Those that will never come to my home
Those that will never come to my home
I shall go to meet.
A river in flood will never come to my home.
To meet a river, like people,
I shall go to the river, swim a little, and drown.
Dunes, rocks, a mountain, a pond, endless trees, fields
will never come to my home.
I shall search high and low
for dunes, mountains, rocks—like people.
People who work all the time,
I shall meet, not during my leisure hours,
but as if it was an important job.
This first wish of mine I’ll hold on to,
like the very last one.
—Vinod Kumar Shukla,
‘Jo Mere Ghar Kabhi Nahi Ayenge’: translated by, Dilip Chitre/Daniel Weissbort
जहाँ से भी निकलो
जहाँ से भी निकलना हो
एक साथ मत निकलो,
अपने आपको पूरा समेट कर,
एक झटके से मत निकलो।
ऐसे आँधी की तरह मत जाओ कि
जब कोई चौंक कर देखे तुम्हारी तरफ़
तो उसे बस झटके से ही बंद होता
दरवाज़ा दिखे।
कहीं से भी निकलो,
निकलो धीरे धीरे।
तुम्हारे चलने में चाल हो
सुबह की मंद बहती हवा की।
कान हों ध्यान मुद्रा में,
किसी के रोकने की आवाज़ सुनने की।
एक बार मुड कर देखना ज़रूर,
शायद कोई हाथ उठा हो
तुम्हें वापस बुलाने के लिये।
जहाँ से भी निकलो,
निकलो धीरे-धीरे,
किसी सभा से, किसी संबंध से
या किसी के मन से।
—संजीव निगम
बारिश आने से पहले
बारिश आने से पहले
बारिश से बचने की तैयारी है
सारी दरारें बंद कर लीं हैं
और लीप के छत, अब छतरी भी मढ़वा ली है
खिड़की जो खुलती है बाहर
उसके ऊपर भी एक छज्जा खींच दिया है
मेन सड़क से गली में होकर, दरवाज़े तक आता रास्ता
बजरी-मिट्टी डाल के उसको कूट रहे हैं!
यहीं कहीं कुछ गड़हों में
बारिश आती है तो पानी भर जाता है
जूते पाँव, पाएँचे सब सन जाते हैं
गले न पड़ जाये सतरंगी
भीग न जाएँ बादल से
सावन से बच कर जीते हैं
बारिश आने से पहले
बारिश से बचने की तैयारी जारी है!
—गुलज़ार
The Orange
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange—
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It’s new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I’m glad I exist.
— Wendy Cope
Song
I think of your hands all those years ago
Learning to maneuver a pencil, or struggling
To fasten a coat. The hands you’d sit on in class,
The nails you chewed absently. The clumsy authority
With which they’d sail to the air when they knew
You knew the answer. I think of them lying empty
At night, of the fingers wrangling something
From your nose, or buried in the cave of your ear.
All the things they did cautiously, pointedly,
Obedient to the suddenest whim. Their shames.
How they failed. What they won’t forget year after year.
Or now. Resting on the wheel or the edge of your knee.
I am trying to decide what they feel when they wake up
And discover my body is near. Before touch.
Pushing off the ledge of the easy quiet dancing between us.
—Tracy K. Smith, from ‘Life on Mars’ published by the Graywolf Press
An Introduction
I don’t know politics but I know the names of those
in power, and can repeat them like days of week or
names of months, beginning with Nehru. I am Indian,
brown, born in Malabar. I speak three languages, write
in two, dream in one. Don’t write in English, they said, English
is not your mother-tongue. Why not leave me alone, critics,
friends, visiting cousins, every one of you? Let me speak
in any language I like. The language I speak becomes
mine, its distortions, its queernesses all mine, mine alone.
It is half English, half Indian, funny perhaps, but it’s
honest, it is as human as I am human, you know…
It voices my longings, my hopes, and is useful to me
as cawing Is to crows or roaring to the lions,
it is human speech, the speech of the mind that is here, not there,
a mind that sees and hears and is aware. Not the deaf,
blind speech of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain
or the incoherent mutterings of the blazing
funeral pyre. I was child, and later they said I grew,
for, I became tall, my limbs swelled and one or two places
sprouted hair. When I asked for love, not knowing what else
to ask for, he drew a youth of sixteen into his
bedroom and shut the door, He did not beat me but my sad
woman-body felt so beaten. The weight of my breasts
and womb crushed me. I shrank pitifully. Then I wore a shirt
and a black sarong, cut my hair short and ignored all of
this womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl or be wife,
they cried. Be embroiderer, cook, or a quarreller
with servants. Fit in belong, said the categorizers.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better still, be just
Madhavikutty. It is time to choose a name, a role.
