Portrait of the Day
It
has rained all day
All
day water has poured from the swollen eyes of universe
Little
Shantu has asked more than once
If
it is the tears of or grieving mother
He
wonders if the still laments for the living
As
living ones do for the dead
All
day,
The
branches of the tree in front of our house
Have
stood amazingly quiet
While
the water has dropped incessantly on the leaves
An
owl has stood his ground the trunk hole
Once
a while a car has passed by
It
has rained all day
The
earth is like a kerchief in the hands of a lost child
A
man has taken shelter in our varandah
His
bicycle stands infirmly under the tree
An
old aunt has walked into the house asking for an umbrella
Has
plunged herself nicely in the old spongy sofa
Also
an old acquaintance
Has
come in saying
Emptiness
id the best thing to have
One
can make anything of it
And
live the life as one wants
Suddenly
the day begins to ebb
Caving
in the dark interior of its busy hours
It
is still raining
The
branches of the tree in front of our house still quiet, drenching
This
day seems a an incomplete portrait of the day
Its
secret longings
Into
the twisted world of the forlorn
Puzzled
The Sacred Visitations
They
have come back to the waves
Time
turning on itself
To
see its face in the mirror
Legends
of dead souls
Checking
its freckles
They
have come back to hear the story
Woven
into the waves-
Frayed
and fraying
Of
the child who never returned
Who
got lost in the ocean
Of
the second child
Who
did not return after he went looking for his brother
And
the mother and father one after the other
Looking
for their children
Got
lost in the ocean
They
are still looking for each other in the ocean of time
They
have come to see the waves’ eternal return
Bereavement
woven into the coming and going
Mischief
of fortune frothing
With
each coming of waves
Cries of lost soul checking upon each other
One
after the other
This
unending rhythm of life
Like
time
Like
waves
Like
father and mother
Brother
and sister.
Looking
for each other
Without
any clues
Things Getting Lost
The
things we used to know
As
our bodies
As
its longings
Once
solid, things
Like
the wishes of our children
Their
aspirations
are
cautiously built by desires.
Like
the revolution for which
Life
had to take a detour
Where
did it all disappear?
Just
yesterday, it came to me:
when
did the thorny rose creeper
with
its luscious bunches
Which
swayed slowly
In
the breeze by the rear window
Dry
up? Where
did
those butterflies disappear?
Who
would pour their love on them?
And
that scent which drew insects to them?
Translated by Medha Singh
Night,
Woman
The
night feels a woman’s touch
Hidden
in sleep, cast over the earth
Under
its shade, lemon blossoms flower,
jasmine
buds are born.
Somewhere
in this sleep is
the
beauty of woman reviving death,
devouring
man’s violent pursuits,
defeating
the valiant and powerful,
reigning
with
a single mind
At
night, woman is sleep
In
the day: beauty.
The
night asleep in its waking life–
Tonight,
woman sees the sensual
dreams
of her being
dancing
upon her primal passions.
Translated by Lucy Rosenstein
