stanley Barkan

On the brink of fall,the leaves decide their deciduous fate.
Autumn comes like a red-haired witch
riding the winds on a thick-strawed broomstick.
The forests stun the eyes, visioning postcard vistas:
layers of gold and orange, reds and purples.
Soon all the trees will shake off their colored complements,
and the black bony fingers will thrust themselves stark
against the whiteness of the brink of winter.

Translated by

Tulips

SYLVIA PLATH

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anaesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

ટ્યૂલિપ્સ

આ ટ્યૂલિપ્સ ઘણા ઉત્તેજક છે, અહીં શિયાળો છે
જોને કેટલું સફેદ છે બધ્ધું, કેટલું શાંત, કેટલું હિમાચ્છાદિત.
અજવાળું પથરાય છે આ દીવાલ, આ ખાટલા, આ હાથ પર
અહીં એકલી સૂતા સૂતા હું જાતને ભણાવું છું શાંતિના પાઠ
હું જાણે છું જ નહિ, મારે વિસ્ફોટ સાથે કોઈ લેવા દેવા નથી.
મારુ નામ ને દિવસે પહેરવાના કપડાં મેં નર્સને આપી દીધા છે
મારી અથથી ઇતિ શીશી સૂંઘાડનારને ને મારું શરીર દાક્તરને.

મારું માથું ટેકવીને મૂક્યું છે એમણે ઓશિકા ને ચાદરની કિનારની વચમાં
બે સફેદ પોપચાંની વચમાં બંધ ન થતી આંખની જેમ.
મૂર્ખ કીકી, એને બધું અંદર લીધે છૂટકો.
નર્સો આવે ને જાય, આવે ને જાય, એ નડતી નથી
એ તો આવે ને જાય પ્રવાસી સીગલ જેવી, માથે સફેદ ટોપી લઇ,
હાથથી કંઈ ને કંઈ કરતી, જેવી એક તેવી બીજી
એટલે બધી મળીને કુલ કેટલી એ કહેવું અશક્ય છે

મારું શરીર એમને માટે એક કાંકરી છે, જેને એ લોકો સાચવે છે પાણી જેમ
સાચવે છે, પસવારે છે હળવેકથી, એ કાંકરીને જેની ઉપર ફરી વળવાનું હોય
ચળકતી સોંયોમાં એ બધિરતા લઈને આવે છે, નિંદર લઇને આવે છે.
હું ખોવાઈ ગઈ છું, કંટાળી ગઈ છું સામાનથી---
મારો ખાસ ચામડાનો એક જોડી કપડાંભર્યો થેલો દવાઓના કાળા ખોખા જેવો,
મારો વર ને છોકરો ફોટોફ્રેમમાં બેઠાં હસે છે;
એમનું હાસ્ય ચોંટી જાય છે મારી ચામડી પર, નાની હસતી આંકડીઓ

મેં બધી ચીજોને સરકવા દીધી છે, ત્રીસ વર્ષ જૂનું માલભર્યું જહાજ
જિદ્દી થઇને લટકે છે મારા નામ ને સરનામાં પર.
ડેટોલવાળા રૂના ટુકડાથી ઘસી ઘસીને સાફ કરી નાખ્યા છે એમણે મારા પ્રેમાળ સંગાથો
લીલી પ્લાસ્ટિકની ટ્રોલી ઉપર ભયભીત ને ઉઘાડાં પડ્યાં જોઉં છું
મારા ચાના કપ રકાબી, મારા કપડાંભર્યા ખાનાં, મારા પુસ્તકો
નજર તળે ડૂબે છે, અને પાણી માથા ઉપર થઇ ચાલ્યું જાય છે.
હું હવે એક સાધ્વી છું, ક્યારેય આટલી નિષ્કલંક નહોતી

મારે કોઈ ફૂલો નહોતા જોઈતા, મારે ખાલી હાથ
ઉપર કરીને સૂવું'તું, સાવ સાવ ખાલી.
કેટલી મુક્તિ, કેટલું ખુલ્લાપણું તને અંદાજેય નથી---
એટલી બધી શાંતિ કે તું મૂઢ થઇ જાય,
અને એ તારી પાસે કંઈ માંગણીઓ ના કરે, નામની તક્તી, જરઝવેરાત.
અહીં આવીને જ તો અટકે છે મૃતકો, હું કલ્પી શકું છું એમને
પિંડ પરે મુખ બંધ કરતાં, જાણે પ્રસાદનો ઠોર.

