13-04-2012, 06:40 AM | #1 |
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Indian Poetry in English
My Story I have nothing to excite myself Neither books on the art of making love Nor talk of war Nor soft beds Nor legs nor night Moonshine Nothing The itinerary that followed the rape Has filled me with grief My modesty is my need It has often left me naked Whenever Wherever I go I find bodies Creeping towards shadows With unmistakable insolence There are furnaces everywhere Everywhere people warm up their modesty On the crumbling slopes of age And hammer nails at different places--- That experiences may stay People often weave among themselves A complex pattern That perhaps They may survive death Though for a short while Whenever I have chanced to look into The dark recesses of life I have seen there--- A blind slope stands Loaded with bullock-carts On its back ( In which there are skeletons ) Though this is true--- When I am on the roads In the midst of discussions I chirp irresistibly But every time I return home In the room's loneliness I stink Like the foot That has just been taken Out of the shoe. Translated by Ramakant
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 06:49 AM | #2 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Assamese Poem By Bhaben Barua
The Voice Of Whiteness It's the voice of whiteness --- a blue-throated restless silence : That's upon the peaks of life, and of death too; Found through meaninglessness at intervals --- in lanes and bylanes, over hills and mountains. It comes with the sun and the rains; the human colour added --- Through the hours, through the seasons --- to the endless, senseless motions of nature; A rainbow drawn upon the forehead by the sun --- and the rains. Perhaps, it is what love is or the greenery of conjugality : Touches, warmth, the murmur of memories, the pressure of enamoured fingers; Perhaps, it is the friendship full of waiting, the blue flute of life. Perhaps, it's the victorious flashes of the apples crushed upon the teeth of Time; The glitter of emptiness filled with broken glasses; the ever-awake wind Moving --- through darkness --- over deaths and snows. Over the grasses and the scorched fields, over the flowers and pyres --- Full of a duality --- it's the form of meaning of desire and emtyness. Lonely, crowdful, marked with sweat and blood --- wavy, greyish. It's a secret voice coming through the ages, through light and darkness. In the villages, in the cities --- amidst the foul vapours, greediness, The wildness of the uncivilised --- pained and iron-like it's the voice of whiteness... Translated by Emdad Ullah
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु Last edited by Dark Saint Alaick; 13-04-2012 at 06:54 AM. |
13-04-2012, 06:53 AM | #3 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Bangla Poem By Alokeranjan Dasgupta
Now Peace is Also War I can't really make out if we're at war or at peace. I imagine the deceased assembled at some solemn occasion, merely sharing hand-picked novelties of grace and experience with the sundown; yet as I sidle up really close to a sunbeam I notice they are auctioning off the dusk. It would be hard to say if it was autumn or winter, in a black hole in the sky I suddenly see the tussle of the seasons, so soft and yet so inconsequential - not as when the seasons are engaged in an allegorical interplay and finally one overcomes the other in accordance with the will of a biased producer in an amphitheatre. No, they only want to reduce perishable mankind into stillness. That is why they allow some indeterminacy to remain in the cosmos - and that too has beauty. However, if I'm unable to contain the limits of life clearly within one definition, then it's a catastrophe! at such a thought I split heaven and earth on either side of me and watch as the cloud approaches cautiously, wanting to stroke the haycock; the hay too wants to say something, but since each word would be an assault, it draws itself tighter together ? can peace be maintained under such conditions? Either the war never really ended, or else peace is over.
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 07:08 AM | #4 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Gujarati Poem By Ghulam Mohammed Sheikh
Mahabalipuram Man's dream here has a very sharp edge : the hungry teeth of the dead mark the flanks of domesticated beasts. Staggering badly, a thirteen-hundred-year-old wind passes between a sow's sagging dugs and the rough fingers of yesterday's sculptors, straining to sink inside, are tugged into the spotted feathers of hens, purposelessly alive. Chameleons slumber at ease in the belly of rubbish and slime-covered frogs poke obscene fun at God who sits exhausted on the steps; crabs peeping through a cypress's dry skin giggle like fish, and there, fallen like a raw black rock on a clump of tender wildflowers, idle Star yawns and writhes awake. Translated by the poet and Adil Jussawalla
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु Last edited by Dark Saint Alaick; 13-04-2012 at 07:10 AM. |
13-04-2012, 07:36 AM | #5 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Kashmiri Poem By Amin Kamil
Zero-Bridge This is the ‘Zero-Bridge’ away from the city and its hubbub, rapt in meditation of the tranquil mesa, a recluse, solitary, and stripped. Poised on the embankment are the same-sized poplars, as ready in a row for Id-prayers; There, those silent and white house-boats are being laved in the light of the waning moon, in the eddies of the Vyath powdered silver glistens. This is the ‘Zero-Bridge’; 'O’, a queer dot wherein all numbers vanish and re-emerge; one who remains confined to closets, cannot enjoy the dizziness of heights. There at the top of the mountain is a temple, man, in all times, erects thrones for his Lover at heights; Lord, you deserve all praise, make the dew-drops shine as stars. They say, there is a highway beyond the visible leading to some unknown city; who can escape the orbit of ‘being’ as one jumps out over a thorny fence? Who is there to set ablaze the tree of life? every twig of which lactates when suck; there in the verdure of that chinar tree is slumbering the gleam of the moon, the late-night hour is intensely felt as the cricket chirps. Can at this hour my oblivious Love remember me even in his dreams? In early spring even the fruitless willow sprouts. The quiet surroundings vibrate without strings, every note is merged with every other, my soul also sings something inwardly. Nature, too, has a penchant for art, shadows give rise to a variety of patterns; what are we, but the colour of patterns that lose our luster slowly in sunshine? There will be a day when shadows will vanish, and all these multi-hued patterns will vanish, a mono-chrome light will converge in a dot, and, over the Vyath of life, away from the hubbub, every person will become a ‘Zero-Bridge’. Translated by Shafi Shauq
