#kuzhur
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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 golden shower.
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.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
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.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 1:39 AM UTC
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
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
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.)
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
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
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
Was crossing the road
It is not like crossing anything else
A Trailer
Might partition into pieces
Or a Hummer,
In a second, make one a nonentity
Or a tin can of a vehicle
Take away your hand or leg.
Even if your last wish,
In case you have to die in an automobile crash,
Is that it should be the red lancer car you are very fond of,
Which court will listen?
On the other side of the road, there is a neem tree
Its dark green leaves are visible.
No, cannot see the bitterness,
But it is possible it is.
I have to cross the road.
Then
I have to stand a bit under the green on the other side
Those birds have to run away (no, not fly!)
And come back just the way they went.
What then? It is, after all, the road that was crossed,
Which is something!
While crossing the road, came a Trailer
Whose driver was a Tamilian
A Hummer came,
In which there was a father, his friend,
Mother and two kids
The kid was singing loudly
The friend was thinking about his girl friend
A rickety old tin can of a vehicle too came
It was full of wine bottles
For the next century
What then?
Trailer was divided into many pieces
Hummer made one a nonentity in a second
The old vehicle took away two hands, one leg, and two ears.
Now the one who looks this way from the other side:
Is it the one who reached the other side,
Or the one who was standing here,
Or the one who crossed the road,
Or the one who has to return?
Jan 28, 2018
Jan 28, 2018 at 8:06 PM UTC
We have a family tomb. Elder brother bought it for dad. I renovated it when mom slept for the last time. It is pleasant to go there and stay for a while.
I have never seen dad and mom in bed together. Now, it’s nice to watch them do so. A tranquil feeling.
If I do not die in a distant land I too will sleep in this tomb. Gives me a nice kick to think so. Also a sick feeling that I cannot be there to watch myself.
I picked up a candle and lit it on my tomb. Gathered some flowers from the ground and strew them on it. Stuck incense sticks all around, Knelt down before the dead me.
Then, The familiar ones in the cemetery rose up To ask me when I had come over. Someone from among us got up and left without answering.
Behold, a girl runs along the alley in front of the cemetery.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
Dear gold
In the body of a woman
you attain elegance
lying chained to the hip
fatigue like
Endless are the times
when earlobes and foot
seduced me without you
Mere threads of yellow
will do better than you
There's a cuteness
seeing you
swing from a single ear
Nose studs, with a stare
have stung me sleepless.
The ones made of rolled
gold too
But, dear gold
You become gold
when you are pawned
Like the revolutionary
who becomes more revolutionary
when hanged
Like the soldier
who gets shot and becomes
a soldier even more
Dear gold in the pawn shop
My gold, dear gold
Translated by Binu Karunakaran
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 12:02 AM UTC
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC