topics: |  poetry | marathi | translation

A powerful testament to social poetry, and to the powerful voices emerging in Indian language poetry. Poetry has a much larger readership among the Indian languages than among Indian English readers. Thus, there is more incentive to write poetry in these languages.

Particularly for the disenfranchised, the illiterate and those at the margins of society, like the mother who works lifting cement and sand for construction work, this poetry can at least be read out and understood.

It is this immediacy that gives these poems much of their power.

Excerpts

L. S. Rokade : To be or not to be born p.1

		tr. Shanta Gokhale

Mother, you used to tell me
when I was born
your labour was very long.
The reason, mother,
the reason for your long labour;
I, still in your womb, was wondering
Do I want to be born-
Do I want to be born at all
in this land?
Where all paths raced horizonwards
but to me barred
All of you lay, eyes fixed on the sky
then shut them, saying
calmly, yes,
the sky has a prop, a prop!
Your body covered
with generations of dire poverty
your head pillowed
on constant need
you slept at night
and in the day you writhed
with empty fists tied to your breast!
Here you are not supposed to say
that every human being comes
from the union of man and woman
Here, nobody dare
broaden the beaten track.
You ran round and round yourself
exclaiming YES, of course
the earth is round, is round.
Mother, this is your land
flowing with water
Rivers break their banks
Lakes brim over
And you, one of the human race
must shed blood
struggle and strike
for a palmful of water
I spit on this great civilization
Is this land yours, mother,
because you were born here?
Is it mine
because I was born to you?
Must I call this great land mine
love it
sing its glory?
Sorry, mother, truth be tell
I must confess I wondered
Should I be born
Should I be born into this land?

Tryambak Sapkale : That single arm p.3

		tr. Priya Adarkar

   I was looking through the book of pictures
   My small son Raja came, looked through them too.
   In one picture a rich man
   was beating a poor one.
   Raja asked, "Why is that man beating the other?"
   Because he is rich.
   As I turned the page ...
   There again was the rich man,
   Weapon in hand,
   about to kill the poor man.
   My son looked at this.
   He said, "Father, wait a moment."
   He hurried to the table and took out
   a razor blade from the drawer.
   Once back he sliced off
   the attacker's arm from the shoulder.
   Then looked at me triumphantly.
   I said, there are people to help him.
   No they cannot attack him,
   For the vision of the single arm
   Will remain before them.

Damodar More : Poetry reading p.4

		tr. Priya Adarkar

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience.

As I continued to read...
There came a moment – who knows why -
when a couple of them wrinkled their noses
And astonished, I said to the poet in me
"What's the reason for this?"
And he answered me,
"It was to be expected...
All that's happened is
the settled sludge has been stirred
and the water's grown cloudy."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience

As I continued to read...
There came a moment when
a couple got up and left
But the eyelids of the others
seemed ready to shed rain
And, distressed, I said to the poet in me,
"Why is this happening?"
And he answered me,
"It's only natural
All that's happened is
the moisture pent up till today
is looking to break out."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience

As I continued to read...
There came a moment when
I saw embers flaring in the pupils of their eyes
And, frightened, I said to the poet in me,
"What's this that's happening?"
And he answered me,
"It was this I was waiting for
All that's happening is
the dynamite fuses, nearly burnt out,
are trying to falre up again."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
I was reading the faces of the audience

As I continued to read...
There came a moment when
I saw a dazzling brilliance in their eyes
And, curious, I said to the poet in me,
"Why is this happening?"
And he answered me,
"It's inevitable.
All that's happening is
they're marching in battle
on this fearful darkness."

As I was reading out a poem
the audience was listening as I read
And as the audience was listening to me
    I was reading the faces of the audience

Bhimsen Dethe : Song p.7

		tr. Vilas Sarang

	As father carried stones upon his head
	the headman, twirling his moustaches, used to say,
	'Hey Kisnya - let's have a first-rate lavni!'
	and my father would sing with his tattooed throat.
	In his song
	there was the moon, and the sun,
	and flowers blossoming, sea-waves,
	an impassioned girl drunk with love...

	Sweat-stained hands clapped;
	there was applause all around.
	My father was touched, was filled with gratitude.
	Walking home he groped towards the song of bread
	that he could never sing.

Waman Kardak : Send my boy to school p.8

			tr. Priya Adarkar

Send my boy to school
lord and master
i tell you
send my boy to school

We may be terribly poor
famine may knock at our door
i'll see that he gets to school
send my boy to school, etc.