Don’t play pretending games. Don’t play at schizophrenia
or be a Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
jilted in love…Later, I met a man. Loved him. Call him
not by any name, he is every man who wants his
woman, just as I am every woman who seeks love.
In him the hungry haste of rivers, in me the oceans’
tireless waiting. Who are you, I ask each and all. The answer is, it is I.
Anywhere and everywhere I see him who calls himself I.
In this world, he is tightly packed like the sword in its sheath.
It is I who drink a lonely drink near midnight at hotels
of strange towns, it is I who make love and then feel shame,
it is I who lie dying with a rattle in my throat,
I am the sinner, I am the saint. I am both the lover
and the beloved. I have no joys that are not yours,
no aches which are not yours
we share the same name, the same fate, the same crumbled dreams…
—Kamala Das, from ‘Signatures - One Hundred Indian Poets’ published by the National Book Trust, India.
वक़्ते रुख़्सत कहीं तारे कहीं जुगनू आए
वक़्ते रुख़्सत कहीं तारे कहीं जुगनू आए
हार पहनाने मुझे फूल से बाज़ू आए
बस गयी है मेरे एहसास में ये कैसी महक
कोई ख़ुशबू मैं लगाऊँ तेरी ख़ुशबू आए
इन दिनों आपका आलम भी अजब आलम है
तीर खाया हुआ जैसे कोई आहू आए
उसकी बातें कि गुलोलाला पे शबनम बरसे
सबको अपनाने का उस शोख़ को जादू आए
उसने छूकर मुझे पत्थर से फिर इन्सान किया
मुद्दतों बाद मेरी आँखों में आँसू आए
—बशीर बद्र, ‘कल्चर यक्साँ’ वाणी प्रकाशन
Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging—
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
—Mary Oliver
सफ़र में
सफ़र में धूप तो होगी जो चल सको तो चलो
सभी हैं भीड़ में तुम भी निकल सको तो चलो
यहाँ किसी को भी कोई रास्ता नहीं देता
मुझे गिरा के अगर तुम संभल सको तो चलो
हर इक सफ़र को है महफ़ूज़ रास्तों की तलाश
हिफ़ाज़तों की रवायत बदल सको तो चलो
यही है ज़िंदगी कुछ ख़्वाब चन्द उम्मीदें
इन्हीं खिलौनों से तुम भी बहल सको तो चलो
किसी के वास्ते राहें कहाँ बदलती हैं
तुम अपने आपको खुद ही बदल सको तो चलो
—निदा फ़ाज़ली, ‘आँखों भर आकाश’ वाणी प्रकाशन
The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective
range — about seven meters.
And in it four dead and eleven wounded.
And around them in a greater circle
of pain and time are scattered
two hospitals and one cemetery.
But the young woman who was
buried where she came from
over a hundred kilometers away
enlarges the circle greatly.
And the lone man who weeps over her death
in a far corner of a distant country
includes the whole world in the circle.
And I won’t speak at all about the crying of the orphans
that reaches to the seat of God
and from there onward, making
the circle without end and without God.
— Yehuda Amichai, ‘Time’ published by Oxford University Press
दर हैं दस जिसमें हज़ारों खिड़कियाँ
दर हैं दस जिसमें हज़ारों खिड़कियाँ
जिस्म है या इक तिलिस्माती मकाँ
आग की लपटें, न वो उठता धुआँ
राख ऐसे भी हुई कुछ बस्तियाँ
इस क़दर नीची हुई ऊँचाइयाँ
चढ़ गयी हैं चोटियों पर चीटियाँ
ज़िंदगी और मुफ़लिसी की गुफ़्तगू
जैसे तुतलाती हुई दो बच्चियाँ
मुल्क जैसे हो गए तक़्सीम हम
कितना कुछ बाक़ी है फिर भी दरमियाँ
भेजता हूँ रोज़ लानत पेट पर
रोज़ सी देता हैं जो मेरी ज़ुबाँ
कुछ हैं जिनसे ख़ौफ़ खातें हैं भँवर
पार लग जाती हैं उनकी कश्तियाँ
फूल सारे देखते ही रह गए
जाने किसकी खोज में थीं तितलियाँ
मोड़ आया ही नहीं यारब कोई
ख़त्म होने को है अपनी दास्ताँ
—राजेश रेड्डी, ‘वूजूद’ वाणी प्रकाशन
Still Life
When she left me
after lunch, I read
for a while.