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 07:39 AM | #6 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Kannada Poem By Gopalakrishna Adiga
Prayer Lord, plying the well-known pumps of heraldic praise your hirelings bend double; others, gouty wagtails, lick the land for crumbs; one snuffs his candle out and seeks like an eunuch leech the warm marshes in the cracks of light; another sissy gives his back to the time-fed rumps and sheathes his dagger deep. Lord, I am not of these. Here's one who grins inside, triumphing that his lifted lantern lit the face of dawn; he cannot bend, this fat-faced cock of the walk : Lord, cut open this dropsic bulge. Sleepless water skins join night to day in his belches drawing long paean-notes with each : run thy sickles clean in Thy kindness through this miasmic crop, and turn his daily bread into turning blood; give the poison-vapours natural vents and give every one outlets into privacy, lest they vent their gall on paper-virgins. More that all, teach them the first lesson in the hygiene of mastication, two and thirty times processed and blent in the saliva stream : even if you do not teach them this, teach them to learn that they have not learned. Shear the illusion that onions bring their throats the smell of musk; O, whenever words are blown to balloon in the Mind pinpoint O Lord the precision of Thy truth. Arrest the automation of the dream-sense as it switches open all the sluices while inaccessible giant thighs play fast and loose; do not rouse us to self-abuse when peris, jostle in a disembodied striptease in the wind, and in thy infinite mercy send us frequently reality's women; for the self to wrestle with and nuzzle in, send real thighs and taut new skins. At every retreat from the winds outside, do not send for your guerrilla packs of extinct selves. Let the guests come home with their bodies full-fleshed; save me from the pest of the skinless guest. See every ship to its haven, let no whale-hips swallow the vessel, keep them going from harbour to harbour. Keep the going poised against the coming to the very end. Still, keep the ancestral flames of the wisdom of desire burning clear and high, untouched by the English pox. The taper wavers in the wind. Even electric lamps are vulnerable to a blow. Your mountain of vapours condenses to a seminal drop and digs into the earth in its arrogance and spills itself everywhere. For liquefaction's ecstasy even thorn is as grass. For a moment's fulfilled desire, days, months, years, even aeons of desire evaded, turned wrong side out, twisted. Father, teach us to produce the full nine-month carnal marvel. Teach us not to bend, and to bend; to let the flame dig against the cheek of dawn and to stay in patience wavering with the wind. Teach the neighing pride of the wild horse never to become a hackneyed colt, give it the habit of bearing upon its back the airy thighs of the immense world. Forgetful of the little bedchamber upstairs, you are the one, the only one with the seminal sap rising to burgeon in no common loins, nor waking to pour it between compatible legs. Awareness such as this, my prince, is an egg half-brooded over; let the Great Hawk come bursting through his shell churning the winds like a silver-gleaming staff while the burdens loosen under your haunches. Translated by A.K. Ramanujan
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 07:42 AM | #7 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Punjabi Poem By Amrita Pritam
The Virgin When I moved into your bed I was not alone--- there were two of us A married woman and a virgin To sleep with you I had to offer the virgin in me I did so This slaughter is permissible in law Not the indignity of it And I bore the onslaught of the insult The next morning I looked at my blood stained hands I washed my hands But the moment I stood before the mirror I found her standing there The one whom I thought I had slaughtered last night Oh God! Was it too dark in your bed I had to kill one and I killed the other ? Translated by Kartar Singh Duggal
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 07:44 AM | #8 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Sindhi Poem By Krishin Rahi
Day and Night The day is for all The night alone is mine The day is the fight in which, like a soldier, I engage along with the rest. The night has its own essence its zest. It is aware only of itself and its own kin. The day is a cup of poison which needs must be gulped Death levels all Night alone breathes in Life Distinctive in each living being. During day, mixing with fellowmen I lose count of myself and shed all hope The night retrieving this precious Me Robes my aspiration in a seductive dream. The world is made not of reality alone Dream too has gone into its making. Translated by Tirth Basant
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 07:46 AM | #9 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Tamil Poems By S. Abdul Rahaman
Thirst You've, oh gardener, chopped off my branches overleaping the hedge; but what would you do with my roots snaking under it ? Self-Immolation One kindling the memory of the other, let us both burn ourselves out slowly : I a candle you an incense stick. I light up agony : you add fragrance. Soon as the light is out agony will forget me; but your thoughts would wheel around it. Translated by M. S. Ramaswami
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
13-04-2012, 07:48 AM | #10 |
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Re: Indian Poetry in English
Telugu Poem By Ajanta
Darkness Incandescent Maybe, I live in hollowness beyond On its tough rocks of darkness And in its shackles of dreams. Yet I have witnessed Darkness flare in that hollowness I beheld the lifeless statue's sword dance in that incandescence. Am I alive ? Would I again listen to the echo of my voice In the shadows engulfed by fire ? I am striding across hollowness And through the mysterious literary passages of darkness. I am wandering through the devastating sounds Created by the killer in the inner recesses of darkness. Am I alive ? Would I again listen to the echo of my footfalls Amidst forests that are luminous. I am striding across hollowness And through the abysses of darkness I am being swept away by the dust of dreams Encrusting the boulders of death. Am I alive ? Does death denote opening of another door of life ? When would the serpent of flame lost in meditation aloft my head open its eyes again ? Translated by P. S. Rao
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दूसरों से ऐसा व्यवहार कतई मत करो, जैसा तुम स्वयं से किया जाना पसंद नहीं करोगे ! - प्रभु यीशु |
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