Another rendezvous with Death

this time, when i went

to meet Death at his place,

he showed signs of weakness.

he was watching a cricket match

relaxing in his arm chair, legs stretched.

yawns kept rolling

in slow progression

towards the boundary.

`are you well?’ i ventured.

`nothing wrong,’ said he.

stammering, i quizzed him:

which one do you fear most?

allopathy, ayurveda, or

homeopathy?

dear wilson,

have you observed sachin

facing the balls of shane warne?

brian lara, wasim akram?

chris gail, brett lee?

i was thrown into confusion.

death admitted, unwillingly,

that like vivian richards

confronted narendra hirwani,

he was laid low by the

secret herb

of an old tribal man!

aaha! the panacea

became then

a spin ball!

(aaha…Nothing official about it!)

i forgot to ask

how our people

smuggled away by him

were faring now.

he forgot to comment

“you will see for yourself

when you face it.”

By Kuzhur Wilson

Trans by Ra Sh

photo - jude hill

Varghese has no home

Varghese has no home.

Stays in his workplace.

Jesus’s very own man.

Big rosary around his neck.

And a matching wooden cross.

He gardens around the yard

On days of no work.

Holds a deep grudge

Against the trees around.

Doomed are they the moment

His eyes settle on them.

Asked him once whether

His rancor was because

Jesus was crucified on wood.

Or, was it the wheezing that

the Acacia trees caused?

Or, was it the itchy worms

from the soft wood trees?

He said time and again

‘Brother, I love the trees

More than you love them.’

Have seen many times

The birds from the trees

Chopped down by Varghese

Looking for their nests.

Clearing the bushes along

The road to the office was

Varghese’s job for the day.

When I went out for a smoke

Glowing was he about

How the place gleamed.

Midnight, after work,

Was driving along the path

Shorn clean by Varghese.

In the blaze of the headlight

A hare dashed frantically

Looking for its bush.

(trans from Malayalam by  Ra Sh)

12 year old sky sea woods

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its congested patio,  

Beheld the sky

That sky spilled over the sky

Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately

We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school

Even after the last bell

The wind may blow any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Descried the sea

Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen

That sea overflowed the sea

The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”

We were

Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel

Though it is noon and he is hungry

The sea fish do not know

The grooves of tears and the little waterway

Rainclouds can arrive anytime

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window

Those woods got darker than woods 

Trees pretending to cavil for my being late

Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs

Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks

There are wounds that are hidden

A lightning can strike any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise

We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger

Argued

Prayed

Perused the holy book

Often, while no one watched,

We fed the dolls

Sung them lullabies

On these occasions,

I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke

Thereupon, between us

Sky sea  woods.

Translation : Anitha Varma

.

Not because I didn’t insist

Sorrow comes,

Goes

Happiness comes,

Goes

Love comes

Goes

Lust comes,

Goes

Wonder

Surprise

Hatred,

Love

Comes

Goes

It is not because

I do not press it

To stay awhile

Comes

Goes

Translation : Anitha Varma

The crossing

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?

Translation : Anitha Varma

The day you came

The first day
God came face to face

Spring, in front of the tree
That had forgotten roots and leaves

The slender note of complaint
Made to its friends
By the cloud that got lost

The goddess’ voice
Unheard by any but water

The flower garden
In front of which
Grass grows with abandon

The darkened house
With cow dung – smeared floor

A cluster of moments
Of butterflies cavorting in the rain

The playhouse
Made of the wings of fireflies and moths

The seaside
Where camels enjoy the breeze

The forgotten oyster
The fry left
Under the sand

The praying hands
Of date palms
Which look upon earth from above

The wedding night
Inside the elephant shelter

Where ants frolic

A pinch of beaten rice,
Cooked, using only the twigs the pigeons bring

The anthology of words 
Read and re-read
In a hand-written letter

The translation of the moment
God couldn’t quite get

what could it have been?

