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"dalit" poems
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.
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Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Letters to Violet -11
You, upperclass, American feminist Will you please shut up about a sandwich? And comic book characters, supermodels Shut up about your first world problems And take a look somewhere, Where the idea of feminism Is actually needed Have you ever heard of an arranged marriage? It's common practice in other places, Right after puberty, as long as the ******* are there 11, 12, they don't really care See the life of a Nepali girl, lower-class, Lack of freedom Learn about the meaning Of the word kamlari Young Nepali slave girls Beaten and bruised, Not allowed to be ill Or *Jogini, Devadasis* Which are both from india Dedicated to a goddess at as young as as five To bring the family good fortune The tribes girl, forever ***** But with nightly visitors in her bed They're hoping for some of her luck To rub off on them Sumangali dalit girls Sold by their family For next to nothing, It's called "bonded labor" And is supposed to pay off debts But the trap is set The girl is caught And if the "bonded labor man" Feels she isn't of enough use Maybe she's been beaten or is a little too ill He sells her off to another man Supposedly to pay her hospital bill So yes, feminism is needed But not here you little heathen Shut up about your so called freedoms And help the ones so desperately need it
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Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Feminism (kind of a rant)
Ang EDSA ay kumakaway Ang bayan ay nakaratay Saklolo ay hinihintay Marami nang napapatay Ang EDSA ay tumatawag Ang baya’y di makapalag Pambabastos di masalag Kahit mali’y pumapayag Sinungaling, hindi tapat Pati lahat n’yang kasabwat Naniwala naman lahat Instant solve daw droga’t kawat Ngunit ngayo’y malinaw na Na ginawa tayong tanga Magnanakaw 'nilibing pa na bayani, An'yare na? Ang EDSA’y nagmamadali Kaliluha’y naghahari Tama’y ginagawang mali Ang ganito’y di maari Bayan noo’y nagkaisa Diktadura'y itinumba Karapatan ng balana Hindi pwedeng ibasura Diktadura’y hindi dapat Mapabalik at magkalat Kapag kapit-bisig lahat Lakas ay walang katapat Ang ‘EDSA One’ ay larawan Nanindigang sambayanan Aral ay hwag kalimutan Kalayaa’y IPAGLABAN!
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Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 3:32 AM UTC
Ang EDSA ay Tumatawag (Di N'yo Ba Naririnig? - Walong Dalit)
buhay natin ay ano nga ba? kung walang lagyo ang musika kagaya ng isang A capella ang bawat simula ay may kataposan ngunit sa bawat kataposan ay may panibagong simulain isang prinsipyo na di kayang tuldokan isang nakaraan na di mapaparam sapagkat ito ay binantasan ng tandang pandamdam! kaya naman halina kayo SAGLIT samahan ako sa pasakalye ng aking DALIT dahil tulad ninyo...di ko rin nais na wakasan itong himno ng aking kaluluwa na di ko mapigilan mailapat sa papel ng aking hapag sulatan at marubdob na papangyarihin ang taos-pusong koalisyon ng aking Pag-asa, Pananampalataya at Debosyon sa pamamagitan ng aking Isang Libo't isang Awit na pinapag-sanib ng samot-saring kudlit at kuwit hanggang sa aking maabot ang liwanag sa dilim at kayo ay aking handogan bago ang takip-silim
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May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC
" Hymns of my Soul "
Marahil di n’yo po tanto Halaga ng leksyon ninyo Bawa’t tula, gintong puro Pag-ibig sa wikang Pino Bawat talatang piniho Nagbukas ng mata’t ulo, Florante’y bayaning nobyo Laura’y bayang Pilipino Gurong minahal, idolo Parang anak kami, oo Kahit iba’y magugulo Di malilimot, Mam Lojo . . .
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Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
Mga Dalit Para sa Isang **** sa Pilipino
Hindi yaman ang sukatan Ng matapat na kaybigan Kundi subók nang samahan Tapat at walang iwanan
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Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 1:47 AM UTC
Dalit sa Pagkakaibigan
Ang buhay ay paglalakbay At nang minsang nakasabay Kaagad kang umalalay - Kapwa tulong ating pakay. Kulisap ng karunungan, Naging susi ng samahan, Naging tulay na ugnayan - Agham na para sa bayan. Sa iyo aming kaibigan, Salamat ay walang hanggan. Ngalan mo’y kaligayahan Hindi makakalimutan.
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Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
Dalit-Pasalamat
Her demise shook the world And left an uprising in its wake. She was human but the world Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her Skin was marred with scars of The most gruesome kind but Little do you know, they were Her battle scars that she took To the grave. Her body, a Holy shrine was entered without An invitation but you are not Aware that her soul is purer Than yours will ever be. Her cache of memories will Be drenched with flashes of Hungry stares and lustful eyes But also warm hugs and gentle Smiles from her parents. Something that the Scrupulous media does not want To reflect upon. She can’t be A secret anymore; her caste Cannot be a hindrance anymore. She needs a powerful voice And we must give her one. As i recount this tale, I am suddenly this girl. I Consume her desires. I Am her soul and spirit. And, My fingers close in on against Each other and I take labouring Breaths. My throat feels like Huge amounts of sandpaper were Shoved into it. My eyes are watery And blood shot and all you do is Stare. My clothes are shredded And little rags are my only trustful Companions on my otherwise Naked body. A string of wounds Cover my arms and legs and you Whisper about how sordid a Scene this is. You mutter about Me being a victim but the truth is I am a warrior who survived an Intrusion that was not supposed To happen and yet, you back off From a growing crowd and wonder What you’ll have for dinner tonight, Leaving me there on the ground, Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
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Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 9:36 AM UTC
Indelible.
