Wincing with pain
on stepping sharp edge
we wanted to set choreography
for the writhing foot.
We tried to cover silk cloth
on thorny branch that pierced eyeballs.
We tried to unfold secrets
secure behind blood stained skin.

Did we think of slogans of autonomy
fused in group songs?
’We all’ forget the possibility
of hibernating inner doors
opening before dawn.
Internal information itself
age old adversary!

Now on, emotional shadow of tiger
haunting birds of light—
that do not know
that heavenly abodes have no floral avenues,
that on sharp edged bridges
dangle windpipes,—
envelop entire sky.

Who guards the song
that covers inaccessible jungles?
For the whirl wind spanning earth and sky
who is insider, outsider who?

This is a spectacle of
winged butterflies
flapping across gardens of humane views.

Excuse me every one ,
it is not an ordinary soul….
an inconceivable warm garland of [...]]]> We attempted composing tunes for
buzz of the black bee
dance of dragon fly
sweeping winds of storm
shattering noise of guns.

Wincing with pain
on stepping sharp edge
we wanted to set choreography
for the writhing foot.
We tried to cover silk cloth
on thorny branch that pierced eyeballs.
We tried to unfold secrets
secure behind blood stained skin.

Did we think of slogans of autonomy
fused in group songs?
’We all’ forget the possibility
of hibernating inner doors
opening before dawn.
Internal information itself
age old adversary!

Now on, emotional shadow of tiger
haunting birds of light—
that do not know
that heavenly abodes have no floral avenues,
that on sharp edged bridges
dangle windpipes,—
envelop entire sky.

Who guards the song
that covers inaccessible jungles?
For the whirl wind spanning earth and sky
who is insider, outsider who?

This is a spectacle of
winged butterflies
flapping across gardens of humane views.

Excuse me every one ,
it is not an ordinary soul….
an inconceivable warm garland of relentless sacrifices
bound to invisible fetters,
it is a cascading melodious breeze from peerless peaks ,
holding sun dhamaruka
frenzied , frenetic diluvian dance, it is–
with dark cloud blanket on shoulder
crescendo of rituals of global populace, it is–
a star studded new sword of fresh butter , it is–
swimming in rivers of flames
amazing snow fish of soft voice, it is–
enabling to see the piercing arrows
across bosom, a transparent pigeon, it is.

I salute you all .
It is not our envisioned poetic cover of secrecy,
an unruffled light house on shore
holding a lantern, it is–
It is a wooden boat
negotiating unfriendly currents in sea…
For the sake of the world around
spreading harmonious notes, storm the black bee!

Original: Devipriya (Telugu)
Translated by: Dr T.S.Chandra Mouli and B.B.Sarojini

In this country
all rivers
flow into eyes of women.
Entire bush fire
enters labourers’ entrails.

Jungles too surge
with waves of movements.
Here–
water gushes
fire too surges,
except man.
River of cities
heaves with waves of feet.
Every where pairs of feet
walking along , wrapping like a vine.
Blossms of vision bloom not
on their eyes of branches .
Smiles dance not
on lips of tender shoots.
Even the issuing ‘heart’ fruit,
a blasted fruit–
never ripens .
Mother earth’s tenderness
as known to the tree
is unknown to even water.
As the earth turns fallow
a tree withers with sympathy.
If it enters into a banter
with fecund feelings ,
touched turns green all along
with fruit and flowers.
A tree knows sky’s spirit.
As frolicsome drops of rain descend
with swaying heads of twigs
it shares ecstasy.
If the same sky trundles
cowering in [...]]]> Yes
if only one can move about
evidence of life in you or me.

In this country
all rivers
flow into eyes of women.
Entire bush fire
enters labourers’ entrails.

Jungles too surge
with waves of movements.
Here–
water gushes
fire too surges,
except man.
River of cities
heaves with waves of feet.
Every where pairs of feet
walking along , wrapping like a vine.
Blossms of vision bloom not
on their eyes of branches .
Smiles dance not
on lips of tender shoots.
Even the issuing ‘heart’ fruit,
a blasted fruit–
never ripens .
Mother earth’s tenderness
as known to the tree
is unknown to even water.
As the earth turns fallow
a tree withers with sympathy.
If it enters into a banter
with fecund feelings ,
touched turns green all along
with fruit and flowers.
A tree knows sky’s spirit.
As frolicsome drops of rain descend
with swaying heads of twigs
it shares ecstasy.
If the same sky trundles
cowering in fear
embraces earth
like a child sliding into mother’s lap.
A tree knows pulse of wafting breeze.
Extending fragrance
to the breeze that calls on,
providing palliative to the worldly worries
posts it as a Prophet.
Galore of feet here—
Dynamic feet of the new born in hospitals,
cold feet sans mobility in cemetery.
Feet of a farm hand
though paired with progressing crop
yield not rewards in return.
Feet of a labourer
though entrenched in a factory as a machine
reach not a mouth as a ball of rice.
In a land proclaiming
honour of a lady
even today
there are feet with clinking anklets
struggling for a square meal on dirty, dusty roads.
Come, let’s worship these feet!
They too should move gracefully!
But, the original objective of this run
goals to be identified .
Distance covered has to be recorded,
destination certainly has to be decided.
Otherwise—
in an upheaval
feet turn into mere rolling rocks.
If one forges ahead
then only survival—
for you or me!

Original: Sikhamani (Telugu)
Translation: Dr T.S.Chandra Mouli & B.B.Sarojini

Baappa is not an ordinary one—–
like a tall papaya tree,
like a river that never looks back,
like a slender casuarina tree
that challenges the sky,
a very tall lady she was !
Tucking the sari,
as she headed for fields, with sickle on her shoulder,
like a six feet black cobra
standing on her tail end
was my Baappa!

What a lovely blackness!
blackness of clusters of rose apples,
blackness of a slice of tilled black cotton soil field,
blackness of black lotus blooming in abundance
in the irrigation channel!

Like the just harvested, spread
red chilly in the threshing yard
was the Vermillion mark on her dark forehead!

Apparently black in complexion only,
but my Baappa’s tenderness was
white as the flowers of water melon,
soft as silk cotton,
soothing as chilled gruel!

First my Baappa was born,
then toil has taken birth.
incarnation of a primitive tool was my Baappa!