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Kuzhur Wilson Apr 12
In your place,

I planted a *******.

On the southern border

Of a dilapidated, porous house.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I used leaves that have decayed

More than the usual

As manure.

I took handfuls of the sand,

That was measured out

For construction of the house,

And spread over its base,

Without any measure.

I diverted the rain,

That was flowing away lazily,

To its base.

******* trembled

As love swelled up within.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I kissed every leaf,

Without anyone seeing it.

Its veins looked like yours,

When I read them gently.

And when the eyes welled up

I made a ridge under them

With my soiled hands.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will nurture it with love.

I will fight with ants and beetles

And even butterflies.

If it ever droops,

I will pamper it with sweet talks

And pet names uttered in its ear.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will stand guard to it

In rain and shine.

I will tattoo on my palm

Its green, branches and leaves.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

Tears

Spittle

*****

I will pour out the soul of life

Just for it.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

In nights, when I really lose it,

I will hug it and cry my heart out.

I will shower it with kisses,

Drenched with tears and spittle.

I will lie down on its lap,

When the eleven bells crumble.

And when I feel naughtier

I will close my eyes

Get inside it

And hide in there.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day,

It will flower.

And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.

The wind, birds and all creepers around

Will take up that song.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day.



One day

I will open my day

With its sight

And fade away to next life.

It will wait for me

Till the next life.







‘ When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.’

A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Kuzhur Wilson

trans. Anand Haridas
Wrote
Seed
Ten times.
Dug in
Nine of them.
(One
Fell on
The rock.
I saw
You count
Even
Before
The poem
Started.)

I wrote
Water
And poured
On its foot.
I wrote
Organic Manure
And put it
there,
But it
smelt
Furadan.

Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves

Before I
Wrote
Leaves,
I placed
A board
Saying
Don’t Touch Leaves.

Butterflies
Who cannot read
Fluttered
Around
everywhere.

I was
About to write
Flowerflies
Flowerflies
Next.

Butterflies
Got in
Between.
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Oh crucified Messiah!
You walk along
The Messi street
Here in Kozhikode playgrounds,
Alone,
Head hung.

You used to write poetry
With your foot
In the green field.
Green pens of press rooms.
How swiftly did they
Turn to red underlines.
—————

I am writing to you
From this land
Where poets will
Always get red card in
Playgrounds of poetry.

You should get down at Kozhikode one day.
I shall introduce you to
MoyduVanimel,
A journalist as old as Kozhikode.

We should roam all around Kozhikode
With him.
We should listen to Vanimel tales,
Sipping hot tea,
At Malapparambu, Puthiyara and Kallayi,
Everywhere that remained under
The spell of your foot.
—————

There is a mosque cemetry
Full of Meezan stones
By the beach.

Tombs
Tattooed with
Foot poetry
By many souls
Who died
Many deaths
In the playground.

You can see,
From your flight itself,
Those Henna trees
That lean towards these tombs
And nod lazily in drizzle.

There,
I shall kneel down
And repeat
The Liturgy for the Losers,
For You.
Liturgy for the Losers
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 26
At midnight,
After the rains,
I spread my wings
And flew across
The wide road
Without any company
And there,
Was this board.

Sparrow trading

That’s good.

Trading sparrows.
Trading birds.
Birds to be sold.

I decided
To troll
Ravishankar aka Ra Sh
As a translator
And Babu Ramachandran
Aka Alberto Caeiro.

I entered
The Sparrow Factory.
The Bird Market.
Wholesale trading centre of birds
Without ringing the bell.

I did not want to
Wake up
Even a single little sparrow,
So,
I stepped in
Without a sound
Or even a thought.

There was no bird
At the gate
The watchman
A retired soldier
Snored.

I moved on.
There was no one.

Where did those two cat eyes go?

I pushed
The window
Open
Gently
And looked in.

A lad
Fast asleep
Breaking all grammar
In some unknown language.

Brother, brother
I called
Without the birds hearing it.

That
Unknown language
Blinked awake
And walked up to me.

I felt so sad for him.

I asked,
Softly,
Weighed down by guilt.

Birds?

He said.

Birds gone loose.

Birds gone loose?

Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose.

Every human being
On this universe
Sang
In many languages.

That
Birds gone loose.

Nothing more to say.

*You too can try these three things. Except going in search of those birds that have gone loose.

Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Anand Haridas

Always been in love with words and images. As reporter with The Hindu,he was noted for features on arts and culture and civic affairs. After moving on from a career in journalism, Anand is involved in advertising and branding field. Along with that, he kept on actively pursuing his literary and creative writing. He has already finished the translation of two novels – Kumaru by C.R. Omanakuttan based on the relatively unknown phase of Kolkata life of poet Kumaranasan and Kamakhya, a new perspective to the life of Sage Vatsyayanan by new generation poet Pradeep Bhaskar. His translation of the play ‘KaaliNaatakam’ by SajithaMadathil was published in Indian Literature, the bi-monthly journal of Kendra SahityaAkademi.
Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2018
If i am born again

As a girl

I would Christen me

As Jere



Without going to the nursery classes

I would fib that I've fever

and would apply collerium in my eyes

the whole day



When I walk through

The city with my doll

Close to my *****

With a solemn look

I would peep in to

The camera eyes

Which would revolve

Around me.



Then also,

My best friend

Would be my mirror

In which I often look

Discontentedly.



I would take to myself

Pretending as grandmothers

Talking to themselves



You can write anything

Miss Web World beautiful or

A pretty girl in Webbannor ( the land of Web ) anything.

But

You must not

Alter my name

Jere



It's my prayer

And

It's my life breath

It is the tumult of ecstacy

That iam the only one

Belongs to me.

The slogan of living.



Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere

Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere jere jere

Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere



Iam going to sleep

In sleep also chanting it only.

In sleep also

I fear some people.



Kuzhur Wilson
Translated  to English Roopa Panath
Dairy notes of Miss Web World beauty Jere on an ordinary day
Kuzhur Wilson / Translated  to English Roopa Panath
Kuzhur Wilson Jul 2018
This poem
Allows no entry
For other poets.

Whatever you pontificated
About a jungle with no trespassers
Applies to this poem too.

We were hobnobbing about
A poetry factory that produces
Value added poetry products.
It was then that you started blabbering
“Neruda … Neruda.”

There’s only one way to
Chop Neruda.

Write “Neruda.”

Raise a hack knife and
One chop
Two Cantos.

Now,
I watch you getting shocked
At the sight of two Nerudas
In two Cantos
And laughter erupts in me.

(Note
With the permission of the author, the translator has tweaked the poem at this point.)
Neruda/ Kuzhur Wilson/ Trans by Ra Sh
Kuzhur Wilson May 2018
All the bigwigs in our village
Took refuge in the mercy
Of Fortune.

It came to such a situation that
If we locked our house and left,
Before we reached the goal,
At least ten fifteen Fortunes
Would come looking for us.

I noticed
How quietly
Does this Fortune make its entry.

Earlier, it was so noisy.
“Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow”
The sing song chant
Was amusing.

Slowly, Tomorrow became Today.
“Today today today”
How many times have I joined the chant!

Now,
How forlornly
How silently
Does Fortune arrive!
It has lost its speech.

It has contempt for itself.
It has shrunk into itself
More than the ex-serviceman
Standing in guard before an ATM.

Where did Fortune’s voice vanish?

Does it mean that Fortune has no voice?
That Fortune itself has ceased to exist?



Kuzhur Wilson / Trans by Ra Sh
Trans by Ra Sh
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