If the leg of your garment is rent
i promise to patch and mend
for my garment, my needle's the tool
send my boy to school, etc.

He's got something from society;in return
my boy is going to learn
he'll be a lawyer; nobody's fool
send my boy to school, etc.

My boy won't stay stupid or worse
like that poet Waman's bad verse
my oath on you if there's no school!
send my boy to school, etc.

Jyoti Lanjewar : Caves p.22

	tr. Shanta Gokhale

Their inhuman atrocities have carved caves
in the rock of my heart
I must tread this forest with wary steps
eyes fixed on the changing times
The tables have turned now
Protests spark
now here
now there
I have been silent all these years
listening to the voice of right and wrong
But now I will fan the flames
for human rights.
How did we ever get to this place
this land which was never mother to us?
Which never gave us even
the life of cats and dogs?
I hold their unpardonable sins as witness
and turn, here and now,
a rebel.

Narendra Patil : Exhalation p.23

	tr. Shanta Gokhale

‘Merely an exhalation’
Circumstances
have slapped down a suit
on the burning thoughts
in my mind!
They’ve put all burning minds
In custody.
Incarcerated
all gardens of dreams.
But how long can this bird
remain in this dungeon
whose very walls tremble
with his every exhalation?

Vilas Rashinkar : No entry for the new sun p.24

		tr. Priya Adarkar

With determination they set
the stamp of approval
on their own garrulous tongue
so it becomes easy
to collect a hundred tongues
and spit on the sun.
They prop up crumbled bastions
in ten places
with the twigs of history.
They unwrap the scriptures
from their protective covers
and insist –
‘These are commandments
engraved on stone.’
From pitch-back tunnels
they gather ashes
floating on jet-black water
and reconstruct the skeletons
of their ancestors,
singing hymns
of their thoughts
worn to shreds.
There is no entry here
for the new sun.
This is the empire
of ancestor-worship,
of blackened castoffs,
of darkness.

Ashok Chakravarti : Harvest p.28

		tr. Charudatta Bhagwat

The harvest of manslaughter is ceaselessly obtained here.
Seasons change only in accordance with the wind's direction.
From east to west, north to south
harvesting never ends, round the year,
for vultures.
Their slimy insistence on confining words into lines
with literal exactitude,
Their fondling of rainbow corpses of words
smeared with the rogue of dying sunsets –
Let them fool around and flirt,
declaim insane eccentricities,
beat their breasts, conspire intrigues of unrest.
We will turn the tables on them!

Hira Bansode : Yashodhara p.31

		tr. Jayant Karve and Philip Engblom

O Yashodhara!
You are like a dream of sharp pain,
life-long sorrow.
I don’t have the audacity to look at you.
we were brightened by Buddha's light,
but you absorbed the dark
until your life was mottled blue and dark,
a fragmented life, burned out,
O Yashodahara!

The tender sky comes to you for refuge
seeing your shining but fruitless life
and the pained stars shed tears
My heart breaks,
seeing your matchless beauty,
separated from your love,
dimming like twilight.
Listening to your silent sighs,
I feel the promise of heavenly happiness is hollow.

Tell me one thing, Yashodhara, how did you
contain the raging storm in your small hands?
Just the idea of your life shakes the earth
and sends the creaming waves
dashing against the shore.
You would have remembered
while your life slipped by
the last kiss of Siddharth's final farewell,
those tender lips.
But weren’t you aware, dear,
of the heart-melting fire
and the fearful awakening power
of that kiss?
Lightening fell, and you didn’t know it.
he was moving towards a great splendour,
far from the place you lay....
He went, he conquered, he shone.
While you listened to the songs of his triumph
your womanliness must have wept.
You who lost husband and son
must have felt uprooted
like the tender banana plant
But history doesn’t talk about
the great story of your sacrifice.
If Siddarth had gone through
the charade of samadhi
a great epic would have been written about you!
You would have become famous in purana and palm-leaf
like Sita and Savithri
O Yashodhara!

I am ashamed of the injustice.
You are not to be found in a single Buddist Vihara.
Were you really of no account?
But wait – don’t suffer so.
I have seen your beautiful face.
You are between the closed eyelids of Siddharta.
Yashu, just you.

Suresh Kadam : To Dear Aana p.33

		tr. Vilas Sarang

The sunset does not bury our sorrows,
nor does sunrise bring new hopes.
Everything continues, relentlessly.
Society, bound by her rituals of ages,
chews up chunks of human flesh
in blind fury:
the horse she rides
bleeds and foams at the mouth:
she holds the reins
of an ancient system;
her predator's ears
listen for the twittering of birds;
in the orthodoxy of her world
passion and intensity are ridiculed.
Therefore, dear Aana,
you ought not to have cherished expectations
of a lingering kiss in the long night.