Her demise shook the world And left an uprising in its wake. She was human but the world Obnoxiously called her a Dalit. Her Skin was marred with scars of The most gruesome kind but Little do you know, they were Her battle scars that she took To the grave. Her body, a Holy shrine was entered without An invitation but you are not Aware that her soul is purer Than yours will ever be. Her cache of memories will Be drenched with flashes of Hungry stares and lustful eyes But also warm hugs and gentle Smiles from her parents. Something that the Scrupulous media does not want To reflect upon. She can’t be A secret anymore; her caste Cannot be a hindrance anymore. She needs a powerful voice And we must give her one. As i recount this tale, I am suddenly this girl. I Consume her desires. I Am her soul and spirit. And, My fingers close in on against Each other and I take labouring Breaths. My throat feels like Huge amounts of sandpaper were Shoved into it. My eyes are watery And blood shot and all you do is Stare. My clothes are shredded And little rags are my only trustful Companions on my otherwise Naked body. A string of wounds Cover my arms and legs and you Whisper about how sordid a Scene this is. You mutter about Me being a victim but the truth is I am a warrior who survived an Intrusion that was not supposed To happen and yet, you back off From a growing crowd and wonder What you’ll have for dinner tonight, Leaving me there on the ground, Writhing in more than pain and suffering.
Continue reading...
50
Her tender skin sprouts green shoots a wreath, at the foot of tree she was buried. On the trunk her face appeared, a morphed stump. The bark, her coffin split, where demons clawed. A number, worms out indelible scars, 452. Frozen chambers of mortuary await the next, a child, a girl, a dalit, a musalman. A cattle herder. Or, the silent you, you and you.
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Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 7:43 AM UTC
Necropsy
mabuti pa rin ang bawat umaga sapagkat naroro'n ka sumusulyap kung manunuya ang kadiliman ng langit ngunit salamat sa liwanag batid **** sa pag-ibig ko sa bayan ay palaging kasunod ka ang mapagpalaya **** tinig sa gitna ng mga sigaw taas kamaong kumakapit sa apoy ng rebolusyon naririto pa rin ako lumiko man ang daan mananatili sa pagkaway ng bukang liwayway at kung sa panahong hindi ko na makapa ang taling nag-uugpong sa ating dalawa lumingon ka lamang pabalik sa sining at pluma tambisan mo ng liyab ang mga salitang magmamarka saliwan mo ng musika ang dalit ng maralita lilingon muli ako aking sinta, at doon ay makikilala kita.
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Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 6:01 AM UTC
ang babaeng militante
even a week is sometimes      not enough to recuperate from a novel -     something has borrowed too much time and expects its worth a miracle of a penny found on the road of the eternal walker: long the road toward a majesty of the riches...           whatever novel it might be - and with it,    a paralyzing ****** of doubts - whether sober or intoxicated, not even when: wine and music and a book of poetry suffices... just like now: Beethoven, kalimotxo, and the preferred gems by Frank O'Hara to suit the music... chez jane and blocks... if ever there is something missing in terms of Beethoven: it's a voice reading a poem,   but not reading it, not like a Beatnik who would read in the furore of jazz in the past century...    anything more than what is still not a whisper... and like some farce of the sword of Damocles... the pen of Dickens...         not the labours of a novel, no... not the month's long journey into the labyrinth... music and drinking simultaneously with a novel will never work... but a poem can... my god... some wine some classical music and... words...    when there's music and wine who needs words like labyrinths when:   just on the tip of the hour's passing: a bird in the form of a poem... all i can say in the most mundane phrasing...    but i have capitulated all prior to thrill and audacity for a novel...    a month's labour: and silence...    a soul in such hiding... feels hardly a thought necessary to reinvent itself in its prior activity:    an mingling of wine and music and words: come and go... like all novels:   as much an accomplishment of the writer, as an "accomplishment" of the reader... and is it so wrong to not be agitated with emotion that: a month's worth of base arithmetic sentences - the logic of: once upon a time                as the logic: the end... sanctity of prose:   that sensible nature of that sensible afternoon   of that sensible life,    of that: unlived crucifix       of a shadow's confiscate; routine and sitting akimbo on some far removed stage:   of a sea knocking on the door of earth - seeking rhythm -                           or a heart. as mundane as this language: i'm not going to find a different language to change this evening, even though not awe: or relief... but a paralyzing doubt has overpowered me... and, come to think of it: that's still much more than a heart's worth of sitting's comforts in         the armchair of apathy.
