Navakanta Barua
Silt
The fire of the palaash has gone out now.
In the saal and sotiyaan woods
Spring-storms of days past — Days of the Burmese invasion.
How many dreams fell who keeps count?
On the Banks of the Kolong, Kopili, Diju
Grandfather’s bones.
The wild lily sprouts through
Grandmother’s heart.
What did the clouds say,
Give, give more, give your all,
Plant trees by the road, open a high school,
The dear traveler is always on the road,
Heave a sigh
Let the water speeding through roofs
Flood out the cells of dead spiders
Let our silt fertilize the banks of the Kolong.
In the furrows of our grandson’s new farmstead
We shall wake. In our fossils they will read
Amusing tales
of those who remember past births.
In the lane where dreams are blind
we stay there. In the gutters
their future.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
God Gave Gray Cells
God gave man brains To achieve lunacy therewith. With his body plenished with blood The heart took on the task of mistrust. Speech he had Wherewith cunningly to obscure truth.
The only truth left to Man Is the work-moist hands of his own woman Clasped in his weary hands of an evening And the smile of this his child.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
Measurements
It is afternoon now.
Let’s go to the tailor’s; to get measured. Measurements of neck chest hands and arms Measurements of the palm and the heart We shall give measurements of the entrails And the kidney and the liver, Give measurements of hormones and affections
Let us give measurements of life, Of this that and several things. Give only the measurements. We shall think of the stitching later on. For the time being let’s just give the measurements We can only give measurements.
We can only take reckonings We shall record that suicides have Swelled considerably. We shall give count of the number Of letters in a speech. Give count of the Christians in Arabia. Just give measurements.
We shall think of the stitching later on. Merely think.
Someone after us will measure anew Saying that our measurements have gone awry. Fresh new measurements they’ll take. Just take measurements.
When will someone stitch the garment to fit man?
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
The Belt of the Spinning Wheel
The corded belt of my mother’s spinning wheel was a mystery to me spool after spool is used up the distended bobbins pile up in the basket the empty reel takes a spin or two and stops
But the belt of the spinning wheel is unending I don’t see its ends, just see it move spelling it out carefully, I write on my slate Eternal.
One day the cord of the spinning wheel became quite another thing I saw a bare string lying on the cement floor And, after that We bore mother to the grounds and burnt her
Now the spinning wheel turns but the bobbins won’t, In the reel a knotted skein of thread ... Sitting in the dark of my mind gingerly, in Rabindric charactery entered in the ledger: Terminal, in the morning light, the stammering poet, me, read et-term-inal.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
Valmiki in Bhopal
Once At the bank of river Tamasa
Someone killed a karchana separating it from its mate
Exploiting nature Those who used to make a living To them was uttered A hot blast of condemnation And this blast gave birth to The first culture of humankind From the furrows of the plough was germinated A far-reaching revolution ...
Seeta
The child of my fields
Seeta
The mother of my green crops
Seeta
The future of my golden harvest ...
And was written
The Ramayana: The odyssey of the Lord Rama
Today At the bank of a lake
By the wind carrying Death within it
Were killed So many fathers, so many sons
So many beloveds, so many mothers
Today
Won’t there be any more transformed robber
Whose Poetic voice would announce
An inevitable anathema To that way of life
Which, bewitching with the will-o-wisp of development
Dries up the foundations of future existence
Won’t there be written
With union of crops and steel
A new epic Whose name would be
Manavayana: The odyssey of the humankind?
[ Translated by Rituraj Kalita ]
The First Code of Life
Offerings to the mother have been washed with brother’s bolld;
To satisfy the mother earth
Offering’s flesh has been cooked in her breast’s milk!
Please, no more Distribute those horrible offerings!
I am a poet, my shelter made of only words
Words only form my bridge
Through the incisive bridgr of words I have crossed
The dark caves of disbelief
What is the use of calling the word as The Brahma
Thinking of it as The Gode Incarnate When men wants to protect its dignity With men’s blood?
I don’t believe in any electrifying power of words Which originates from Falls running on brother’s blood
Only a few accused, condemned words - (so easily can one juggle with words!) From which erupts deadly hatred, Suicidal, fatricidal smoke; and From which originates rivers of blood Of the confused poor!
Ye my people, the incarnations of the Great Ashoka, With your tears of repentance Have your hands washed of The stains of your brother’s blood. Purify yourselves, Not with the spoilt incarnations But with the stable unity of Thought, Love and Sweat. Ye Ashoka the Terrible, transform yourself To Ashoka the Just.
[ Translated by Rituraj Kalita ]
Palestine
We housed them in prisons For they wanted a home, We killed them for they wanted eternal life Then bulldozed their prisons into fields of cornWhat’s that hand sticking out from the earth? Other hands will sprout from it ... And tickle us to death.
[ Translated by Pradip Acharya ]
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