Bapurao Jagtap : This Country is Broken p.37

			tr. Vilas Sarang

This country is broken into a thousand pieces;
its cities, its religion, its castes,
its people, and even the minds of the people
– all are broken, fragmented.
In this country, each day burns
scorching each moment of our lives.
We bear it all, and stand solid as hills
in this our life
that we do not accept.
Brother, our screams are only an attempt
to write the chronicle of this country
– this naked country
with its heartless religion.
The people here rejoice in their black laws
and deny that we were ever born.
Let us go to some country, brother,
Where, while you live, you will have
a roof above your head,
and where, when you die, there will at least be
a cemetery to receive you.

B.S. Hate : The Stains of Blood p.38

		tr. Vilas Sarang

   Today, if you pause here in the middle of the twentieth century,
   you will observe the wounds
   that have festered and bled for centuries: they are stains
   that you have admired volubly as historically inevitable.
   Fields with ripening crops, orchards bursting with fruit,
   emerald green meadows, chimneys of cloth mills,
   factories producing a thousand delights, machines in the mines,
   skyscrapers peeping into space:
   capital towns and mansions where,
   on the spacious terraces, the seats of power are set out in a row,
   with no end to the traffic of their occupants:
   As you set off all this opulence, don't forget to observe
   the footprints of each generation lashed by the wind and the rain,
   burnt in the sun.
   One alter the other, all are ground in the mill;
   All tread along the river of time
   with no change in their condition--with their hands empty:
   the thorn of each sorrow they have endured
   fastens into the heart of each great [wo]man;
   on the bank of the river of opulence
   you may observe, beneath the footprints,
   the stains of blood.

Baban Londhe : Shroud p.51

	tr. Charudatta Bhagwat

On a plain so vast our eyes could not reach
they would make speeches to their hearts content
and shout out novel slogans,
blow a breath of hope on our over-tired limbs.
At times, to our shanty towns they would come,
careful not to rumple their ironed clothes
crossing over lanes and alleys,
jumping across streaming gutters.
When they stopped beside our doors
we felt inexplicably moved.
Viewing our pitiable state they would say
‘Truly this needs a socio economic cultural change,
the whole picture needs to be changed’.
Then we would sing their songs
in sonorous full-throated tones.
Acting innocuous, they would eat
the marrow of our bones.
Days passed by.
Darkness pressed from all sides.
We battled against sunshine and rain
and like fools awaiting salvation
we have stood our ground
and are sunk to the neck in mire.
But now they say plans are worked out
for our salvation
covering our wasted tombs
in a new shroud
what munificence!

Meena Gajabhiye : Light Melted in Darkness p.53

		tr. Charudatta Bhagwat

Day slants, narrows down and then I melt
In the empty space of darkness
Though I am served in two
No one cares
Their leafless bough
Never blossomed
Although they strike root
Seeped in my blood
I am entangled in python coils
For ages
Their venomous hiss
Turns my day into night
And when I reach out for a sun ray
It recedes far away
Like the end of a dream
When the eyelid is opened.

Arun Kamble (1953-2009) : Which Language should I Speak? 54

 		tr. Priya Adarkar

Chewing trotters in the badlands
my grandpa,
the permanent resident of my body,
the household of tradition heaped on his back,
Wait in this evening's glow and stand still
hollers at me,
"You whore-son, talk like we do.
Talk, I tell you .!"

Picking through the Vedas
his top-knot well-oiled with ghee,
my Brahmin teacher tells me,
"you idiot, use the language correctly!".
Now I ask you
Which language should I speak?

Bhau Panchbhai : How? p.61

		tr. Charudatta Bhagwat

How do we taste milk in this town
where trees are planted of venom?
Enemies invite nothing but enmity
How can we share a drink of friendship?
How can I know this town as my own
where workmen are slaughtered daily?
How do I burn to light the path
at this turn
where hutments are set on fire?
They all partake of fruits of faithlessness
How am I to join such company?
Change your cradle if you would
How do I twist the shape of a newborn babe?
I see the clash of prisoners
Trained in schools of warfare
They die, how am I to survive here?

