When machado’s men
rein in my veins
When her beauty and her love
seep onto the floor as vigourless fluid
With fermented passion
Now I eat only cannibalsWhen shadows from the past
warp around my steps
When categories of the world
reap around my coffin
With fermented passion
Now, I eat only cannibals

You remember that day?
When red hot embers of the desert
rose into the sky and sliced the Sun?
When the stuff of the centre
erupted through the edges of the universe?
When this was true and that was also true
and everything in between was an illusion?
Then I ate a cannibal,
he was tasty
And, I became a beautiful traitor

(a fond tribute [...]]]>

Once upon a time
My nipples were rosebuds of love
My belly was the cradle of an unborn thought
Now, it is just a black mass of a hardened mole
a burden of unwanted fat
Weightless waves
of past love and pain
crash into my eyes
With fermented passion
Now, I eat only cannibals

When machado’s men
rein in my veins
When her beauty and her love
seep onto the floor as vigourless fluid
With fermented passion
Now I eat only cannibalsWhen shadows from the past
warp around my steps
When categories of the world
reap around my coffin
With fermented passion
Now, I eat only cannibals

You remember that day?
When red hot embers of the desert
rose into the sky and sliced the Sun?
When the stuff of the centre
erupted through the edges of the universe?
When this was true and that was also true
and everything in between was an illusion?
Then I ate a cannibal,
he was tasty
And, I became a beautiful traitor

(a fond tribute to Terrence Malick)

As we drive through the woods,
The fields and the vast landscapes
Looking through the window
With the backdrop of our burdens,
Reminding us the responsibilities.

A thought crosses my mind
And I begin to say something…
About you… about me… about the world
Nothing happens.

I want to share with you
What you are to me… or what it is to be with you
In complete words
But they wouldn’t come out.

I take a sheet of paper
Into my cold hand – To write and show it to you
Hoping to see a blink in your eyes
Just to realize they are incomplete.

I can speak better without words
And write well but not on paper
May be my moments of silence (with you)
Reach you better than my words of worship.

The days when you entered like fog
into my heart’s core with circles spread out
and pervaded my world

The paths along which you led me with love-shackles
onto the peaks of ecstatic youth coaxing my
faltering thoughts of tender age’s deluges

The moments when we swayed
in unsoiled enchanting worlds drifting with
fervid passion into unfathomed gorges

Do they come to your mind too, any time?

The nights when you kindled
with your glances, the countless star lights in me
in the darkness where words blush

The paths in which you showered love-pollen
in the gardens of raga that we trod together
and you won me

The moments of oneness with resultant boundless love
after the warm thoughts shrinking like doves
jetted out from heart’s nest – their wings fluttered

Okay, I won’t remind, even for fun
Won’t measure the vigour of your memories

But enough it would be, if you promise
that a lightning signature of ours too
will be inscribed on all the moonlit moments
when tender buds blossom into flowers

Origin (Telugu): [...]]]> Things always keep coming to my mind

The days when you entered like fog
into my heart’s core with circles spread out
and pervaded my world

The paths along which you led me with love-shackles
onto the peaks of ecstatic youth coaxing my
faltering thoughts of tender age’s deluges

The moments when we swayed
in unsoiled enchanting worlds drifting with
fervid passion into unfathomed gorges

Do they come to your mind too, any time?

The nights when you kindled
with your glances, the countless star lights in me
in the darkness where words blush

The paths in which you showered love-pollen
in the gardens of raga that we trod together
and you won me

The moments of oneness with resultant boundless love
after the warm thoughts shrinking like doves
jetted out from heart’s nest – their wings fluttered

Okay, I won’t remind, even for fun
Won’t measure the vigour of your memories

But enough it would be, if you promise
that a lightning signature of ours too
will be inscribed on all the moonlit moments
when tender buds blossom into flowers

Origin (Telugu): Manasa Chamarthy
Translated by: Elanaaga

I have been watching
The shadows of darkness on the front yards,
The celebrations of the nude scenes
Under the pandals of eyes,
The streams that ran from the valleys and
The separated footsteps on the sand dunes.

I have been watching for
That traveler who went as a procession
leading splendrous thousand groups!
I remember his foot prints
That faltered in the forest of footsteps
amidst the jubilation of streets.

I remember the tone of his voice
In the rustling musical rain of dry leaves.

