|
Ann Iverson Ann Iverson
A Poem by Makhdoom Mohiuddin
The Heart Of Silence
Not even a heart-throb
No footfall anywhere around
Nor a flicker of my soul.
The air is still—
your body beyond my reach,
I miss the warm caress of your breath.
The core of this silence is unredeemed
even by a leaf’s rustle.. Not even
the muffled sound of a teardrop
Plumetting like a molten pearl.
Eternal void.
Sable desolation broods over this highway.
Why doesn’t shine inoonface illumine
the deep recesses of my gloom,
some lightning’s whiplash quicken me into sentience?
Translated from Urdu Shiv K Kumar
(
More poems by Makhdoom Mohiuddin )
A Poem by Kaifi Azami
The Night of the Apocalypse
The moon has broken, the stars have melted,
the night is gently dripping away.
Drowsy eyelids make sleep imminent
as the night enters the depths of our eyes.
Do not weave any tale now.
Let me sleep tonight.
The shrunken web is untying its knots
as clouds dissolve amidst the blood,
fanning out its floral wings
the forest advances upon as now.
Blow out the candle, put down the chalice.
Let me sleep tonight.
The city dies before dusk fell.
Who is knocking at the door?
Raise high the encircling walls
for the noise will enter the courtyard.
Tell them the tavern is closed now.
Let me sleep tonight.
Only bodies and coffins lie everywhere;
they cannot hear nor endorse what you say.
May peace survive. And those who propagate peace.
The dead have emerged from their graves today;
none can we claim as our own, none discard as distant.
Let me sleep tonight.
There were some who said, perhaps rightly,
rebellion has become a fashion these days.
Those who did not hesitate to kill
are reluctant to be buried themselves.
The sensible thing to do is fall asleep.
Let me sleep tonight.
Translated from Urdu: Mumtaz Jahan
( More
poems by Kaifi Azami
)
A Poem by Kunwar Narayan
Around Ten
Every day, around ten,
the same thing
happens.
The same people,
leaving their wives and children behind,
pour from their homes.
But it’s not an earthquake!
In the evening,
the same people
return
to the same homes,
tired out,
defeated.
Earthquakes don’t happen that way.
Nothing does. I know it.
Something else has frightened them.
It’s a foregone conclusion they keep coming to—
that lying is an art
and every man a crazy artist,
trying to render his own reality—
as against reality, pure and simple—
meaningful.
Sometimes, returning home in the evening,
I am shocked by glittering traces of a terrible art, abstract,
in the sky, as if people and things
had been mashed together
and smeared across it, as if,
pre-empting some awful bloodletting,
the many colours of man, suppressed till now,
had ignited suddenly.
‘Lagabhag Das Baje Roz’: Tr. Kunwar Narayan/Daniel Weissbort
(More Poems by Kunwar Narayan )
A Poem by Adam Donaldson Powell
IN THE VALLEY OF THE KINGDOM.
1) PROLOGUE.
In the great Valley of the Kingdom,
over-shadowed by Dorje Lapka, Gauri Shanka,
Gyachungkang and Sagarmatha, the
rantings of a poet savant in the Old City
signal the commencement of Nawa Ratri.
Her sole audience consists of the monkeys and
the beggar children, for all citizens and pilgrims
are otherwise disposed; they sense the onset of
imminent menstruation with innate fervour.
Scurrying about under the waxing moon,
last-minute shoppers scour marketplaces
and stalls in preparation for the coming rituals
of purification by blood and offerings in
supplication to the Goddess Durga, in all
her manifestations of life force and fertility.
And wafting from open windows is the
scent of Vijaya Dashami, flowers and
cooking vegetables, increasingly overcoming the
diesel fumes from the trafficked streets below.
Through an ajar door I glimpse a prayer in progress,
in salutation to the God in us all and I smile,
murmuring "Namaste" to the tilaka- and chandlo-
adorned inhabitants chanting and reciting scripture,
in submission to the Almighty.
My heart pains for the unfortunate beyond the
Kingdom who suffer loneliness, hunger,
war and terror without ultimate joy and release;
strangers to our ways although still brothers and
sisters in the Great Scheme.
They live in Iraq, Gaza and Darfur, and even in the
sprawling urban centres of the Americas and Asia.
In my mind's eye I perform Deepam Darshayaami
for these beloved neighbours and pray that also
their darkness and burdens find relief in the bosom
of Divine favour, while a gentle rain shower
soothes the heat from my own transgressions.
I awaken with a start .. in a pool of sweat and tears.