Covered daughter with kisses..
She wept, alarmed

I heard the voice of God telling daughter,
” I didn’t understand anything either!”

Translation : Anitha Varma

2007 February 28

We met
In a deserted street
In Kabul, capital of Afghanistan, In the next incarnation.

Thereon,
A tee shirt , with the legend
“The lovers in this incarnation
Belonged to two populations
That were at war in the last one”
Walked by.

I realized that day
That your gaze
Was a bullet
Of hatred and vengeance
Left over from unabated fury
Even after firing six times that day

And you told me
That my words
Were like
The satisfaction of chopping repeatedly,
A body long dead

Still,
When you saw popcorn on the wayside,
Why did you offer to get it?
Why did you coo, ‘what’s wrong, dear’ when I sighed?
I am clueless!

you asked
How we separated
The first time it was because the flame flared up
When lighting a taper
Once it was because the phone rang while kissing.
There was some stain on my shirt when we met in a dream
.....
.......
For asking
For not asking
For calling, not calling,
For sighing,
For laughing, for whimpering,
For crying, for eating, for not eating,
For sending, for not wishing to send,
For going to the toilet
Without asking permission
For saying a prayer for mother and children

Must have died together on that day.
The anxiety was not
About who would look after you
If I died first,
But who all will look at you!

Must have killed
If not that, God would have interfered
Whatever the rock on which it is built,
God would upset it with an earthquake if nothing else.

God and His strange ways!


In the Afghan capital city of Kabul,
It is the same us who killed with love in this fashion


When you exclaimed
“How lovely this city is”,
I lighted another cigarette

This time, another tee shirt
With the legend “I am not even born”
Passes by


I remembered
The two lines you told me
in the last incarnation,
Four days before Christmas,
A Thursday evening,
At 5:41.
I laughed without telling you that.
You gave me a kiss.



Translation Anitha Varma

Dance

In the garden in Corniche

In the playground bound by a metal fence,

While the Arab teenage kicks the ball,

The feet of the Sudanese, sitting on the stone bench nearby

Start prickling;

Cries out that

For one who knows how to score goals,

The hunger to kick a ball

Is the ultimate one!

Me? I shall remain nameless!

The fisherman 

Whose whole body tingles

As he espies a shiver of gigantic sharks

Even while swimming for life, 

Having lost his boat and fishing net in the deluge,

The nun, whose breasts start secreting

As she watches a bawling baby,

Standing amidst toddlers of the nursery

The swimmer,

Who crawls through the desert

On camel-back

I do not ask for anything else

Just the ball and the opposition

Let a thousand, or, tens of thousands, come

Let the goal-mouth

Be miles distant,

I do not ask for anything else

Once, while carrying a load of cement

On the tenth floor,

For a moment,

A moment,

The sun tempted, as a huge ball.

The scar of the beating received

While dribbling the sun on the sky meadow

Remains on the back..

There are balls anyone can play with.

No, all surges ahead

Do not end in goals.

There are no games that do not have ‘foul’ -

Even in dreams.

There are no Arab children

In the playground now.

Jut the ball, ball, ball alone.

It scurries hither and thither

By itself,

Races outside,

Speeds towards the goal-mouth,

Sometimes ducks out of sight.

Very privately,

And even more secretly,

Ball smiled at me.

A shudder of incarnations

In my toes.

As soon as the ball and feet

Left the playground,

Two legs

Started dancing,

Betwixt twilight and night.

Translation / Anitha Varma

The Tree

In the villa in Sharja,

A banyan tree stood, stuck to the wall of the building.

Mind throbbed as soon as it caught sight of it,

Touched it to my forehead in reverence,

Remembered my father who understood trees.

In the book she has kept closed,

It should be possible to still see

The memory veins of a leaf-

Plucked after touching its soul and seeking permission.

‘It is a sign of prosperity,

It cleanses the atmosphere’, Mary too said.

