Translations of Hindi poetry by three important poets of our time by Jitendra Bhatiya 




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Mangalesh Dabral

Four Portrats--

One- Grandfather

Grandfather did not fancy getting himself photographed,
or may be he never had time.
In the solitary picture of his on the unkempt wall
he sits seriously, looking profound
like a cloud filled with rain.

About Grandpa, I only know
that he often gave alms to beggars
He was in habit
of tossing about restlessly in sleep
and in the morning
he would tidy the creases on the bed.
I was very young at that time.
Never was I to see his anger, never
To get the feel of his mediocrity
Picture do not portray one’s limitations.
Mother says that when we are in slumber
surrounded by weird beasts of night,
Grandpa keeps vigil in his picture.

I never got to be tall as grandpa
nor as serious or profound,
yet I have something of Grandpa in me.
It’s that very anger, the same mediocrity.
I too walk with my head bowed
And live on
Imagining myself sitting nonchalantly
In an empty picture frame.

 Translated from the Hindi by Jitendra Bhatia
 

 (More poems by Mangalesh Dabral >>)

ASAD ZAIDI

SILENCE AND LAUGHTER

What kind of a life did you live asked 'Bari Aapa'
A very good sort of a life, Bari Aapa !
Ate flavoured trimmings, gathered piquant knowledge from shops
Wore out shoes and nursed the indigestion
One day I sat sipping tea
With two boys and three girls when a query arose
How do people like you survive, Asad Saab, I was asked
Silently, I told them

I spent most of my time remaining silent,
Silently I talked to myself,
and I was mostly silent
even while talking to others.
There was silence wherever I went
Which was a bit perilous to start with
What kind 0f haunted house is this, I thought
But then I found that I was myself an intruder and
that was that.

In my silence I was never in doubt
For example after watching `Sholay' at Plaza
How could there be room for doubt?

Like a silent lake 1 wanted to he
And the only way was to remain underground
In a spell of silence
The deafening shrieks of the city could not shake me
But on rare occasions
In cities crammed with hotels
When I chose to laugh
I actually trembled from within
Sometimes water on the surface of the lake
Quivered when I was afraid.

To ward off the feeling I wandered with hands in my pockets
Towards bazzars
Where occasionally I learnt that science was progressing
But sometimes one also heard news, which, if taken seriously
could give you the shivers or make the ears rattle.

On the roads, more than tyrants
I met a gentleman
Although in the days of ferment I had to
Go along with them
Blending a lot of cleverness with dissent.

I sat with pedigreed people holding my breath
It was not possible for me to bring about
A further improvement in their pedigree
They would eye me sympathetically and then try to socialise
Have tea, they would say
(This is enough for the present, they must have thought)

So although it began halfheartedly
They' gave me several alternatives
My problem was how to tell them about my dilemma.

I devised a very defensive sort of a laughter
Whenever I laughed
I was deeply annoyed, even with myself.
They saw this laughter and my halfheartedness
And began to lose interest in me.

It is with the same laughter that I take my bow before you
Come, I will show YOU how I laugh
Afterwards I will show you my silence
Which will explain
to you
The kind of life I have lived in cities.

Translated from the Hindi by Jitendra Bhatia


(More poem by ASAD ZAIDI >>)

VIJAY KUMAR

Bombay - Two Poems

ONE

Flowers of spring where do they bloom
Where do the spring flowers bloom
Searching in vain
I travel from Amernath to V.T.
There were no flowers on Raiba's paintings
Only the teeming crowds
On roads paved with molten asphalt
Endless crowds
Pushing, jostling, scrambling and yet petrified
This is the moment
Before they enter the skyscrapers
Before they busy themselves on typewriters
You must hold their hands and ask
The spring flowers, where do they bloom ?



Two

In the morning I shall come to the city
Out of the darkness
Like a sun
I shall arrive, hands folded
With a slightly hunched hack

Listen my friends
The trains will be running on time
Flyovers would be intact
Old houses, like saints
would stand composed
Slowly, I shall gather the speed of the city
And then one day I will be old
Like everyone, I too will have a small world
With nieces and grandchildren
In a family photograph
I will narrate the struggles of my youth
Reluctantly
I shall foretell the history of this city

Translated from the Hindi by Jitendra Bhatia



(More Poems by VIJAY KUMAR>>)

Two faces of love from Iran

**
 Hossein Mostafavi Kashani( 1989 -)

The second letter to George W.



Now you are
the most famous President of the United States.
Afghanistan is in your right pocket
And Iraq in the left one.
Your pockets are endless
All the oil fields in the world could fit into them.

You have grown extra hands and feet
Ever since you became President
Little by little you are starting to look like an Octopus;

All the people who campaigned and voted for you
Are your partners in crime
You are walking with their feet
And using their hands to snatch countries
Just like a spoilt rich child who points at a toy
stamps his feet on the ground and says:
I want this NOW or ….!

I bet you couldn’t even find a leaf that would vote for you
Or a bird, or a raindrop, or the wind .
Rivers have nothing to do with you
For ,they care only for the sea.

You can’t even swim in your dreams
For, you are afraid you’ll drown your heart
The heart that has nothing better to do than to play with fire along with your playmate, Tony Blair.