I remember his handshake
In the electric gardens of blossomed plastic flowers.
I remember his affectionate address
In the narrow rooms of hearts with broken doors
I still remember the rays of his smiles
That landed on the drooped window wings

Every morning is a kind of death here.
Life throws the swords of moments
And leaves (one) severed.
The sunshine comes like the white cloth
[...]]]> I have been watching since then
For that traveller who walked away thus
with blood stained feet
through those streets where
vermillion was dried.

I have been watching
The shadows of darkness on the front yards,
The celebrations of the nude scenes
Under the pandals of eyes,
The streams that ran from the valleys and
The separated footsteps on the sand dunes.

I have been watching for
That traveler who went as a procession
leading splendrous thousand groups!
I remember his foot prints
That faltered in the forest of footsteps
amidst the jubilation of streets.

I remember the tone of his voice
In the rustling musical rain of dry leaves.

I remember his handshake
In the electric gardens of blossomed plastic flowers.
I remember his affectionate address
In the narrow rooms of hearts with broken doors
I still remember the rays of his smiles
That landed on the drooped window wings

Every morning is a kind of death here.
Life throws the swords of moments
And leaves (one) severed.
The sunshine comes like the white cloth
From the shore of mirages.
Then we paint the old letters
With beautiful colours
We peel the words off the lips
We create deserts on the throat
And bloom darkness on the eyes
We build tombs of stone on the body
And capture the flowing time in the old records
By tying down the hand of present time in the clock.
I keep on watching
The flags will fly like pigeons into the sky
From the rotten hands
Preparations for the
Funeral procession of common man
Will be made on the worlds of huge buildings
They will worship humans
As statues on the breasts of open streets
They will trap for power
From the ladder of innocence
Sprinkling seeds of false promises
The larynx breaks off to pieces
Under the footsteps
Of the lame wooden horse
I keep on watching
Those tender little hands that hid the tomorrow
Will be withered
This brat will not even have
The dried blood from the desert breasts
The iris of the ninth month is broken
Friend! ( C o m r a d e!)
This country is deceived
This morning is not yours
This flag you have been
Carrying on your shoulders is not yours
I am beating the morning drum again
And stamping the sound on the sleeping earth
I am that fragrant scene on the lush green fields
Blooming through the setting sun’s ray
I am that naked mountain
Running from the shy veils of dusk
To the shore of moonlight
I am that morning sunshine
landed on the earth
That glided into the depths of deep slumber.

Original: ‘Jagaaram’ by Afsar (Telugu)
Translated by: Dr.K.Vijaya Babu

Word was a paper boat then.
A Titanic it was, revolving
around the world on scanty water

Now word is a broken boat.
A rock figurine unable to move
even when surrounded by oceans

All the poesy became debris
when word dropped to the ground
Now we are only moving amongst pebbles

One may hear an occasional sound
But there are no sounds of breath
Not even a small sigh around here

Occasions are aplenty just to talk!
But each context became an incongruity

Bloodshed, tears
explosions and mass deaths
are all usual trifles
All are incongruities to poetry

Amidst the beauty demons
who look for symmetry even in corpse face
I’m searching for a coarse word
that has not been depicted so far

In the deep slumber of language
which covered itself with lexicons
I’m looking for a word
that has dropped all its embellishments

***

Again, About a Poem

1

Digging the ground a bit
and strapping the time in a phial
we buried it. Remember?

A child’s merriment it is.
May [...]]]> A Certain Incongruity

Word was a paper boat then.
A Titanic it was, revolving
around the world on scanty water

Now word is a broken boat.
A rock figurine unable to move
even when surrounded by oceans

All the poesy became debris
when word dropped to the ground
Now we are only moving amongst pebbles

One may hear an occasional sound
But there are no sounds of breath
Not even a small sigh around here

Occasions are aplenty just to talk!
But each context became an incongruity

Bloodshed, tears
explosions and mass deaths
are all usual trifles
All are incongruities to poetry

Amidst the beauty demons
who look for symmetry even in corpse face
I’m searching for a coarse word
that has not been depicted so far

In the deep slumber of language
which covered itself with lexicons
I’m looking for a word
that has dropped all its embellishments

***

Again, About a Poem

1

Digging the ground a bit
and strapping the time in a phial
we buried it. Remember?

A child’s merriment it is.
May be you don’t remember.
Is it the same about poem too?

2

Not having anything to pen
for you, me and perhaps for everybody…
Like the homework not likeable precisely at once
and the never loveable syllabus…

Not that there’s no agony
But unable we are, to write about pain
except others’

Weeping with borrowed eyes
and sprinting on stilts –
Perhaps ordinary wooden leg
is not enough to write the inner poem

3

Not counting in terms of own or alien though
When did you stop wandering in your body?
Won’t you give me an inkling of it?
Of late, even the skin
is looking like other’s shirt.
Which is truth and which is not,
will be known by the words uttered.