Gazing toward the window I can see the rising sun
juxtaposed against the crumbling rose-coloured
temple in the foreground; almost mocking the
distant skyscrapers, still caught in the shadows.
A cock is crowing - to the accompaniment of
the savant; both announcing the advent of
the Ghatasthapana.
(The Poem
continue in the next page-)
A
Poem
by Maria Cristina Azcona
CHILDREN FIRST
Your dark brown eyes, dearest child
Are always blue like diaphanous sky
Are made of topaz, gold and fairy wings
And have the simplicity of spherical things
Child , your joyfulness, is our first command,
our thirst and our glory
There are many children who cannot talk to us
Because they are unborn, but also there and real.
There are many children who cannot play and smile to us
Because starvation, drugs ,corruption ,hate and war
mutilated their brains and entire life.
Before money, health and romance,
you are the first priority
Dearest creature who came to us, on Earth
From angels transparencies through air and breath
Your soul is clear as clear mountain streams
And Love is the origin of your childish dreams
Child, your future is in our hand
So, we need to understand
Your needs are first, although you don’t complain
You are not unable to express yourself.
This is us who can’t get what you may necessitate
And always adult world is leaving you at the end.
Which is your sea, which is your sand
Your bay, your universe, your better place to stand
There are many children who are far away from us
In other city, without bread, an awful panorama
They are awaiting for solidarity from other countries
But yet there is not a Global Law against their drama
Child, your future is in our hand
So, we need to understand
Which is your sea, which is your sand
Your bay, your universe, your better place to stand
Child , your joyfulness, is our first command,,
our thirst and our glory
Before money, health and romance,
you ought to be our first priority
( More
poems by Maria Cristina Azcona)
A
Poem by James McCurry
Laconic Supernumeraries
May an old man who pirouettes
whether or not he break
his leg be praised?
To lever himself out of discontent
he puts pebbles of mica,
turquoise between
the borders of
banded agate,
tigerseye.
Path, fortunate focus!
Here, the work is so fine
it banishes memory
to darkness. Aesthetics
(My ear, do not
tell me to calm down,
dammed with wax) will none?
Voice, shall I endure
Correction?
Foot by foot
Into the gathering
Night, Kali! Laconic Supernumeraries (I)
appeared earlier
in Tryst3 (issue 5).”
( More poems by James
McCurry
)
A Poem by
Ashwani Kumar
In Lieu of a
Birth Certificate
Born amidst neither fame nor shame,
I came to the world like a dead telegram…
Locked in the jail
accused of stealing electric wire
the village thief’s faint sobs
sparkle like my mother’s sindoor.
Slaughtering cigarettes remorselessly
the sentry guards his conscience like a banished saint.
Born amidst neither promise nor sorrow,
I came to the world like untainted white charcoal….
On the mud thatched roof
skirt rolled up to her thighs invitingly
the sparrow greedily chews her daily dose of worms.
Unmindful of scorns of passerbys
listening to FM radio lazily in the Saturday afternoon
the vegetable vendor searches angrily for Columbus
in the discarded newspapers.
Born amidst neither pleasure nor fear,
I came to the world like unwashed blue jeans…
At the serpentine box office queues of morning shows
adult fantasies play hide-and seek like nursery kids.
The last drop of alcohol in the whisky bottle
dances adulterously on my million tongues.
And the fragrance of your armpit
travels like gunpowder in the dark forest.
Born amidst neither illusion nor ambition,
I came to the world like the rusted rumors of a riot…
(More
poems by Ashwani Kumar)
A
Long
Poem by
Nissim Ezekiel
Hymns in Darkness
I
He knows how to speak of humility,
without humility.
He has exchanged the wisdom of youthfulness
for the follies of maturity.
What is lost is certain, what is gained
of dubious value.
Self-esteem stunts his growth. He has not learnt
how to be nobody.
All his truths are outside him,
and mock his activity.
The noise of the city is matched
by the noise in his spirit.
2
Self-deception is a fact of being. How, then, to
be undeceived?
He has found too many secrets that will not work,
too many keys that unlock
no locks.
He lives In the world of desires and devices.
It is
colourful and full of poetry.
For every truth In his possession, he has a
falsehood to
go with It.
He speaks with his own voice. He listens
with the
third ear. He sees
with the eye
In the centre
of his forehead.
It’s all of little use.
He’s still a puny self
hoping to manipulate the universe and all
Its manifest powers for his own advancement,
advantages.
Again and again, he loses the war of motives,
self-deceived.
3
He has seen the signs
but not been faithful to them.
Where is the fixed star of his seeking?