પહેલી વાત કે આ ટ્યૂલિપ્સ સખ્ખત લાલ છે, વાગે છે મને.
ચળકતા કાગળની આરપાર સાંભળી શકું છું
એમના હળવા શ્વાસ, વીંટાળેલા સફેદ કપડાંની આરપાર, કોઈ ભૂંડા બાળકના જેવા.
એમની લાલાશ વાતો કરે છે મારા ઘાવ સાથે, સંવાદ કરે છે.
એ ઘણા સૂક્ષ્મ છે: લગભગ તરે છે, ને છતાંય હું લદાઈ જાઉં છું એમના બોજ તળે,
એકાદ ડઝન સીસાનાં ભારણ મારા ગળા ફરતે
વ્યાકુળ કરતાં મને એમની સફાળી જીભથી નેએમના રંગથી.

કોઈએ મારી કદી દેખરેખ રાખી નથી, ને હવે બધા પહેરો કરે છે.
ટ્યૂલિપ્સ મને જુએ છે, ને આ પાછળની બારી પણ
જ્યાં દિવસમાં એક વાર અજવાશ ધીમેથી ફેલાય છે ને આછો થાય છે,
ને હું જોઉં છું મારી જાતને, ચત્તીપાટ, હાસ્યાસ્પદ, સૂરજની આંખ ને ટ્યૂલિપની આંખની વચમાં
કાગળ-કાપ્યા છાયાચિત્ર જેવી ચહેરા વિનાની, મારે ભૂંસી જ નાખવી હતી મારી જાતને
આ તીવ્ર ટ્યૂલિપ્સ મારો ઓક્સિજન ખાઈ જાય છે.

એ આવ્યા એ પહેલાં હવા શાંત હતી
આવતી જતી, શ્વાસ પછી શ્વાસ, કોઈ ખટપટ વિના.
પછી આ ટ્યૂલિપ્સે અેને ભરી દીધી, જાણે કોઈ ગરજતો અવાજ.
હવે આ હવા ભોંકી જાય છે અને વમળાય છે એમની આસપાસ જાણે કોઈ નદી
ભોંકી જાય છે ને વમળાય છે ડૂબેલા કાટખાધા લાલ ઈંજનને ફરતે
એ મારું ધ્યાન કેન્દ્રિત કરે છે, જેને મોકળાશ હતી
કોઈ બંધન વિના રમવાની-આરામવાની

આ દીવાલો પણ પોતાને ચેતવણી આપતી લાગે છે:
ભયાનક જાનવર જેવા આ ટ્યૂલિપ્સને તો સળિયા પાછળ નાખવા જોઈએ
એમનું મોઢું તો જો, ફાડીને બેઠા છે, કોઈ આફ્રિકન બિલાડો જાણે,
અને મને ભાન છે મારા હૃદયનું, એ ખુલે છે ને બંધ થાય છે
એનો લાલ કટોરો ખીલે છે મારી પ્રત્યેના ભરપૂર પ્રેમને કારણે.
હું ચાખું છું પાણી, ગરમ ને ખારું, દરિયા જેવું,
આવતું તબિયત જેટલા દૂરના કોઈ દેશથી.

--- સીલ્વીયા પ્લાથ
અનુવાદ: પ્રતિષ્ઠા પંડ્યા

Translated by Pratishta Pandya from English

what could be stranger

Waqas Khwaja

what could be stranger than the way
i experience you?
i taste you with my eyes
smell you with my touch
hear the pores of your skin
humming with bees
see the prickle of your body’s
untarnished desire
breathe its stinging melody on my breath
and i sip the ardent voice
of your eyes with my tongue

an bhféadfadh aon ní bheith níos aite

Waqas Khwaja

An bhféadfadh aon ní bheith níos aite
ná mo thaithíse ort?
Blaisim thú lem’ shúile
bolaím lem’ mhéara thú
cloisim póireanna do chraicinn
is iad ag crónán le beacha
feicim spíonta dhúil gan teimheal
do cholainne
is a ceolmhaireacht ghéar ar m’anáil
agus slogaim dianghuth
do shúl lem’ theanga

Translated by Gabriel Rosenstock into Irish from English

The Tyger

William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?