New tenants came in the room vacated by Priyan and Anjana

Jaya aunty and her husband said that they wore skull caps

Narayanan, wearing sacred thread and sandalwood paste on his forehead,

Anthony with rosary and sacred amulet

After them,

Youngsters of this type were not seen so nearby

One night, when I went out of my way to touch that tree,

I heard speech of a rhythmic nature

From the room of those who wore caps

it passed through my mind, ‘these are times when words become music’

It was a Friday.

While watering Basil plants,

Saw the branches of the banyan on the ground.

Its leaves, like heart shattered..

Whitish veins drained of blood

my eyes hurt

As I ran to it,

Saw the tree,

Looking like a worshipper whose hands were cut

While crying, beseeching the heavens , arms outstretched.

Father,

You used to say that there were many types of trees

Which tree is used to make crosses to crucify humans, father?

Kuzhoor Wilson

Translation -Anitha Varma

I'm waiting for her under that tree

this tree would grow big
and bear fruits

crows would come
honeybees,
ants, centipedes and all

then the wind, rain
and sunshine would come

savour the taste,
in one way or another

the tree would grow again

when the branches
grow beyond their reach
children would leave the tree

then comes the contractor,
and the chopper and carpenter
arrive in their turn

when the chisel touches
the same branch, where
the crow used to sit,
there arises a sound, cawing

hearing the sound
the remaining children
would fly away sturned

when the nail pierces
its windblown shoulder
there 'll be an eerie silence

desolate like the midday
of friday without anyone
going to the church

gradually it becomes the door
and enters inside
and sits as a chair,
then lay down-
as a cot, tired

I am waiting for her
under that tree

(translated by Rajendran Cherupolika)

Word

I did not run
to buy a cigarette
I went in search of a word
which was more meaningful than life.

In a hurry
my leg was injured ,
a finger got cut,
and I got a word

Translation : Dr. Santosh Alex

NO SMOKING

1


Doctor warned, “Your liver will strangle –
If you do not stop this habit”.
“That flower fell off long ago”
I responded.

“I might lose you if you hang on with this habit”
Gracy says.
“I already lost myself” I declared.

Next turn was my friend who is a story writer.
“I can’t see you as a character who smokes”
“You better do not have this protagonist in your tale”
I affirmed.

She whispered, “Your lips have become black”
I announced, “Not even a kiss with fag smell is available”

“Why are you deteriorating yourself” inquiry from Jinu.
“Just because, I don’t know how to spoil others”. My answer.

“K S R T C buses which arrived late taught me smoking”
A stranger said.
“I lighted a cigarette for the initial time, just for some light”.
My response with realization.

“They shout that you are a chain smoker”
My sister’s version.
“There will be no smoke without fire”
My variation.

A board in the hospital was engraved.
“No smoking here”.
“Everything else is allowed?
I asked.

“God will not pardon suicidal behavior”.
That was from Parish Priest.
I could say this much.
“Clouds are created from God’s cigar”


2


In this night filled with solitude,
God, let me have a fag which has soul and
Let me reach out to clouds.



Translation : Aju Abraham
ajabraha@gmail.com

Dance

(painting: Pablo picasso)


When Arab adolescence strikes football

In the fenced ground of the Corniche Park

A Sudanese guy who sits on the nearby stone bench

Feels the thrill on his legs



For the one who knows to strike a goal

The biggest hunger is to strike the ball



And me? I don't' have a name



When the fisherman swims away

Loosing his boat and net in the flood

And faces a group of huge sharks

He gets a chill on his spine



When one of the cutest babies

Among the nursery kids cries loudly

Milk oozes from the nun's breast



The swimmer

Crawls on a camel

In the desert



I don't want anything else

Only the ball and opponents

Let thousands or millions come

Let the goal post be miles away

I don't want anything else



Once, on the tenth floor

While carrying the cement bag

One moment, just for a moment,

The sun tempted like a big ball



While surging ahead with the ball

In the sky ground

The blow came unexpected

Its mark is still on the back



There are balls, which can be tackled by anybody



No, not all the movements forward

End up in goals

And there are no games without fouls

Even in dreams



In the ground in front now

No Arab children are left



Only ball, ball, ball



It moves on its own

This side and that side

Runs out of the ground

Surges to the goal post

Sometimes hides somewhere



In pure solitude

And very secretly

The ball looks at me and smiles

A throb of the destiny

On the fingers of the legs



When the ground became

Empty of balls and legs

Two legs began to dance

Between the evening and night


Translation:: Ismail Meladi
ismail.meladi@gmail.com
http://ismailmeladi.blogspot.com/