Sharankumar Limbale : White Paper p.64

			tr. Priya Adarkar

I do not ask
for the sun and moon your sky
your farm, your land,
your high houses or your mansions
I do not ask for gods or rituals,
castes or sects
Or even for your mother, sisters, daughters
I ask for
my rights as a man.
Each breath from my lungs
sets off a violent trembling
in your texts and traditions
your hells and heavens
fearing pollution.
Your arms leapt together
To bring to ruin our dwelling places.
You’ll beat me, break me,
loot and burn my habitation
But my friends!
How will you tear down my words
planted like a sun in the east?
My rights: contagious caste riots
festering city by city, village by village,
man by man
For that's what my rights are –
Sealed off, outcast, road-blocked, exiled.
I want my rights, give me my rights.
Will you deny this incendiary state of things?
I'll uproot the scriptures like railway tracks.
Burn like a city bus your lawless laws
My friends!
My rights are rising like the sun.
Will you deny this sunrise?

F.M. Shinde : Habit p.69

		tr. Priya Adarkar

Once you are used to it
you never afterwards
feel anything;
your blood nevermore
congeals
nor flows
for wet mud has been slapped
over all your bones.
Once you're used to it
even the sorrow
that visits you
sometimes, in dreams,
melts away, embarrassed.
Habit isn't used to breaking out
in feelings.

Baburao Bagul : You who have made the mistake 70

		tr. Vilas Sarang

Those who leave for foreign lands
embrace other tongues, dress in alien grab
and forget this country
-- them I salute.
And those who don't forget
and don't change even after being beaten up for centuries
-- such hypocrites I ask:
What will you say if someone asked you --
what is untouchability?
Is it eternal like God?
What's an untouchable like? What does he look like?
Does he look like the very image of leprosy?
Or like the prophet's enemy?
Does he look like a heretic, a sinner, a profligate, or an atheist?
Tell me,
What will your answer be?
Will you reply without hesitation:
'Untouchable -- that's me?'
That's why I say --
You who have made the mistake of being born in this country
must now rectify it: either leave the country
or make war!

Contents

L. S. Rokade (tr. Shanta Gokhale): To be or not to be born 1
Tryambak Sapkale (tr. Priya Adarkar) : That single arm 3
Damodar More (tr. Priya Adarkar) : Poetry reading 4
Bhimsen Dethe (tr. Vilas Sarang) : Song 7
Waman Kardak (tr. Priya Adarkar) : Send my boy to school 8
Keshav Meshram : In our colony 9
Prakash Kharat : The sky with its eyes closed 11
Arjun Kamble : Yesterday they have announced 12
Prahlad Chendwankar : My father 16
Vaharu Sonawane : In the lush green jungle 21
Jyoti Lanjewar : Caves 22
Narendra Patil : Exhalation 23
Vilas Rashinkar : No entry for the new sun 24
Sudhakar S. Gaikwad : The unfed begging bowl 25
	Where does the wounded darkness come from
	And man is shaped from pits dug out
	This dejected life

D. S. Dudhalkar : Wall 26
Ashok Chakravarti : Harvest 28
Bhagwan Sawai : Tathagata: Two Poems 29
Hira Bansode : Yashodhara 31
Suresh Kadam : To Dear Aana 33
Uttam Kolgaokar : His House 34
Dharmaraj Nimsarkar : Experiment 35
Waman Nimbalkar : Mother 36
Bapurao Jagtap (tr. Vilas Sarang): This Country is Broken 37
B.S. Hate (tr. Vilas Sarang) : The Stains of Blood 38
Arjun Dangle : I will Belong to It 39
J.V. Pawar : Birds in Prison 41
Namdeo Dhasal : Hunger 42
B. Rangarao : On a Desolate Night like This 46
Baban Chahande : Labour Pains 47
Prakashchandra Karandikar : Amen 48
Bhujang Meshram : Winds 50
Baban Londhe : Shroud 51
Shankar Kharat : The Death-doomed March 52
Meena Gajabhiye : Light Melted in Darkness 53
Arun Kamble : Which Language should I Speak? 54
W. Kapur : The Search 55
Prakash Jadhav : Under Dadar Bridge 56
Manohar Wakode : It is Not Binding on Us to Undertake this Journey 60
Bhau Panchbhai (tr. Charudatta Bhagwat) : How? 61
Daya Pawar : Blood-wave 62
Sharankumar Limbale (tr. Priya Adarkar) : White Paper 64
Umakant Randhir : A Poem 66
Yusoja : Mute Existence 67
Shiva Ingole : Ancient mother mine 68
F.M. Shinde (tr. Priya Adarkar) : Habit 69
Baburao Bagul : You who have made the Mistake 70