વ્યાઘ્ર,વ્યાઘ્ર ઝળહળ જ્વલંત
રાત્રિના અરણ્યો મહીં
કો’ હાથ અવિનાશી , કો’ નેત્ર
ઘડે કોણ તુજ કરાલ આકૃતિ ?

કો’ દૂરની ઊંડાઈએ, કો’ આભની ઊંચાઈએ
જલે તુજ આંખના અંગાર, કહે ?
ચડી કઈ પાંખે એણે સેવી મનોકામના ?
કયે હાથે સાહસી ઝાલ્યો’તો દેવતા ?
ક્યો સ્કંધ ? કૌશલ ક્યું ?
આમળી જેણે હૃદયની કંદરા ?
ને ધબકતું જ્યાં થયું તારું હૃદય
કયા પ્રચંડ હાથ ?કયાં પગલાં પ્રચંડ ?

કઈ હથોડી ?સાંકળ કઈ ?
હતું કઈ ભઠ્ઠીમાં મસ્તક તહીં ?
કઈ એરણ ?કઈ પક્કડ વિકરાળ
લલકારતી એ કાતિલ ભીંસને !

હેઠાં મૂકી શસ્ત્રો જ્યારે તારલા
સીંચતા નિજ અશ્રુથી સુરભોમને
શું એ સમય એ હસેલો ખુદનું કામ જોઈને ?
શું એ જ તારો સર્જનહાર બનાવ્યું ઘેટું જેણે ?

વ્યાઘ્ર, વ્યાઘ્ર ,ઝળહળ જ્વલંત
રાત્રિના અરણ્યો મહી
કો’ હાથ અવિનાશી, કો' નેત્ર
કરે સાહસ ઘડવા તુજ કરાલ આકૃતિ ?

Translated by Pratishtha Pandya

Invictus

William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.[1]


અપરાજિત

એક ધ્રુવથી બીજા ધ્રુવ સુધી ફેલાયેલી
આ કાળીડિબાંગ રાત્રિમાં
હું આભારી છું,જે કોઈ દેવતાઓ હોય તેમનો
મારા અજેય આત્મા બદલ

સંજોગોની સાણસીમાં સપડાયા છતાં
હું નથી કણસ્યો કે રોયો
ભાગ્યના ગદાપ્રહારે
મારું મસ્તક લોહિયાળ, પણ અણનમ

ક્રોધ અને અશ્રુના સ્થળની પેલે પાર
તોળાય છે કમકમાટીભર્યું નર્કાગાર
બિહામણાં વર્ષો જોશે કે
હું નિર્ભય છું અને નિર્ભય રહીશ

ભલે સ્વર્ગની શેરી હો સાંકડી
ભલે હિસાબમાં લખી હો સજાઓ
હું મારા ભાગ્યનો વિધાતા છું
હું મારા આત્માનો સુકાની છું

Translated by Udayan Thakker from English

The Second Coming

William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Translated by
The Poet Pleads with the Elemental Powers

The Poet Pleads with the Elemental Powers

William Butler Yeats

The Powers whose name and shape no living creature knows
Have pulled the Immortal Rose;
And though the Seven Lights bowed in their dance and wept,
The Polar Dragon slept,
His heavy rings uncoiled from glimmering deep to deep:
When will he wake from sleep?
Great Powers of falling wave and wind and windy fire,
With your harmonious choir
Encircle her I love and sing her into peace,
That my old care may cease;
Unfold your flaming wings and cover out of sight
The nets of day and night.
Dim powers of drowsy thought, let her no longer be
Like the pale cup of the sea,
When winds have gathered and sun and moon burned dim
Above its cloudy rim;
But let a gentle silence wrought with music flow
Whither her footsteps go.

Translated by
The Second Coming

The Worms' Contempt

William Henry Davies

What do we earn for all our gentle grace?
A body stiff and cold from foot to face.

If you have beauty, what is beauty worth?
A mask to hide it, made of common earth.

What do we get for all our song and prattle?
A gasp for longer breath, and then a rattle.

What do we earn for dreams, and our high teaching?
The worms' contempt, that have no time for preaching.

Translated by

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