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Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 7:25 PM UTC
the Quill of Dickens: an observation by Ibai Dalit
even a week is sometimes      not enough to recuperate from a novel -     something has borrowed too much time and expects its worth a miracle of a penny found on the road of the eternal walker: long the road toward a majesty of the riches...           whatever novel it might be - and with it,    a paralyzing ****** of doubts - whether sober or intoxicated, not even when: wine and music and a book of poetry suffices... just like now: Beethoven, kalimotxo, and the preferred gems by Frank O'Hara to suit the music... chez jane and blocks... if ever there is something missing in terms of Beethoven: it's a voice reading a poem,   but not reading it, not like a Beatnik who would read in the furore of jazz in the past century...    anything more than what is still not a whisper... and like some farce of the sword of Damocles... the pen of Dickens...         not the labours of a novel, no... not the month's long journey into the labyrinth... music and drinking simultaneously with a novel will never work... but a poem can... my god... some wine some classical music and... words...    when there's music and wine who needs words like labyrinths when:   just on the tip of the hour's passing: a bird in the form of a poem... all i can say in the most mundane phrasing...    but i have capitulated all prior to thrill and audacity for a novel...    a month's labour: and silence...    a soul in such hiding... feels hardly a thought necessary to reinvent itself in its prior activity:    an mingling of wine and music and words: come and go... like all novels:   as much an accomplishment of the writer, as an "accomplishment" of the reader... and is it so wrong to not be agitated with emotion that: a month's worth of base arithmetic sentences - the logic of: once upon a time                as the logic: the end... sanctity of prose:   that sensible nature of that sensible afternoon   of that sensible life,    of that: unlived crucifix       of a shadow's confiscate; routine and sitting akimbo on some far removed stage:   of a sea knocking on the door of earth - seeking rhythm -                           or a heart. as mundane as this language: i'm not going to find a different language to change this evening, even though not awe: or relief... but a paralyzing doubt has overpowered me... and, come to think of it: that's still much more than a heart's worth of sitting's comforts in         the armchair of apathy.
Continue reading...
96
Tagbulaklak uli ngayon Sa manggahang nililingon Na sa nagdaang panahon Saksi sa ating maghapon. Mula Lunes laro’t aral Hanggang B’yernes, walang tumal Puti’t asul di nagtubal Buhok hippie sadyang bawal. Kabataan no’ng nangarap Maabot ang alapaap Ngayong layo’y lubos-ganap ‘Igan pa ring nakaharap. Kaibiga’y nasusukat Di sa yaman ni sa agwat Tunay yaong di napuknat Mula musmos ay matapat. Si Mabini nagwika rin Katapatan ang habilin Kapatid ang sadyang turing Noon, ngayon at bukas din.
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Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 7:46 PM UTC
Dalit para kay Jalil
Enough is enough We have watched We have heard Every year, every month Every week, every day Every hour, every minute Thousands and thousands Of untold horrors In every state In every city In every village In every nook and corner Of this monstrous country A supposedly secular country A supposedly democratic country Enough is enough How much more can we stand? For how much longer Do we have to put up With this Brahminical terror Unleashed by the state and legislative By the judiciary and police By the corporate and media Don't you dare hide Under the garb of patriotism Under the garb of secularism Admit it, this is what you wanted Right from day one A Savarna-Brahmin India Free from Dalit-Bahujan resistance Free from liberty, equality and fraternity An India ****** would have been proud of
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Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
Enough is enough
Kupas na ang ‘yong larawan Ala-ala kong sulyapan Ang kahapong s’yang tahanan Anino na lang nang bal’kan.
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Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 3:08 AM UTC
Dalit sa litrato ng aming lumang bahay
dalit. untouchable. irrefutable unstoppable. undeniable. immortal unmistakable. infinite. unforgettable rising once helpless fallen heroes can no longer be ignored no longer cornered the holy whole full ripples even the king's bow taught put in place cannot deny what is the essence of you healing broken spirits suffering shattered fusing failures mending misfortune vengeance vanquished simple twist of fate fleeting fickle change of fate's course unexpected miracles r e a r r a n g e m e n t spreading contagious mutations of once hopeless despair language of anguish muted faint soft sighs deepest gratitude praising towards
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Aug 29, 2020
Aug 29, 2020 at 10:35 PM UTC
connect the dots, strokes of ageless folks
Jose Rizal ating paksa Naturalista nga kaya? Sagot nati’y “Tunay! Sadya!” Dangal ng Lahing Dakila Mga aral na pamana Ng bayaning ating bida Kalikasa’t Baya’y t’wina Mahalin at Laging Una
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Jan 31, 2022
Jan 31, 2022 at 12:38 AM UTC
Dalit para sa makakalikasang bayani
Takot pag naalala ko Dating mga "R" na bagyo Lakas walang sinasanto Ruping, Rosing, Reming, 'nay ko!
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Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC
Sa Letrang "R" (Dalit)
Walong b’wan na, saan na ba? Susulong daw, atras pala! Ay may patutunguhan ba? Agay! Porbida Covida!
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Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 7:56 AM UTC
Dalit sa Kalabuan