4

Nice that a mine is found
which we assumed as a poem

You, I and everybody
have dug extensively inside and outside
But is poem obtainable
by digging at wrong place?

Do you remember poem’s birth?
Perhaps you don’t.
It’s a childhood’s merriment after all.

***

Origin (Telugu): Afsar
Translated by: Elanaaga

Not physically challenged
But the one who challenges Physics
He that conquers the progressively destructive
Motor neuron with a constant exercise, of knowledge!
He that stabilizes with speech synthesizer,
The word that splits into sounds and bits
He that gives a strong heart
To every being who is physically challenged.
He is the expert swimmer who with thinking hands
Swims across the cosmic sea
He is the one who does all the aerobics
In pitch dark black hole of time unknown
He is the one who on the thin strings swings on
Atoms and unborn galaxies.
He is the one who visualizes a grand design
That can explain the infinite and endless time
That mires the universe
And refuses entry even to the grand God
Of the Universe who lives in faith.
Is he lame, no!
He is handsomest man of genius.
Stephen Hawking!
A true heir to Einstein!

***

2. The Flame of One Thousand Nights

I have burnt one thousand nights for one sentence
In the cradle of [...]]]> 1. Man of the Universe

Not physically challenged
But the one who challenges Physics
He that conquers the progressively destructive
Motor neuron with a constant exercise, of knowledge!
He that stabilizes with speech synthesizer,
The word that splits into sounds and bits
He that gives a strong heart
To every being who is physically challenged.
He is the expert swimmer who with thinking hands
Swims across the cosmic sea
He is the one who does all the aerobics
In pitch dark black hole of time unknown
He is the one who on the thin strings swings on
Atoms and unborn galaxies.
He is the one who visualizes a grand design
That can explain the infinite and endless time
That mires the universe
And refuses entry even to the grand God
Of the Universe who lives in faith.
Is he lame, no!
He is handsomest man of genius.
Stephen Hawking!
A true heir to Einstein!

***

2. The Flame of One Thousand Nights

I have burnt one thousand nights for one sentence
In the cradle of whose comfort the infant sleeps
The rope that helps man to pull himself out of the deep canyon
To reach the summits of the mountains,
The call of that brings back the departing life to the body.
In the deserts of ocean’s waves, in the sandy seas of the deserts
In the sky of the forest trees, in the cloudy forests of the sky
The sentence that reverberates
The sentence that invites creatures from alien lands
The sentence that disarms all hands
The sentence that fills itself with kindness, completing it
The sentence that forms the invisible thread in garland that adorns earth’s threshold
Binding those who differ in looks, appearances, colour and blood,
For the birth of that one sentence I died thousand times.

I entered into every human being, accepted the anguish of man
Suffering with them and discovered the root of suffering
By being angry with them found the root of anger
Facing death, I conquered the fear of death
I am born again now as that one sentence an atom with a fountain of life-
A Sentence that can never be burnt or destroyed.

Sentence is my hereditary trait
The shape that has my features stamped
Like small atoms and cool flames
It ignites and spread within
Synchronizing flesh and blood
With mesmerizing and graceful moves
The creature that stands before me and talks is
A new being with a wonderful body.

One day I will not be here, my sentence will remain
Sentence will not stay but the generations that imbibed it will be!
Generations will pass on, but the world lives on.
From the silent pond of the universe another great work of art emerges.
It will enfold the entire creation under its wings
Like love infinite
Like bird, compassionate!

***

3. A Song of the Sword

He wanted to write his love letter with a sword
As witness to two thousand years of barbarism
It was written on her throat.
Love or die is the new slogan
That echoes in the human jungles.
On society’s forehead a scar of blood, like a tilak.
Half closed eyes, imaginary swings, the fragrances of dreams on pillows
Sweet pampering from mother, henna on the hands
Gold palaces of the future – all lay shattered
Only the silence of death
For a sister not connected by blood, for a daughter
My soul weeps, my letters weep
Tears are the weakness of the muse.
Buds, do not blossom,
Flowers nip off the colored fragrances
In a world which cannot tolerate the song of
The natural blossoming
It is a crime not to fall before you reach your youth
Green belts do not survive on sandy soil.
Talli, my mother, you should have been born a tree
No one lusts after a tree
You should have been born an animal
They do not go for sexual assaults
Man and only man can hunt and harass
The beauties of the world
It is only man all around
Wherever you look like ants out of ant holes
Men, men and men only!
Everything is fearless
We think only darkness begets sins
But the deserts in the cities and humiliations in public!
Independence for the swords alone
The hardened rocks that can not
Be touched by sorrow and suffering
The many, powerless, tolerate everything around
The intellectuals read new meanings
It is all darkness amidst light!

