Nagraj Manjule Nagraj Manjule
‘Eyes of mother’

Look,

How my mother

Has grudgingly stop maddened darkness

Through embers of her illuminating eyes

That comes upon running



If I did not look

Into her eyes,

Then my dear,

My moon and stars

Would have trapped, even now,

Within your persona



~Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘Friends’


We were two friends

Of a same attitude;

Ready to die

For each others,

Living with a single objective,

A single dream.



Further,

He has committed suicide

And I wrote a poem.



~ Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘If I did not have a pen in my hand’

If I did not have

A pen in my hand,

Then,

It would have been a chisel,

A Sitar,

A flute

Or perhaps a canvas and brush



I would have been digging

With whatever I had

This extravagant cacophony of mind



~Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘Needle’


How far calls of conscience

Should be mutilated within lips,

How many stitches should be made

By the needle of a poem?



A wound seeps

Through sewed stitches,

Who stitches the sky

Through the hole of needle?



~Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘Now You’

Now you are

For me

As if

An old letter

Of suicide



~ Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘Option’

I searched options for a lover

And I searched options for a mother,

I searched options for wandering alone

For acute sufferings and inhumane void,

I searched options for weeping alone,

I experienced mixing with people

I experienced befriending people,

I experimented with my likes and dislikes

And places to sleep and wake up,

I experienced to lose myself into pegs of liquor

And experimented many addictions,

I experienced changing landscapes

I wandered across alleys, both, ugly and beautiful

And pages of books whatever I have got,

I experienced entering into bosoms of various persons;

I haven’t got an option

To my amorphous life



I experienced life

I experienced death,

There isn’t any other option to my life and death

Except poetry



~Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘Regret’

Keeping a vigilance over seasonal changes

You are going, alone

But I don’t regret this



Anyway, I am living though

Writing a death over paper

Amid deadly solitude

But

While going, you are carrying a life

And now

My words

Have no context



I would asked you

If there was something to ask for

But I regret myself

That I do not have a uterus.



~ Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘Shelter’

While I was being devastated,

Poetry has kept me

Under its shelter



Who knows

How a poem has begotten

In the mind,

How the Earth has conceived

The trees?



~ Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya



‘When he was writing’

When he was writing

With the identity of blue-ink,

Stones and statues were being awaken

And

Mountain were brooding



Consultation has been made

Over whether to let him write

Or not



And eventually it was decided:

To provide me an ink.



Further…

While writing

With the changed words

He has written:

The colour of my blood is saffron



~Poet: Nagraj Manjule

Translator: Yogesh Maitreya

 

 


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