Maybe, one day all the children of Afghanistan and Iraq
will forgive you
Along with the poets of the world
Maybe God will forgive you as well
But the woman who has taken care of you
The mother who has cared for you
Watched you sleep, while dreaming of angel
Will never forgive you for what you have done.
Mothers cannot love a killer even if he happens to be their son or
The most famous President of the United States.


Translated by : F.Hassanzadeh (Mostafavi )
 

***

ALI SAMAVATI


“LOVE”
(The Virus)

I see a virus has fallen on your soul
It has taken you away into another pole

You were the one who didn’t know fear
The one who used to be brave as a steer

You were the one who never cried
The one who never ignored his pride

You were the one who never lost hope
The one who knew many ways to cope

You were the one who used to defeat all
The one who would never tumble or fall

You were the one with so many games to play
The one who lived a lifetime in a single day

You were the one who was always bright
The one who made a day out of the night

But something captured your clear heart
It just came and began tearing you apart

You breathe, you move, but you’re dead
A fatal thought has gone into your head

You’ve become quiet, terrified, and weak
You no longer smile, you no longer speak

Have you fallen in love, is that true?
Has a viral love done all this to you?

Only that can be so ruthless and cruel
Only that can break every single rule

Let it go, before it takes you down,
Swim out, before it makes you drown!



(Hossein Mostafavi Kashani & ALI SAMAVATI>>)

A poem by AD-WINANS



CHINATOWN SWEAT SHOP

you see them coming
but never going
working 14/16 hour shifts
6/7 days a week

I imagine the sewing machines humming
"a stitch in time saves nine."

you see them coming
but never going.

I imaging the boss madam's eyes
an executioner in disuse
watching waiting as the universe
grind t ham into oblivion




 (More poems by AD-WINANS >>)

A poem by Kristina Marie Darling


Plague

1.
If you pulled the string they’d profess their undying devotion, one-eyed and green in the face. The dolls had been left out in rain and snow, brought in by a mother who’d wasted a Christmas paycheck. I was disappointed to find they were bought: I liked the thought of them rained down with the hailstones, denting cars and frightening the strays huddled in the window. My friend’s mother put them in a box, and marked it “Good Will.”

2.
I wrote on the backs of telephone books in red sharpie. I sent him every page scribbled with threats and sweet nothings. Memory is like the glue underneath the wall paper: sticky and dripping, and inescapable. I didn’t know if I wanted him back, or boxed up for the poorer girls, slightly damaged. I was bruised from thrashing myself against the bedroom walls, but well enough to tell him: he’s a bad movie that I just keep watching again and again

  (More Poems By Kristina Marie Darling  >>)

 A poem by RICHARD KRAWIEC

Last Rites


in the empty house

monks chant in Gaelic

a woman keens

for lost children



stretched on the couch

an old man fingers

the emerald beads

of a rosary



the last rites of dreaming

about rain-soaked green

fields, shining blue mountains

possibilities beyond



the dust-infused air




 (More Poems By RICHARD KRAWIEC >>)

Poem by John Dorsey



 cotton candy



i hold no dreams
but the ghosts
are close to my heart

wrapped in cotton candy
souls caught in fog
wandering without a cigarette

in need of a flashlight
they ask doves for favors
and drive out fractions of wanting

i am a tourist here
reading palms
in the world of the dead

they know the date of my birth
when i'm going to die
& it's calming to read a smile

a mile away
men search for
only fitting


 (More poems by John Dorsey >>)

A poem by  Josef Lesser


 A Day for Beholding


So many things I have not seen, and yet so much I have.
Take purple for example, I have seen it drape its naked self
devoid of shame across an aubergine
observed it one evening leave first the table of the setting sun
shuffle like a homeless man then roll slow into the sea.

Of course I missed the crowd when the law of Rome
threw down the purple and the thorns the robe and the crown,
volcanoed the library of history echoing still from town to town.

I never witnessed Gandhi
shake the hand of faith
or saw the streets of Arles
through Vincent's eyes,
and Pavlova dying as the swan
died before I knew my name.

So many things I have not seen, and yet so much I have.
I once espied memorials wrinkled on a mother's face,
saw a child of cloud lost as a summer snowflake
roam the desert sky and a seagull walk a tightrope
thin as air, then trapeze into a somersault without a net.

All this I discovered in one day, a day for beholding.



 (Profile of Josef Lesser>>)

 She returned home

She came back
again?
Why?? ?
Father took out
the knife of words.

Why? She did no know
Frankly speaking
she did not want to know
she only felt
there was something
which was not needed
and something was missing
which she wanted,
but what?
Her brain was empty

That day
she took out the clothes
for ironing
and saw the lines of dirt
on the collars , on the sleeves
even after a hard wash.
She found the source
of her sadness

She could not live
with the man
who could not iron
her passion

Father shouted again
WHY???

“Because
I cannot iron his clothes,”
she replied
in a weak voice

“No need
there are a number of
dry cleaners in the city.”
Father was furious.

“That is why I retuned”
her voice was firm.
(For-F.Hassanzadeh )
 

(More poem by Rati Saxena >>)