Hiren Bhattacharjya
Of The Country And Others
1Name my country and I need no commands. In my teeming blood gallop A thousand and one fighting horses.
2 Let there be a procession of my words, Let them guard the cruel, crooked night Let the sharp sword of anger shine in the enthused flow of blood of lively words.
3 In my shirt echoes a doleful voice Intimate breath becomes sparse Much unease deep down, much restlessness. As the alert guarding wind with sudden curiosity, dives into and makes fish dance in water. There is impending death all around me, the skilled hands of death, or the latent suggestion of death conquering genius.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
The Earth My Poem
My pen is the hammer in the blacksmith’s hands, I hammer words into shape sharp as the farmer’s plough-share, the golden Sita on the furrows, ragged like the carpenter’s saw. I extract from the grains of hard timber, words stained by the blood of experience, like sure arrows from the santhal male’s bow. Words become ardent in my blood, flesh and desire, some of them stand high as mountains, some lie low like rivers, while others are grave as the lake -- not at anybody’s beck and call.I am a poet of the vast continent studded with rivers and mountains, the earth is my poem.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
In Self Dffence
I do not know how to excuse inability, Not me.I can not buy khadi even at a rebate. Mother, I am really becoming fierce today. Just look at the sickle on my anvil and you will know whose neck it fits. Forgive me, mother, if you could. For I have forgotten the sickle At the reaper’s hand. That too, I had made once.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
Shooting An Arrow
(Dedicated to freedom and peace)
It was here that you had tied the speedy horse of your youth.
Like the wind in spring dust from his hooves kissed this my lovely sky and the bordering green grass. After that, so much summer heat passed by and so many spring storms. Even now, sometimes I wake up in my dreams. Somewhere in Africa or in Telengana that horse is running wild. And your whiplashes startle the impotence of the quiet night.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
The Alarm
What use is urban applause, if the countryside does not explode. When the skilled poet’s handiwork becomes a display advertisement for damaged crops, it is natural for the sincere to be embarrassed. The repentance of loss all throughout my being, I do not accept fate. On some nights my frightened blood begins to roar like the sea, where is that alarm for the moment of meditation.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
The Field of Man, Blood, Sweat
Till this fallow man, this land, turn over with the steel share, the scorched field of the lidless sun in the loam of the bone-house, sow corn.Pour at will on the arid land let abundant water fill the scorched, shrivelled soil, overflowing streams, rivers, lakes.
Harrow and sow patches, plots and folds, wheat and millet jostle in the field of blood and sweat of this man, this land.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
The Lone Prayer for Poetry
Let me finish this poem as I would, holding the strange banner of the future the message of blood dies a restless death at the ungainly naked body
Grant me the freedom to hammer into pieces the indifference of these familiar words or, the brilliance of the invincible sword to cut into shreds this anaemic, moribund, unyielding reality.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
The Stream of Native Sounds
Words rekindle in speech. Wilts in grief when neglected. So many words are moving into oblivion in the wake of our ignorance. You would realize on looking into your mother’s eyes. None can fill the void of words lost.
Today I was looking at my mother’s face for a long time -- The stream full of native words are taking a road far from the smiling lips of my mother...
[ Translated by Pallavi Barua ]
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