But I suddenly wanted
to look again
and I saw the half-eaten
sandwich,
bread,
lettuce and salami,
all carrying the shape
of her bite.
—A.K. Ramanujan, ‘collected poems’ Oxford University Press
चीनी चाय पीते हुए
चाय पीते हुए
मैं अपने पिता के बारे में सोच रहा हूँ।
आपने कभी
चाय पीते हुए
पिता के बारे में सोचा है?
अच्छी बात नहीं है
पिताओं के बारे में सोचना।
अपनी कलई खुल जाती है।
हम कुछ दूसरे हो सकते थे।
पर सोच की कठिनाई यह है कि दिखा देता है
कि हम कुछ दूसरे हुए होते
तो पिता के अधिक निकट हुए होते
अधिक उन जैसे हुए होते।
कितनी दूर जाना होता है पिता से
पिता जैसा होने के लिए।
पिता भी
सवेरे चाय पीते थे।
क्या वह भी
पिता के बारे में सोचते थे-
निकट या दूर?
—अज्ञेय, ‘संकल्प कविता-दशक’ हिंदी अकादमी, दिल्ली
Sitting Shiva
If you find the bones of a bear, sit down and stay with them.
The dead desire our company. Touch each one—scapula,
tibia, ulna—even the tiniest bones of the hind and forefeet,
the curve of every claw. Just out of sight, a thrush will sing.
Bird song is a way to speak in secret. Find comfort
in the arbutus that whitens each March on the old logging road.
Wait until dark. A full moon will rise from the bear’s skull,
showing what she thought of us. Hold the moon-skull in your lap,
stroke the cranial ridges. You may see your dead father
scaling the talus to the blueberry field where this bear ate,
mouth sated and purpled by the sweetest fruit. Your mother
will be in the room on the second floor of the house, packing
and then unpacking a box of your father’s clothes. It’s hard
to give up this life. But we must. Others are waiting behind us.
—Todd Davis
तेरी बातें ही सुनाने आए
तेरी बातें ही सुनाने आए
दोस्त भी दिल ही दुखाने आए
फूल खिलते हैं तो हम सोचते हैं
तेरे आने के ज़माने आए
ऐसी कुछ चुप सी लगी है जैसे
हम तुझे हाल सुनाने आए
इश्क़ तनहा है सर-ए-मंज़िल-ए-ग़म
कौन ये बोझ उठाने आए
अजनबी दोस्त हमें देख कि हम
कुछ तुझे याद दिलाने आए
दिल धड़कता है सफ़र के हंगाम
काश फिर कोई बुलाने आए
अब तो रोने से भी दिल दुखता है
शायद अब होश ठिकाने आए
क्या कहीं फिर कोई बस्ती उजड़ी
लोग क्यूँ जश्न मनाने आए
सो रहो मौत के पहलू में ‘फ़राज़’
नींद किस वक़्त न जाने आए
—अहमद फ़राज़
On Listening to Your Teacher Take Attendance
Breathe deep even if it means you wrinkle
your nose from the fake-lemon antiseptic
of the mopped floors and wiped-down
doorknobs. The freshly soaped necks
and armpits. Your teacher means well,
even if he butchers your name like
he has a bloody sausage casing stuck
between his teeth, handprints
on his white, sloppy apron. And when
everyone turns around to check out
your face, no need to flush red and warm.
Just picture all the eyes as if your classroom
is one big scallop with its dozens of icy blues
and you will remember that winter your family
took you to the China Sea and you sank
your face in it to gaze at baby clams and sea stars
the size of your outstretched hand. And when
all those necks start to crane, try not to forget
someone once lathered their bodies, once patted them
dry with a fluffy towel after a bath, set out their clothes
for the first day of school. Think of their pencil cases
from third grade, full of sharp pencils, a pink pearl eraser.