It multiplies like a candle
in the eyes of a drunkard.
He looks at the nakedness of truth
In the spirit of a Peeping Tom.
Changing his name would be no help.
He Is the man
full of his name.
4
The difficult way is the subject of his theories.
The easy way is his choice.
He has played at being disciple.
He has played at being guru.
To his wife an impossible husband.
To his children less than loving.
Now he calls It destiny.
He names the circumstances.
A life is a symbolic pattern.
He’s this life.
He’s the Interpretation.
(The Poem continue in
the next page-)
A Long Poem by Keki N.
Daruwalla
The Night of the Jackals
1
It is just the telephone between us,
grey, impersonal:
The children are sleeping’, she says, ‘Come!’
She had to think of me now
with the elements in full cry
and the air smelling of lightning burns
like a scorched pelt!
I park my car eleven blocks away.
People scurry off the roads
as the sky crackles.
I press the buzzer hard
and tap at the glass door
along with the thunder.
Tonight she will be waiting
arched fully backwards
vibrant as new leaf!
She sits there, white cardigan, dark slacks,
laughing, as she knits away
caressing the rug with her bare feet.
The blankets over her children
heave with their regular breathing.
It will go well with her
if I kiss them on their foreheads.
Suddenly
she is in my arms
swarming.
Her nipples and the grass outside
harden together,
tense with coming thunder.
Kissing her on the neck
I nibble the words
as they slur across her skin:
did the thunder frighten you?
Yes, with both the kids asleep
It was eerie, terrifying.
And if the children had been awake
she may not have thought of me
for another three months!
As if in reply
she presses me harder to herself.
I enter her
the way a boat starved of fresh water
enters a harbour.
(
Poem continue in next page-)
A
Poem by Mrinal Pande
TWO WOMEN KNITTING
Rama said
Rama said to Uma
Oh my,
How time passes.
Ah me, says Uma
and then both fall silent.
The two women cast on stitches
Skip stitches, slip the skipped stitches over,
Knit over purl,
Purl over knit.
After many intricate loops and cables
Their dark secrets still lie locked within
They have thrown the keys to their jewel casques in the lake.
Put the keys in, and their locks will bleed real blood.
Two women are knitting
Clicking steel against steel
Passers-by look up amazed at the sparks that fly.
Loneliness comes at every other row in their patterns
Though they have worn each others’ saris
And bathed each others’ slippery infants
Even though at this very moment their husbands
Lie asleep in the rooms upstairs
Shaking them in their dreams.
(translated from Hindi by the author and Arlene Zide)
(One
more poem by
MRINAL PANDE)
A Poem By
TEJI GROVER
Don’t Tell Me a Poem was Here
So here’s a drop
touching some false
in space with a moist
-ening wish that stays
Let’s call it Sambari
just like that
then watch out what’s up
and about
with a call
Here we go—Sa. . a. .mbari’!
Watch out if fruit juice
-ns instantly
and greens mellow to illusion
-ing in the sun
Let’s call out
Sambari
dewfed
footloose
droplitooze
You’ll drench until
the duping
oblivion of love
is all teary won’t you!
A drop, you
that fills cucumbers with
froth disconsolate
then halt in time at a taste
of peace
evanescent sweet in silenced cucumber
Sambari—a witch
The Tree of Tongues 221
Sambari 0 Sambari
A rabid dog
Subdued before the bite
by infant dew in a puppy’s eyes
is silenced cucumber
Fruit now cucumber dog now silence
Listening Sambari
to this image panting
and runaway
How sad yet
this meagre flow in the heart
Call it sad and now a wish
to drown returns this call
Sambari ah Sambari
generous
sibling of uncertain hours
Drying up, already—aren’t you!
How can I tell
what all what all
Mustering senses galore
in censer and all
austere or not shall be feigned.
On the withering drop you flee
what doom forever will come to sport.
(Translated by the poet]
(
more Poems by
TEJI GROVER)
A Poem By Suma VS
The Flamed Forest
It was a combination of a hot, dry summer
And an old forest, with a dry understory.
A flash of lightning ignited it,
The whistling wined fanned the flames ---
A swirling, roaring tower of fire
Trees, became petrified
Some, fire-scarred for life.
Fascinating to watch from a distance
Yet, causing hardship for eco-survival.
Clouds of smoke, leading to animal death,
Leaving men fight for breath.
It was the summer of 1988,
That caused a national tragedy,
As the ‘crown jewel’ of Yellowstone,
Burned in flames and smoke in the forest canopy.
( More poems by Suma V S)
|