Didn't even keep on the groud

The forgotten Umbrella
grew anxious.

Did he get wet?
Wept, not seeing me?
Got beaten by mother?

BEnches and Desks
Still whispers.


"Thara" "Para" " Pana"
The Blackboard is till in daylight.

Darkness descended

Umbrella felt like crying

Rain Rain
Umbrella Umbrella
The rain outside went on uttering.

"My darling umbrella"
His voice raining
over the rain
Only the umbrella could capture.

Wept and wept
the umbrella slept.
The cabin of headmaster appeared in a dream

Question parers, cane rods, Maps, Globe
Skeleton
Choke dust
Bulky lady teachers
Farts and flops.

Startled, Got up once
No, not yet the day.

What is seen was just his name
sew in the dark.

Oh! how could he forget!

Then came other umbrellas
They sat here and there.

Didn't he get wet the passed day?
Didn't you reach home?
How's it to be said
That he forgot me!!

Oh listen, that's him.
The umbrella shut all eyes hard
Wait till he comes closer
Wait till he wrap me with hundred kisses.

The bell rang,he didnt arrive.

When the eyes are wide opened
it was seen
His new darling umbrella.

Didn't even keep on the groud.



Translation:: sreejitha p v
sreejitha.pv@gmail.com

City of death, City of life

In the life beyond this,
We met in a forsaken corner
Of a street in Kabul;
Kabul, the capital of Afghan.
Behind us, a t-shirt passed by;
On it was written thus:
"Two warring clans
In the fore-life
Are born lovers in the next".

It dawned upon me then,
That your piercing stare was
The left-over of the
Six shots of Cindery vengeance
And hatred you emptied
On me, the life before.

And you kept blaming
That my words seep the
Eerie delight of mincing
A body, dead long back.

Still then,
You offered me pop-corns
Sold on the sidewalk,
You wanted to know
Why I sighed,

I don't know why.

You wanted to know
How we parted...or,
Was it "why we parted"?

I don't know.

First, It was when the candle flamed
Too high when lit;
Once, it was over a phone bell
That broke a deep kiss;
And then,
Over a stain on my shirt
That you dreamed up,

And then …
…
…
For questioning;
At times, for not questioning;
For calling;
Sometimes, for not calling;
For eating, and for not eating;

Over a sigh,
Over a laughter,
O'er a whine,
O'er a prayer for the kin
O'er a letter sent,
And the ones never sent.
And even, for
Shitting without permission!
We both may have died
About the same time,
I am sure.
If not,
My worries weren't about
Who would look after you;
They were all about
'Who all will be after you'

We did kill each other.
Or may be it was
A divine intervention;
Yes, He who reduces to rubble,
Even the sturdiest of erections…
Queer ain't He ?

And now, we are here -
The ones who slaughtered
One another in love –
Here in the city of Kabul
Kabul , the capital of Afghan.

I took my next puff
When you marveled
The city's splendour.

There goes another t-shirt;
It bore, "I ain't yet been born"

And then
It came to me:
Those Two lines you mumbled
At 5.41on a Thursday evening,
Four days before Christmas,
In the life bygone…

At that fond remembrance, I grinned
Without a word.
And you gave me a kiss!

Translation: Suraj Rajan

http://darwinsarmy.wordpress.com/

O' body, O' thy soul…

O' body, O' dear body...
It's the mackerel you gobbled up yesterday.
Why else does this cat circle you
The third time again.