Think of their handheld pencil sharpener and its tiny blade.
—Aimee Nezhukumatathil, ‘Oceanic’ published by Copper Canyon Press
हंस रहा था मैं बहुत गो वक्त वह रोने का था
हंस रहा था मैं बहुत गो वक्त वह रोने का था
सख़्त कितना मर्हला तुझ से जुदा होने का था
रतजगे तक़सीम करती फिर रही हैं शहर में
शौक़ जिन आँखों को कल तक रात में सोने का था
इस सफ़र में बस मेरी तन्हाई मेरे साथ थी
हर क़दम क्यों ख़ौफ़ मुझ को भीड़ में खोने का था
हर बुन-ए-मू1 से दरिंदो की सदा आने लगी
काम ही ऐसा बदन में ख़्वाहिशें बोने का था
मैंने जब से यह सुना है ख़ुद से भी नादिम हूँ मैं
ज़िक्र तुझ होंठों पे मेरे दर-बदर होने का था
— शहरयार, ‘कहीं कुछ कम है’ वाणी प्रकाशन
1बाल की जड़
What is Tamara Saying with the Milk Bottle’s Nipple in her Mouth?
Only this:
Let no one harass the kitten
let none shoot down
bear-cubs in the forest
let not birch trees wither
hit by ammunition
let everybody on this earth
live as friends
let death return
the ones it has taken away
let there be no earthquake
let all aeroplanes land safely
let my father complete his poem
let all fathers become poets.
-Izet Sarajlic. (Adapted by Sitakant Mahapatra, from a translation by Marilyn Sjoberg.)
मैं जिसे ओढ़ता-बिछाता हूँ, वो ग़ज़ल आपको सुनाता हूँ
मैं जिसे ओढ़ता-बिछाता हूँ
वो ग़ज़ल आपको सुनाता हूँ
एक जंगल है तेरी आँखों में
मैं जहाँ राह भूल जाता हूँ
तू किसी रेल-सी गुज़रती है
मैं किसी पुल-सा थरथराता हूँ
हर तरफ़ ऐतराज़ होता है
मैं अगर रौशनी में आता हूँ
एक बाज़ू उखड़ गया जबसे
और ज़्यादा वज़न उठाता हूँ
मैं तुझे भूलने की कोशिश में
आज कितने क़रीब पाता हूँ
कौन ये फ़ासला निभाएगा
मैं फ़रिश्ता हूँ सच बताता हूँ
—दुष्यंत कुमार, ‘साये में धूप’
Dad Poem X
You can’t have apples with everything,
we say to our son over breakfast, but that’s
not technically true. He knows this, I suspect,
though his face reflects a certain understanding,
as if he’s willing to negotiate. Before we moved here,
I knew so little of apples, their untamed array
of shapes & names: Ginger Gold, Honeycrisp, Crisp
-in, Cortland, Cameo. Both Rome & Empire,
somehow, which feels like it must be an inside joke
between members of the committee. Fuji, Winesap. Ruby
-Frost, which could be either a miracle or a plague,
I can’t decide which. Paula Red is a Soviet secret
agent. Envy is a deadly sin. Holstein & Ambrosia
have skin like a storm on a televised map. On the ride
upstate to the orchard, I recount all the types to myself
in a private game. Select my prize in advance. Bags filled
with Liberty & Jazz will be my aims, like any good
American. Two months earlier, it is not yet my birthday.
I am in an office in Brighton. The doctor has never seen
a case quite like mine. During the tests, I make every task
a language game, even the ones with semicircles & blocks.
This part of my mind is hypercharged, he says, like a quasar,
or loving dispute. That morning, I cut a Braeburn into eighths
and cast the pieces into a small blue bowl: a handful of rowboats
swaying. At the orchard, we are stars set loose across the mind
of a boy in a field on his back, dreaming with both eyes open.
We run for hours. We gather enough apples to sate ourselves
for weeks on nothing but their cold red wealth. What marvels:
this most metaphorical of fruits, Newtonian, Edenic, pure
delight. Mighty & bright. And the orchard like a coliseum
of planets you could hold in your hand.
—Joshua Bennett, ‘The Study of Human Life’