What a cinema which has closed its nine openings[1] do
Other than releasing its sperm in the immature minds
What can justice and security rings do
Other than guarding the criminals all their lives
What can rights bodies do
Other than shedding tears for the rights of the accused
What can one poem washed in the fire of pain do
In the dark and ignorant human jungles
Other than handing the weapon of anger
To mitigate the ghosts of fear from the still and
Graceful forms of women!

***

4. Along with Bottu…

Someone
Has erased her face along with her bottu
From flowers
From laughter
From her hopes
From the existence of people
From pasupu- kumkum
From the greenness of life
They ostracized her, mercilessly
For her no sweet thoughts, no goose bumps like dew drops
No fragrances from henna painted hands,
No muggu -patterns drawn with rice flour on the threshold, of her dreams

People said thus:
Poor lady, she lost her husband
The string of her veena with sacred notes, is broken.
Everyone and every comfort is a distant reality for her now.
She is bad omen for them if they see her face.
She is another word for darkness now.

She is an outpouring tears on the cheeks of society
A nonstop downpour from the depressing clouds
She is the criminal who has not committed a crime.
In fact society is a big bad omen for her.
Whenever she walks outside
She erases her own footprints as she goes along.
She never lifts her head, her eyes are rooted to the ground
She walks sliping behind many unseen questions.

If one lamp is snuffed out should we extinguish the other?
If one man dies should another’s existence end?
What about the life between having a bottu
And not having it?

I wish I come across one face without bottu everyday
Fearless and frankness should be her high brows
I wish someone would put a bottu between those brows
With love.

Bottu: A red/vermillion dot on the forehead of Indian/hindu women. It is indicative of her marital status and of the fact that her husband is alive. A woman is not supposed to wear it if she is a widow. In a ritual after the husband’s death the bottu on a woman’s forehead is erased. It is to be noted that this bottu does not come with marriage as girls wear it even before marriage right from their childhood, through their adolescence but are forced lose it once a husband dies.
pasupu- kumkum: Turmeric and kumkum with which vermillion mark is made on the forehead
Muggu: Muggu is pattern drawn on the threshold with rice flour to protect the house from evil eye.

Translated by: Kallury Syamala
Original: Papineni Shivashankar (పాపినేని శివశంకర్)
Titles of the Original Poems:
1. విశ్వనరుడు
2. వెయ్యి రాత్రుల జ్వాల
4. బొట్టుతో బాటు
(‘ఒక ఖడ్గం ఒక పుష్పం’ అనే సంకలనంలోంచి)

Pain it is, not to pen
But penning is a big labour pain too
Penning, not penning
and contemplating penning…
An unending journey it is.
A delectable tour too
that drives from behind
despite the bramble brushings

Origin (Telugu): Elanaaga
Translated by: Elanaaga

***

Mother! O mother
Aren’t you bringing me up pouring life of light in the darkness?

Why nobody could see this trial of yours streaming the resplendency and movement into me?
Why can’t I listen if they comprehend it?
O., not only me in your tummy you too on the land remained in darkness know?
Darkness! Darkness …..
Mother, what is darkness?
Is it the inability to see? Is it scary dark colour?
Is it a thought? Then, I too am in darkness you know?
This darkness is pleasant and liberal …
How
many darkness’s around you residing in the world of light?
Darkness that slashes the feet
Darkness that kills the hopes
Darkness that shatters the life
Darkness of the strong

All the darkness’s

The severity of agony is unknown
to the measurement of square yards
The iron kites flying in the space
Can never see the row of ants
Times move here too
The run of river never appears on the surface
Fields are a fistful
But the yielded crop is immense
Walk is slow but the success achieved is tremendous

The cement on the soil covers the skin
And if we say that is the progress, how can it be?
Never measure the ratio of creation with dollars
The village is small but the breath is great
Sunrise is OLD but the STIMULUS is new

Original: N. Gopi (Telugu)
Translation: Swatee Sripada

On the last trace of tear
Off my eyelash
There bloomed
A thousand rainbows.

Original: Mamatha K (Telugu)
Translated By: Nauduri Murthy
Source: మెత్తని ఈటె