Silence! O' gut.
Keep thy waves down for a while
At least until the
Cat's wide gaze passes by.

O' body, O' dear body...
Be careful at the beach.
You are in their home land;
What if all those fish inside you
Rush up to the sea.


What if their friends try
Knocking at the doors of
Each of your cells.

O' body, O' dear corpse...
What if you finally come back
To the shore with a thousand fish-kiss.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if
Everything you savoured,
Everything you devoured,
Came to life before you, in a flash.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if you let
Your thirty-year-old breast milk
At the first sight of baby.

Or may be, the bread
And the roast meat
Came up in search of those tiny lips.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if those tender breasts
Show up to bedazzle
A sunny noon at the dearest city
And what if the dank aroma
Makes you 'spill' all over again.

O' body, O' dear body...
What if the cattle inside
Come out to graze
At the sight of the meadow

What if that cockerel
Jumps out into the courtyard
At the sight of his hen

And the frogs inside
Start croaking at every downpour.
And the birds that settled in you
Yearn for the skies

O' body, O' dear body,
All those fish, birds and beasts,
Leaping out of thee.
O' body, O' thy soul… -



Translation: Suraj Rajan
http://darwinsarmy.wordpress.com/

Dont know me

He doesn't know meI don't know him either

Between us there is a lake.That is full of fishes.Those fishes are neither his nor mine.Those fishes are not oursAnd that's the relationship between us

In that lake lies the fallen sky
I see the fishes submerged amongThe valleys of clouds in that skyThe fishes flicker those clouds… a little.
Can there be some fishes unafraid of the birds?To know that you must peek into the lake

Does he see all these, I think
And does he read my thoughts?
I can never imagine what he sees in the lake
Or did he ever try seeing?
Oh... let him think whatever he wishes.
There is a cigarette in his hand; and in mine too.
That is another of our bonding
We both have cigarettes

I think the smoke from my cigarettes and the clouds are friendly.That's why I am sad about the dead clouds in the lake.
He doesn't think that way; his face is a give-away
He doesn't seem worried… about anything
He may be bored; maybe, that's why he smokes

He is darker than me.Hmm…that too is a bonding
But he doesn't know thatI am fair… I pretend to be dark

May be, he was fair too
And got tanned when his mother forgot him
Or maybe, he is simply that – dark

The Sky..The Lake of fallen clouds..Smoke circles that befriend the clouds
And I, the fair one!

trans : Rajeev Nair,
archienair@gmail.com
http://www.rajeevsnair.blogspot.com/

Dont know me

He don’t know me
I don’t know him too

Between us there is a lake.
And it is full of fishes.
Those fishes are neither his nor mine.
Those fishes are not ours
That’s what, the relation between us is.

In that lake, sky was lying fallen.
I can see the fishes submerging among
the valleys of clouds in that sky
It was fishes who flickering those clouds a little.
Are there any fishes not scared of birds?
For that you have to look into the lake.

My thoughts are now about, whether he see all these.
and whether he know my thoughts too.
I could never imagine what he has seen in the lake,
or did he get time to do that too.

Oh... let him think whatever he likes.
There is a cigarette in his hand; mine too.

Another relation between us is that we both have cigarettes.
My thought was that, smokes from my cigarettes and clouds are friendly.
That’s why I am sad about the dead clouds in the lake.

His wasn’t thinking that way, his face clearly shows that.
It looks like he is not worried about anything.
It may be bored, that’s why he is smoking.

He is darker than me.
That too a relation is.
But he doesn’t know that
I am fair and pretending dark

May be, he was too a fair one;
and got darkened when his mother forgotten him.
Might not be, he is dark only.

Sky..
Lake of fallen clouds..
Smoke circles who are roaming around, friendly with cloud’s.
Me, the non-darkened

trans : Able Kuriakose, ablekk@gmail.com
http://ormakkaayi.blogspot.com/